by KJ Bell
I feel horribly alone.
Marty and Ginger push past me into my house. I called them after I spent twenty minutes bawling my eyes out. Like true best friends, they came over immediately. They’re not in the same league as Gram when it comes to girl chats, but I know they love me.
“We came prepared,” Ginger says. Her almond-shaped brown eyes sparkle with excitement as she holds up a bottle of Jack Daniels and several chocolate bars.
I smile at my friends. I met Marty first. When my mother had read the class list for kindergarten, no one in my family recognized her last name; McDaniel. It’s a small town. We knew everyone, which meant Marty was new. I assumed she was one of the six boys in my class. I was bummed because six boys, meant they outnumbered the girls. But, it turned out, Mr. McDaniel, a diehard Kansas City Chiefs fan, we all are, wanted a boy. Marty hates the name and the fact she was named after a coach who could never win the big show makes it all the more annoying to her.
I met Ginger about five seconds after Marty. The three of us have been inseparable ever since.
I follow my girlfriends into the kitchen. They’re both looking at me like I’m a homeless kitten. I roll my eyes. More at myself than them because I’m pretty pathetic.
“You look pitiful,” Marty says, pouring the Jack Daniels into a glass of pop and ice. I grumble how I’m fine, although, I can’t even convince myself. “Come on. Don’t sweat this. Wyatt loves you, and he’ll be beggin’ your forgiveness in a few days.”
He will, but what does it say about me if I take him back with a smile? I want to be a stronger person. I refuse to continue a relationship with a man who doesn’t respect me. “Yeah, like he always does after he’s slept around. I’m over it, Mar! Maybe we aren’t meant to be together.”
She taps my hand. “If you and Wyatt aren’t meant to be, no one is. He loves you, but he’s young and scared to fail.”
“No, he’s young and horny. He won’t stop if I continue to forgive him. How long am I’m supposed to wait around until he decides he’s ready to be a grown-up?”
“You don’t have to wait around.” She twirls her long dark braid around her pointer finger with a devious smirk. “Maybe you need to sample the menu for a while, too. You’ve never been with anyone except Wyatt.”
“I can’t sleep with a random guy. I’m not a one-night stand kind of girl.”
“Why?” Marty asks. “Because society says it’s wrong for women? That you’re a slut if you do? Bullshit. We all have the desire in us, but unlike men, we won’t sleep with anything on two legs. We seek a certain kind of guy for the job.”
Marty’s found two guys ‘for the job’ since college. She’s also had two long-term relationships with guys that didn’t deserve her, who ultimately broke her heart. She means well, but I want a life like the one I planned with Wyatt. The one where I’m already engaged and preparing to walk down the aisle. I want stability.
“Well, obviously I haven’t encountered that ‘certain kinda guy’ for a one-nighter.”
“Not yet.” She slides the glass of booze across the counter. “This should make you feel better. Drink. We’re goin’ out.”
“Drinkin’ might worsen my mood. Where’s the chocolate?” I ask, knowing if I go out I won’t be any fun.
Ginger pulls a small calendar from her purse. She’s been quiet, but I hope she’s not about to give me dating advice as well. Ginger’s never even had a steady boyfriend.
Marty asks her, “You carry around the tour’s calendar in your purse?”
“Yes,” Ginger answers, “and I think we should go to the rodeo tonight. It’s in Kansas City.”
“It’s kinda far,” I whine.
“You don’t even like the rodeo,” Marty tells Ginger. “You only go to drool over the riders.”
“I do not,” Ginger argues.
Marty shoots her a doubtful look. “Okay. How are they scored?” Ginger glances at me for help. I shrug, not wanting to get involved in their argument. “That’s what I thought,” Marty says, rejoicing before giving Ginger another test. “Who’s in first place right now?”
Ginger shrugs. “JT?” she answers like a question, glancing at me again.
“Battle,” I say, deciding to help her out.
“Whatever,” Ginger mumbles as she rolls her eyes. “I like JT. Battle’s crazy.”
“I agree,” Marty says. “He’s not my type, either. He’s not even a real cowboy. How many buckles has he won? Yet, I’ve never seen him in one. He dresses like a skate punk.”
