Chapter 3
Miles
From the moment our eyes meet, I can sense her disapproval. She knows who I am and she’s not impressed.
Never had that reaction before so I’m a little taken back.
She rolls her eyes. It’s funny how she already dislikes me, even though we’ve just met.
These small fucking towns.
Everyone’s got their noses in everyone else’s business.
Which is why I try to stay away as much as I can and travel abroad. I usually go to visit my family in Sandy Mills before the yearly competitions begin again.
It’s nice to be in a town where people know me but aren’t quick to judge.
Unlike here. I blame the media, they love twisting stories, making me seem like a bad boy bull rider who enjoys breaking women’s hearts.
The guy who always gets chased and never chases.
The troublemaker who loves violence.
It’s not me, but at the same time the fans love it.
And it’s very clear she is not one of them.
“Five dollars, please.” She places the drink on the bar in front of me and holds her hand out in front of me.
I don’t see a ring on her finger, but I notice the one hanging off a dainty silver necklace.
My eyes glance up to her as she stands there clearly growing impatient.
I meet her gaze, not looking away, while handing her the five-dollar bill.
I look into her eyes; dark, dull at first glance but it’s the shape that holds me. They’re wide, soft—like doe eyes, curious and unreadable.
There’s something quietly mesmerizing about them, something that makes me forget what I’m about to say. I catch myself staring, wondering what stories they’ve seen.
She takes the cash, nods with a practiced hollow smile, and turns away to place the money in the cash register.
“So…” I take a sip of tequila as she looks up at me. “You got a name, Bambi?”
She raises an eyebrow at me.
“Bambi? Do you give nicknames to all the women you flirt with?” she snaps, her response catching me off guard.
I can’t help but chuckle. “Do you speak to all your customers rudely or just me?” I comment back with a snarky tone.
I take another sip of my drink as I watch her thinking of a response.
“Just curious what the name of the bartender who poured me this neat tequila is.”
“Vivian Davis, but you could have left out the nickname,” she responds.
I raise my drink slightly, tipping my head slightly. “Well, thank you for the drink, Vivian Davis.”
I stare at my glass. “I’m assuming you already know who I am, and I can tell you don’t like me very much,” I state.
There’s a short pause, and I look at her, waiting patiently for her reason to dislike me.
Vivian shrugs. “I’ve heard of you.” Her tone is guarded.
I place my drink on the bar. “So, rumors are what you’ve heard, right?” I maintain eye contact, observing the subtle shift in her cheeks as they go rosy.
“I’m sure you already know, so you shouldn’t be asking me,” she replies, her words laced with a hint of sarcasm.
As she turns away to attend to her duties, I can’t help but feel intrigued by her.
I’d be lying to myself if I denied my attraction to her. Vivian is stunning; her long, wavy brunette hair pulled back into a ponytail, her eyes holding a captivating depth.
I haven’t seen her around, though, she must have started working here not long after I left town. I definitely would have remembered if I’d seen her before.
“Can’t recall seeing you here last time I came.”
She passes a beer bottle to a male customer beside me, his eyes stare at her breasts, and I scoff in disgust. He turns to me and I don’t take my eyes off him, making him uncomfortable and he scurries off.
She places her hands on the counter. “So many questions with you, Sanchez.”
I smirk. “Let’s just say I’m a curious guy.” I shrug my shoulders.
“But seriously, what’s your story, Bambi?” I tip my head at her, looking into her eyes.
Her face changes, she looks away from me and starts fidgeting with her fingers.
She’s nervous.
“I don’t have time for this, okay?” she blurts out before walking off with a tray in her hands.
“Wait.” I get up from my seat.
She’s short. I notice because she reaches just about the middle of my chest as she looks up at me, her eyes glassy.
Fuck. What just happened?
“I’m sorry I upset you.”
She closes her eyes and shakes her head before looking at me once again. “It’s not your fault,” she says. “But I, um—” She’s looking behind me at the customers.
“Yeah, I get it, I’ll head out.” I grab my things from the barstool. “I’ll see you around, Vivian.”
She doesn’t reply, instead she watches me for a second before walking toward an empty table with cups and wet napkins.
And then I walk out.
* * *
As I step into my quiet empty home, the silence feels heavier than usual. The image of Vivian’s face keeps replaying in my head. How the light in her eyes dimmed the second I asked about her life.
