Jules and Bulls

by Chandler Ardnas

  Chapter 1

  I was sitting in the back of the small diner, hiding in a corner booth with tall walls, waiting for my manager to bring the car to the back alley. I kept my head down and hoped I wouldn't be recognized. Everyone dressed in western clothes because of the Rodeo in town, and I felt out of place. My style was more about funky jeans and retro tennis shoes. I usually felt stylish, but it seemed like everyone was wearing a hat and boots.

  I let my long, dark hair fall around me as I tried to keep my head down on the off chance I would be recognized. I wasn’t sure I was being left alone due to my faux pas or the fact nobody in the country world would know who I was.

  My Manager, Martin Grund, had been the ruler of my life ever since he signed me at the age of eighteen. I showed up at an audition for a girl group, and he felt I had the right look to work as a single act. I had taken music lessons, dance lessons, and guitar lessons since the age of five. I was so desperate to make it out of the small town where I was raised that I became a perfectionist. It angered me when Martin focused on my naturally thick lips, athletic build, and long waist. I wanted acknowledgment for my voice, my ability to work complicated choreography, and the ease with which I wrote my music. It turns out those things are readily available and ‘the look' was harder to find.

  I wanted to believe my talent had something to do with my success, but Martin felt my greatest quality was I looked innocent in pictures, but sultry on stage. I had no idea what he was talking about, but I worked my ass off for him. I sang any place Martin could book me and even traveled overseas to open for obscure bands. Suddenly, out of the blue one of my club songs hit it big. Next, radio stations began playing my music, and Martin managed to get me interviewed by anyone with a microphone. Unfortunately, my propensity to say what was on my mind got me in trouble often.

  A handsome cowboy slid into the seat across from me, and I sighed rudely. He looked surprised as if he didn't realize someone was already using the table. “Sorry, I didn’t see anyone sitting here,” he explained.

  “The dishes are still on the table,” I rudely pointed out.

  "I just wanted this booth, are you finished?" he asked.

  I was so ready to be out of this stupid town. I had nothing against the people here; I just wanted to continue my tour without side trips to make up for my big mouth. The man asking about the booth was extremely good looking, but I couldn’t even find it in me to be impressed by his grey eyes, sandy hair sticking out from his hat, and strong jaw.

  “I’m waiting for my car,” I said sullenly. “Are the paparazzi out front?”

  He gave me an odd look and nodded as he suddenly looked around the room. He hurried to the far end of the booth and leaned against the wall, out of the view of other patrons.

  “Are you here for the rodeo?” he asked me.

  “Yes and no,” I answered, and noticed him smirk a little. “I’m here doing penance.”

  "Here at the diner or the rodeo?" he chuckled.

  I gave him a squinted glance and asked, “Are you Canadian?”

  “No.”

  “Promise?” I asked, just to make sure.

  “I’m from Northern California, I promise,” he laughed. “Do you want me to recite the preamble?”

  “Like I would know it?” I said with an irritated tone and rolled my eyes at him. I didn’t know people actually learned stuff like that.

  “Yeah, I don’t either,” he admitted with a chuckle.

  I noticed how his eyes crinkled when he smiled and how perfect his teeth were. I was being drawn in no matter how hard I tried to remain unaffected. “Okay,” I said, as I leaned closer to whisper, "I said something taken out of context, so I have to sing at the opening ceremonies of the rodeo to make it all good."

  “About Canadians?” He asked, leaning in to mimic my movement.

  I nodded and let my eyes drop. “I called the country, America Light,” I embarrassingly admitted.

  “To who?”

  “It doesn’t matter. I didn’t mean anything bad, and now I’m stuck with a bunch of animal-abusing rednecks because of my big mouth.”

  I had no idea why I was confiding in a perfect stranger, but there was something so open about his demeanor that I couldn’t help myself. He moved Martin’s plate out of his way and sat his hands on the table before he spoke, trying desperately not to laugh. “Two things, Sweetheart; cowboys wear hats, boots, and huge buckles. And, I seriously doubt a two-thousand-pound animal is the one receiving abuse."