“I think he has more of a James Dean thing goin’ on,” I suggest quietly. “He’s rough and edgy, yet kinda boyish and sweet too, and those eyes ...” I sigh, and realize they’re staring at me.
Marty blows a raspberry through her lips. “If you say so. I’m a buckles and hats kinda girl. And besides, Battle’s dangerous. He’s a head case.”
Marty’s referring to the many articles in the local Rider’s Monthly about Battle fighting and sleeping around. Those are the only articles she reads, ignoring the stories about his many victories and his volunteer work. The Monthly was created by a group of women who graduated a few years ahead of us. As much as I tell Marty the magazine isn’t a reliable news source, she believes every word they print. I consider the Monthly nothing more than The Inquirer of bull riding.
“You don’t know him,” I say, defending a man I’ve never met and probably never will. “All the stories about him could be rumors, or made up for that matter.”
“Maybe.” Marty shrugs, rolling her eyes dramatically. She always has to be right and expects me to agree with her, which more times than not, I do. “It’s strange he stays with the St. Louis circuit when he’s good enough for the pro tour. There has to be a reason for it, and I think it’s his behavior.”
“I personally don’t care about his behavior,” I argue. “I’m not gonna marry him, but I sure enjoy lookin’ at him.”
Marty and Ginger stare at me with wide eyes, giggling. Marty says, “So, she’s human after all. I knew you had an inner man-candy whore in there somewhere.”
“Let’s go see them.” Ginger shows off a giddy smile, waggling her eyebrows. “Kansas City’s not that far.”
“I’m not in the mood to go out,” I grumble, knowing my protests will fall on deaf ears.
Ginger’s red ringlet curls she hates bounce around her freckled cheeks as she claps her hands enthusiastically. “Come on. You’ll have fun.”
“You know you will,” Marty adds jubilantly, batting her long black lashes. “And, a girl I work with says the riders hang out at Dakota’s afterward. Maybe we can meet one of them.”
I crinkle my nose, shuddering. “Dakota’s Tavern’s a dump.”
Marty makes a face. “Who cares if it’s full of hot bull riders, pumped up on adrenaline and downin’ whiskey?”
“Come on, Faye. You know you wanna go.” Ginger bumps her shoulder into mine, nearly knocking me off the stool. “You need to get out of the house, and we haven’t seen a ride live in forever.”
“It’s only been like a month. Let’s stay home and eat chocolate,” I whine, my shoulders slumping in defeat. I’ll cave, and my friends know it.
“No way,” Marty howls, grabbing my arm and pulling me toward my bedroom. “As your friends, it’s our duty to get you out of this house to take your mind off Wyatt.”
I laugh. “I call bullshit. As my friends, you’re using my crappy love-life as an excuse to go out.”
“Whatever works,” Marty says. “Now, let’s find you somethin’ cute to wear.”
Marty spends fifteen minutes playing dress up with me, which results in me looking exactly like her. My makeup is caked on. The skirt she chose is too short, and she sprayed so much perfume that I smell like a French whorehouse. If not exhausted from arguing with Wyatt, I’d protest more. She assures me I look hot as I slip on my favorite cowboy boots. When she leaves me alone, I remove the horrendous shade of purple lipstick from my lips, replacing it with a pale pin
k gloss. I run a brush through my long blonde waves before we’re out the door.
The volume of the sold out arena hurts my ears. Somehow Marty managed to score seats adjacent to one of the three steel chutes. It’s exciting to be close to the riders as they mount the bulls; each one with a different routine. Some praying for victory, although most falling short of eight seconds and subsequently cussing out the Heavens.
I pay no attention to the barrelmen entertaining the crowd in between riders. Instead, my mind drifts to Wyatt. I wonder who he’s with, and what he’s doing. I always do this, like I have a sick, twisted need to punish myself. My heart feels heavy as regret sinks in. I want to be strong and stand by what I said. Wanting and doing are a long ways apart, though. I’m afraid to be without him.
As the next rider enters the chute, the crowd noise rises to near deafening levels, distracting my thoughts of Wyatt. Every fan in the arena jumps to their feet, including myself, Marty, and Ginger. While I’ve seen him ride many times, I’ve never been this close to Battle McCoy.