One question, and it was like I’d flip a switch. The flow she had, that spark that drew me in the moment I walked into the bar just…vanished.
The fiery, sharp-tongued woman was gone. She turned into someone guarded, distant—like she built a wall in the space of a heartbeat.
As if she’s holding everything together but secretly, she’s struggling.
I get where she’s coming from—I have for years.
I find myself consumed by thoughts. Some days are worse than others, but I’ve learned how to push through, even if it means turning to tequila every now and again.
I’ve got things in life I’m grateful for, such as a successful career which provides a roof over my head, food on the table, and being financially stable.
But that doesn’t change the fact that if it weren’t for my best friend Greg and his family, I would probably still be in a very dark place.
Alone.
Lost and reckless.
My thoughts go deeper, anxiety takes over as the memories flash through my mind, memories from my childhood that still haunt me to this day.
I decide to take a cold shower, hoping the sharp bite of the water will clear my mind. As the coldness falls onto my skin, I tilt my head back, letting the cascade of water wash over me, trying to drown out the noise inside my head.
But the memories are relentless.
Bruises I’ve long forgotten, old scars I never asked to carry.
Things being thrown, sharp objects cutting through the air like they were aimed straight for my soul.
The monster who lived under that roof, the one who made every day feel like survival.
No one to protect me.
My hand curls into a fist and I press it into the shower wall, steadying myself, the alcohol still heavy in my system, making the world tilt like I’m fighting against gravity itself.
I crank the water colder, the icy shock burning through the memories, forcing me to stay in the present. And still, the past lingers. Always there, just out of reach.
But I can’t let it drown me.
Once I’ve calmed myself down, I step out of the shower, I already feel a weight lifting from my shoulders. I make my way to my bedroom, ready to get some rest after a long, tiresome day of traveling back from the city for a meeting and a couple of interviews for the competition in a few months.
I gaze up at the ceiling to find the sight of hundreds of stars through the skylight above, spotting familiar star alignments and the glow of the moon. The gentle ticking of my watch echoes in the quiet of my bedroom, a comforting rhythm that drifts me to sleep.
I close my eyes, readying myself for another day in the small town of Bluebell Hollows.
* * *
My alarm blares and I open my eyes, catching the sunrise peak from my bedroom window that faces the countryside.
With a stretch, tangled in the sheets, I pull it aside, the morning light hits my half-naked body as I gaze out the window looking into the ranch. Turning to the clock on my nightstand, it reads 6 a.m.
Sleep kept slipping away. I woke more times than I can count, heart pounding in my chest, sweat prickling my skin, the familiar knot of anxiety tightening its grip again.
“Fuck,” I mutter, frustration lacing the word.
The weight of tiredness pressing down on me, but there’s no escaping the fact that I can’t afford to miss training.
I drag myself down the stairs, hoping the promise of coffee will help me feel more alive.
I shuffle into the kitchen, the silence of the house settling around me. The coffee machine sits there unused, and I flick the switch. I open the fridge, grabbing the milk with one hand, then grab a mug from the cupboard.
I lean against the counter as the coffee brews. The rich bitter scent filling up the kitchen as I stretch and yawn.
Just as I’m reaching for the pot, my phone buzzes. Probably Cameron, one of my best friends and my ass of a coach. He can be quite intense during training season, but truthfully, I couldn’t ask for a better coach.
Despite just being a couple of years older than me, he sometimes acts older than what he is. Whenever he gets too serious, I playfully call him “old man” to lighten the mood, although it often earns me a good slap on the back of my head.
The guy’s always up before dawn. Not because he’s some morning person, but because he’s learned how to survive on barely any sleep as a single dad to one-year-old baby Ashley. Don’t blame him for being such an ass half the time, with the littlest amount of patient when it comes to Greg and me.
Cameron: Better be ready for today, I want to see you focused and sharp, see you in twenty.
Cameron: Oh, and Greg is coming too, about time he joined us.
Me: Good morning to you too, old man. How come he’s decided to finally come back?
Cameron: I’m only three years older than you. He mentioned he needed to clear his head.
Cameron: Now seriously get your ass here before you’re late as usual, you know I’ll make you do suicides until you’re begging me to give you a break.
Me: Oh shit but that might have to do because he forgets he needs to laid and I don’t beg for anyone, especially you dipshit. I’ll see you in twenty, Cam.