  I felt my face turn red as I realized he was wearing a hat, boots, and buckle. I just couldn't control my big mouth, and it was going to cost me my career if I didn’t get a handle on it soon. But, I wasn’t going to let him get away with the animal remark. “A real cowboy wouldn’t use a saddle and that thing that goes around the horse’s head...”

  “The bridle,” he interrupted.

  “Or,” I continued, “the thing that goes in its mouth…”

  “A bit,” he added.

  "Why can't they ride as the Native Americans rode? They didn't need all that crap. I think it is cruel and shows a lack of skill.” I hoped I gave him something to think about, but he was biting his lip to keep from laughing, and I crossed my arms and waited for his smart remark.

  At that moment, the back door opened, and Martin motioned for me to come out, so I scooted to the end of the booth. “I suppose you want my autograph,” I said, feeling I owed him something for keeping me company for a few minutes. I quickly signed my name on a napkin and handed it to him.

  He glanced at my name and extended his hand, “Nice to meet you, Jules. I’m Tennyson.”

  “Have fun in Canada, Tennyson,” I said, and ran through the back door to my waiting car.

  I was taken to the large indoor arena and made a lengthy sound check. I would be singing the Canadian National Anthem and then sit in the celebrity booth with the announcers. I could hardly wait for the night to be over.

  The arena smelled like manure, and I had to breathe through my mouth, so I wouldn’t get sick. I stood on a platform and worked on the sound settings as horses rode around me. I tensed whenever they got close and was sure I was going to be trampled by a wild stallion.

  “Jules, your clothes arrived,” Martin called out, and led me to a trailer in the back.

  The entire parking area was filled with horse trailers and RV's. I was stunned that so many people would be into such a brutal sport. I looked at the clothes lying in front of me and took a step back. “I am not wearing that,” I yelled.

  “You need to look like you belong, not stick out like a sore thumb,” Martin growled.

  “Get real, Martin. I will be photographed tonight. I'll wear the vest, but that is it," I offered.

  “What are you going to wear, then?”

  I could tell Martin was getting frustrated with me and I didn't want to cause him any more problems. “I’ll throw something together, but I don’t need to look like Annie Oakley.”

  "Fine, but don't say anything about the clothes when interviewed later.” He placed his hands on my shoulders and looked directly into my eyes. “You are happy to be here and enjoyed seeing something new.”

  "I'll say, I'm happy to be invited to sing, but these freaks should be jailed for hurting innocent animals," I snarled.

  “Jules, don’t make it worse. Play nice and give me some peace."

  I only nodded and watched him leave.

  I looked through the clothes I had in the trailer and found a large, oversized black t-shirt with some black leggings. I put a silver belt around my waist and the glittery vest over the tee. I decided on some black stilettos, knowing they were not an excellent choice for a dirty rodeo arena. I would walk out to the platform from the safety of a wooden ramp,
so I decided to chance it.

  Martin didn’t comment on my outfit when he came to get me. He escorted me to the back of the arena where I stood, irritated, while I waited for my part in the opening ceremony to begin. There was a nonstop parade of horses, and queen-after-queen in every age group and section of the county seemed to go on forever.

  My name was announced and there was some cheering, nothing like the noise I got when I was introduced at my concerts, but at least they weren't booing. I walked out and smiled as I waved in every direction of the arena. I took the mic and began the A cappella version of the Canadian National Anthem. The crowd went wild, and I relaxed.

  When I finished the song, I bowed and waved around the arena again, before making my way to the booth, where a nameplate sat on the table in front of my seat. The platform retracted, and the parade of various rodeo queens exited the arena. The lights began to flash off and on as spotlights raced around the ring. The crowd went insane, and the screams were louder than anything I had ever experienced.

  The announcer next to me yelled into the microphone. “Ladies and Gentlemen, please give a warm welcome to the reigning All-Around Cowboy, Tennyson Weller.”