He’s tall and lean, his chest covered with a tight fitting leather riding vest for protection. I blush, remembering his shirtless perfect abs last year in a calendar the tour did for charity. The crowd chants his name as he mounts the bull effortlessly. As he adjust, the beast bucks and snorts before finally settling down. Ginger’s fingernails dig into my skin as she jumps up and down, screaming.
I lift my head, meeting the penetrating gaze of Battle. He stares at me through the metal cage in front of his helmet, his eyes so pure and so blue they should shine with the warmth of a summertime sky, but they chill my blood and send goose bumps up my arms. It’s the focused scrutiny behind his gaze that makes me shiver and melt at the same time.
I pull my eyes from his freezing regard, twisting my head right then left. He can’t be staring at me. At least fifty of us line the side of the chute. He must be staring at someone directly behind me. Hell if I didn’t wish it was me.
“Oh, my God. Battle McCoy’s totally starin’ at you,” Ginger squeals in my ear. She continues, but I can’t hear her over the roar of the crowd as the announcer introduces the night’s final rider. I meet his gaze again, my heart fluttering wildly as he studies me. My palms break out in a sweat.
“Ladies and Gents … Last up in the arena … The man you’re all here to see. Kansas City’s hometown hero. Are you ready for Battle—the one-man army—McCoyyyyyy?”
I can’t pull my eyes away from his. While I don’t believe in love at first sight, I do think a silent connection can occur between two people who have never met. One that draws you in until you can’t breathe.
There’s something brewing between me and Battle. Something strange, and fiercely private, sweeping over me like an unexpected storm. As if he’s claiming me out of the thousands of people in the stands. His devouring eyes scream, I want you. Wants me for what? I’m clearly in need of psychological help.
He winds the coarse rope around his gloved hand. Pine tar stains the worn, yellow suede. The crowd continues to chant, “Bat—tle … Bat—tle … Bat—tle.”
When the horn sounds, Battle winks at me before the chute opens, and he’s gone. The bull charges through the arena, bucking violently. Battle holds on tight. His upper body whips around uncontrollably like a rag doll.
My eyes stay on him as I silently count the seconds. One … Two … Three … Four ... Five … Six ... Seven ... Eight … When Battle makes it eight seconds, he doesn’t stop … Nine ... Ten ... Eleven ... I’ve seen Battle ride many times. He always pushes his luck. Braving the bull has become his trademark.
The bull bucks, kicking his back legs at the same time Battle leaps from the animal. Instead of running, he stares at the bull, daring it to come after him. The crowd cheers louder, exploding into fanatic chaos. His fans mistake Battle’s heroics as bravery. Without question, he’s bold, perhaps even fearless. However, I can’t help think his audacity stems from a deeply rooted need to hide something he doesn’t want seen by his fans. Something painful. Only a man wanting to punish himself would test his limits the way Battle McCoy does.
Battle holds his ground as the bull swipes its front hoof against the dirt in warning, grunting through his nostrils. A second later, the animal becomes distracted by a bull fighter, and chases off after him, before being wrangled through a gate and into a holding pen.
With his eyes trained on mine, Battle leaps up the side of the cage in front of me, hoisting his helmet in the air. The crowd erupts again, people shouting how he’s the man, and no bull can hold him.
He won’t stop staring at me. While I feel incredibly self-conscious, I find the courage to smile at him. Only when I do, he frowns, and jumps down from the gate.
What the hell happened? I feel as rejected by this complete stranger as I did earlier this evening by Wyatt. Maybe I give off some undiscovered man-repellent pheromone, or I’m the human equivalent of a porcupine.
The crowd calms as they begin heading toward the exits. Ginger grabs my arm, yelling, “That was so freakin’ hot!”
I fake a smile, not wanting to show my friends how bothered I am by Battle’s reaction to me. “It was nothin’.”
“The way he looked at you was not nothin’! Tell her, Marty.”
Marty nods, smiling with giddy enthusiasm. “He wants you.”
“He does not!” I insist.
I’m beginning to believe Marty was right about Battle being a head case. The entire exchange felt deranged.
Thanks to Battle McCoy, the minuscule amount of confidence I had left after Wyatt is completely shattered.
Dakota’s lives up to its seedy reputation—peeling paint, grimy surfaces, rowdy crowd. I can’t even fathom what condition the restrooms are in. I pray I don’t need to use them. Being here did get me out of Burlingame and away from Wyatt for the evening, which is a plus.
The bar may be a dump, but I have a spectacular view from where I sit with Marty and Ginger. Hotties from the St. Louis Bull Riding Circuit line the bar, exactly like Marty said they would. Smack in the middle—Battle McCoy.
I half hoped he wouldn’t be here after the strange way he responded to me earlier. With dark, loose jeans and a faded plain black t-shirt, he stands out in the row of men wearing Wranglers, shit kickers and shiny buckles. It’s part of his appeal—he’s not your typical boot scootin’ cowboy, regardless of what Marty thinks.
He’s the reason I began following the tour several years ago. His looks and body alone launched the tour’s popularity, among women at least.
“I dare ya to go talk to him,” Ginger says, grinning with a challenging smirk.
“Who?” I ask confused.
“Oh, come on. You’re practically screwin’ him with your eyes.” I don’t bother to deny it. That’s exactly what I’m doing. “Go talk to him.”
I would love to go talk to him. And if I wasn’t utterly terrified, I might consider saying hello.
Marty rolls her big blue eyes. “She doesn’t have the guts to talk to him.”
“Hey! You two are the ones that wanted to come here. Y’all go talk to him.” Neither of my friends move. “That’s what I thought.”
We all laugh. I can’t blame my friends. The riders are an intimidating group. If the stories about Battle McCoy are true, he’d come for me if he wanted me.
“Ginger dared ya!” Marty reminds me. I consider punching her.
We’ve been daring each other since second grade. Not completing a dare usually results in something uncomfortable, like the time I made Ginger streak across the football field in her bra because she refused to tell Tate Price she liked him. She’s never forgotten it. I’m sure she has an evil plan in place if I don’t go talk to Battle.
“Okay. I’ll do it.” Although I try to stand with confidence, I look like a wet noodle and my insides vibrate with nerves.
“Right!” Marty laughs, fluttering her hand in the direction of the bar. “You’re gonna stroll over to him, hopin’ somewhere along the way you
find the courage to talk to him?”
I hoist my enormous bag in the air, reminding her of the liter-sized bottle of Jack Daniels I have stowed inside. “I have my courage right here.”
“That bottle ain’t nearly big enough,” Ginger pipes in. Her and Marty snort with laughter.
“Why am I friends with you two again?” I shoot them dirty looks. “Y’all dared me to talk to him, so…I’m gonna do it.”
I’ve never backed down on a dare, even in fifth grade when Marty made me eat a worm. I’m not going to start now.
“Look at you bein’ all brave,” Marty chuckles. “I bet you five bucks you don’t make it halfway before you run back to the table.”
“Oh, you’re on, princess,” I say, using the nickname she hates that Ginger and I gave her in fourth grade for being prissy. “And ten bucks says I’ll get him to talk to me.”
“I’ll take that bet and raise you,” Marty challenges.
“Raise me what?”
Her and Ginger exchange devious glances.
“If any guy’s worthy of poppin’ your one-night stand cherry, it’s Battle McCoy. I’ll bet a hundred bucks you won’t do it.”
My mouth falls open as I stare at her. “You want me to sleep with him, and you’ll give me a hundred bucks if I do? I’m not a hooker!”
“Okay, you don’t have to sleep with him, but a hundred bucks says you don’t leave the bar with him.”
“We’re talkin’ about Battle McCoy, right?” I ask, looking between her and Ginger, my gaze settling on Marty. “You’re willin’ to bet a hundred bucks with his reputation?”
“Noooo …” Marty shakes her head. “I’m willin’ to bet a hundred bucks you’re still wallowin’ in Wyatt, and despite what you say, you won’t be movin’ on.”
“Yeah, well you’re wrong,” I protest, but she’s not. I am wallowing.
Letting go hurts, like a small part of me left with Wyatt, and I’ll never get it back. With a snooty look over my shoulder, I walk away from my friends. Maybe I’m not ready to move on. So what? That won’t stop me from completing the dare and winning a hundred bucks in the process.