  I didn’t catch the name because the crowd’s applause got louder. I was tempted to cover my ears, but instead, I applauded with curiosity. A horse came galloping into the arena, and the spotlights followed the rider as he made lightning-fast rounds, waving the entire way.

  The announcer seemed shocked and said over the speaker, “Tennyson is riding his horse, Man-o-war, without bridle or saddle; let's give him and an extra round of applause."

  My heart sank when I saw he was the same Tennyson I had complained to earlier. Just my luck, I had called the most famous of the rednecks an animal abuser. I wanted to hide under the table. I watched in shock as he stopped in the middle of the arena and made his horse saunter right toward me. He was smirking, and I could tell I was blushing. He made a funny noise with his tongue, and his horse began side-stepping as he came even closer to me.

  “I suppose you want this,” he said, holding out a piece of paper. I took it and saw he had handed me his autograph, making me want to die from humiliation. He winked and said, “Now watch me show America Light how it’s done,” before he rode away.

  My heart was pounding, and I looked around nervously. When everyone sat, the girl sitting next to me leaned over to ask, “Do you know Tennyson?”

  “A little,” I said, hoping she wouldn’t ask me details. “I know nothing about rodeos,” I admitted, to stop her further questioning.

  “Oh, I can help with that,” she offered too quickly. She launched into a diatribe about the spectacle I was witnessing, and I tried very hard to appear interested. "There are timed events and rough stock events. The cowboy who makes the most money in at least two events is named All-Around Cowboy at the finals.”

  “What does Tennyson do?” I asked and hoped she didn’t read too much into my curiosity.

  “He’s a bareback bronc rider and a bull rider.” She spoke of him in almost a reverent tone, and it only increased my anxiety.

  “Isn’t that dangerous?” I asked stupidly.

  “That’s why he makes the big bucks,” she laughed. “His brother, Royal Weller, is a bullfighter…”

  “He kills bulls?” I asked in shock and was ready to run from the place and begin picketing out front.

  She laughed at my ignorance and said, "No, he's a rodeo bullfighter, or maybe you would call it a rodeo clown. They protect the bull riders by distracting the bull.

  “Ah,” I said, acting like I fully understood.

  “His sister, Amylia, is the reigning barrel-racing champion; she is so amazing."

  The girl literally sighed, and I felt my mouth falling open, so I immediately extended my hand to refrain from insulting yet another Canadian. "Um, I'm Jules,” I said since I would be sitting next to this girl for the night.

  “I’m Angela, I’m the rodeo queen,” she announced, as she rolled her eyes.

  “No, that’s really cool,” I lied.

  “I’m obsessed with the Wellers,” she admitted with a blush. “They are like celebrities in the rodeo world; I even have a shirt with Tennyson’s face on it.”

  Her comment made me wince at the fact I had acted like such a diva in front of a guy who was more known than I was with this population.

  The first event was bareback riding. Angela smiled and said, “Tennyson got an excellent draw, he should score high."

  “I have no idea what you just said, but okay.”

  She laughed and explained. “A computer matches the cowboy with a random horse. Some are known for how well they buck, and the score can be higher if you draw a good horse.”

  "They don't ride their horses?" I asked stupidly.

  “No, they ride special rodeo stock.”

  I watched in amazement as cowboy-after-cowboy was thrown to the ground or scraped along the railing. I had no idea why a sane person would even consider this sport and grimaced at the sight of the spurs on their boots.

  When Tennyson was up the crowd went wild again. I was shaking from how nervous I was for him. He was the only cowboy I knew, and I wanted him to ride the full eight seconds.

  Angela nudged me and pointed to a large man on a horse at the far end of the arena. “That’s Royal, Tennyson’s brother. He’s a pick-up man for this event. He’ll ride up to the bronc, if Tennyson stays on, and help him get off safely.”

  I nodded and looked at the intimidating muscle-bound man as he stared intently at his brother getting ready in the chute. It was sweet, in a brutal gladiator kind of way. The gate opened, and I quickly covered my eyes. I couldn't watch and waited for the buzzer to signal if he made it or not. The eight seconds felt much longer.

  The buzzer sounded, and the crowd screamed, so I lowered my hands. I saw Tennyson grab onto his brother’s arm as he was lifted easily onto Royal’s horse. I cheered right along with Angela. Tennyson slid off the horse and walked toward the alley as he waited for his score. I watched the way he walked in his chaps, with his hat low, hiding his eyes. There was something so manly about him, and I couldn't help but smile.

  When a score of 92 was displayed the crowd erupted again, and Tennyson took his hat off and waved to his fans. His light brown hair hung long compared to the rest of the performers. It had a natural wave that sent curls in all directions around his head.

  After his third successful ride, the crowd thinned a little. I lost interest too and was glad when Martin came to rescue me to eat. I was taken to a back room and instantly noticed Tennyson interviewing with a reporter. I tried not to stare, but he saw me looking at him, and he winked.

  I sat at a table and was handed a plate with a thick steak and a large potato. I smiled at the server and then glared at Martin sitting across and down from me. He greeted me with a shrug, and I began to wonder how I could get the morbid slab of meat off my plate.

  “Hi, Jules,” Tennyson smiled, as he pulled the chair out next to me.

  “Hi, um…good…I mean you rode…what do they call it?” I asked.

  “Bareback bronc,” he laughed, and I let my head fall in humiliation.

  “I’m sorry about earlier. You didn’t have to get rid of your saddle and stuff for me. I have a big mouth sometimes.”

  "I just wanted to show you modern cowboys are as skilled as the natives."

  Royal walked up, and his size scared me. He was so much more significant up close. Not tall, but ripped with muscles and had the same sandy hair and grey eyes as his brother. He completely ignored me and spoke directly to Tennyson. “Watch your left leg, your spurring was sloppy.”

  “Like hell it was, did you see the scores?”

  "You are getting points for crowd approval; you need to focus and not get sloppy when the judges can't see."

  “I was focused,” Tennyson barked, "My knee is still sore.”

  “Bullshit, you’re babying it. Keep your hand centered and let your legs spur evenly.”
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  Tennyson nodded, and I had no idea what they meant. Both guys removed their hats, and I noticed Tennyson's long, unruly hair was a contrast to Royal’s tight crew cut. My attention moved to a gorgeous woman who walked up and kissed Royal on the cheek. Her jeans were tight, and she wore a large belt buckle of her own. Her arms were sculpted in muscle and she looked like she worked out religiously in a gym.

  “You’re favoring your knee,” she said to Tennyson. He hissed loudly and began buttering his roll harshly.

  He took a quick bite and pointed with his knife toward the steak sauce. “You using that?” he asked me.

  “No, I don’t eat meat,” I said, as I handed the bottle to him.

  He froze and looked at me with shock, “Steak or any meat?”

  “Any meat,” I told him and realized everyone was listening.

  “You’re not going to eat that?” he asked, looking at my steak. He acted like he had never heard of such a thing as a vegetarian and the idea stumped him.

  “No, please take it, I don’t want it on my plate,” I told him and pushed my plate next to his.

  He narrowed his eyes at me for a moment and then shook his head in disappointment as he stuck his fork in the meat and put it on his plate. “Where are you from, Jules?”

  “Oregon, but I live in L.A. now.” He chuckled and nodded like it all made sense. “Why the degrading laugh?” I asked angrily.

  “Nothing, our worlds are so far apart,” he chuckled again.

  I knew what he meant. We were both from California, but I thought people like him only existed in old John Wayne movies. I had no idea they were living among us. “I’m only here because I have to be,” I added angrily.

  “Yes, I remember the national insult.” He smiled as he cut into his steak.

  "I don't get the whole need for the man versus beast thing. Animals weren't put here for our amusement."

  "No, they were put here for our nourishment, but you won't eat them, so I have to ride them,” he laughed, finding his statement comical.

  “How can you eat another creature?”

  “With steak sauce,” he answered, and Royal laughed loudly.

  I looked at Martin, wanting him to get me out of the situation, but he was being overly attentive to yet another rodeo queen and wouldn’t even look at me.