by KJ Bell
I have no idea what I’m doing, but for the first time in my life, I feel unrestricted. I feel like the young, carefree woman I should be. The ever present pressure in my life to live up to expectations isn’t weighing me down. I’m not trapped by an image I’m supposed to uphold. Honestly, I expect Jack is responsible for my sudden floating spirit, but I’ll take it, relish in it for one wild, uninhibited night. I want to soar above the expectations until I reach the stars.
Battle’s head tilts my way. His lips curl before he opens his mouth to say something, but stops. His smile grows as he fires up the engine.
The car comes to life with a throaty roar. Battle revs the engine a few times before turning to me, his expression serious. “Are you sure you want to go through with this? I don’t know what the hell I’m doin’ with you, but I guarantee it’s only for tonight.”
I don’t know what I’m doing with him, either, but I smile and say, “I’m sure.”
It’s when we pull out of the parking lot that panic finally sets in. I’m in a car with a complete stranger. I’ve told no one who I’m with or where I’m going. Surely the girls will know I left with Battle. For several blocks, I stare out the window, my thoughts in a hundred places—my friends, Wyatt, my parents.
“Second thoughts?” Battle asks.
I point with my thumb in the direction of the bar. “I’m my friends ride home.”
“JT will take them home,” he laughs. “It may be to his home, but they’ll get a ride.”
“You’re sure?”
“JT sent me a text.” Battle holds his phone up. The letters blur when I try to read them. I decide to trust his word. “It’s all good. I can be an ass, but I’m somewhat responsible.”
I smile and relax.
Battle turns down a side street, and into a drive-thru Mexican place—another dump. The sign is faded, Pas—something. I start to ask if he’s hungry, but that’s a stupid question considering where we are. He orders two carne asada burritos, and two large Cokes. I cringe at the thought of eating anything from this grease factory.
After paying with cash, he tells the cashier to keep the change and hands me the bag of food. I set the bag between the bucket seats. He sets one of the drinks between his legs and hands me the other one. I take the paper cup, silently cursing the skirt Marty made me wear.
Downfall to owning a classic car—no cup holders. I keep meaning to pick up one of those clip-on kind they sell at Walmart, but I always forget when I’m engulfed in the superstore hell. I refuse to put the cold pop between my legs and opt to set it on the floor, using my feet to keep it upright. Battle laughs softly as he exits the drive-thru and pulls off to the side.
My stomach rumbles when I inhale the scent wafting from the bag as Battle digs inside and pulls out one of the burritos. He hands it to me, but I stare at it with disgust.
“You need to eat,” he says, his eyebrows lifted.
“I’m fine.”
“Eat!” he commands.
“I’m not hungry,” I say, while my brain screams at me to shut up and eat.
“I don’t care if you’re hungry. You drank a lot, and if we’re gonna keep drinkin’, you need food.”
He gives excellent advice, but I’m not sure we should be doing anymore drinking. I look out his window to the dingy, run-down restaurant. “This place is nasty.”
“This place has the best burritos in the Midwest. Eat.” He shoves the burrito closer, and I finally take it.
I unwrap half of it and say, “If I get food poisonin’, I’m callin’ you to take care of me.”
He shakes his head with a humorous expression and unwraps his burrito, which he devours in less than five minutes. I’ve had three bites. Although I hate to admit it, the burrito, in all its greasy glory, hits the spot. He tosses his wrapper into the bag and slurps the remaining pop in his cup before driving away from the restaurant.
I try to eat more, but anxiety blocks my appetite. There’s no question of what he wants to happen tonight. Hell, there’s no question of what I want to happen. We’re going somewhere to ‘fuck hard’. Nerves create havoc in my gut, threatening to bring up the few bites of burrito. I’m not only a one-night stand virgin, I’m also an all-guys-but-Wyatt virgin, and a ‘fuck hard’ virgin.
The burrito shakes in my hand, reminding me I’m freaking out. Is there a protocol for this kind of thing? Do we talk first? Or do we immediately strip and get down to business? After forcing down a couple small bites, I give up and toss the unfinished burrito into the bag.
“Where are we goin’?” I ask.
The corner of his lip curves upward. “My favorite place on Earth.”
He answers with such boyish jubilance that I grow more curious about the guy behind the public persona. Underneath the risk taker, and the guy who perhaps is even reckless.
“Hmm. And where’s that?”
“You’ll see.” His eyes stay on the road. “Last chance to change your mind.”
I stare at my knotted fingers. As tense as I feel, I also feel an overpowering desire to spend the night with him. To do something stupid, something I may regret in the morning.
“If I tell you there’s no chance I’m changin’ my mind, does that make me one of those desperate buckle-bunnies?”
“No chance, sweetheart, but I am curious why you’d risk your life for a hundred bucks?”
I relax in the seat, embarrassment heating my cheeks. “Yeah, well that little bet was about provin’ my friends wrong. They don’t think I have it in me to be impulsive.”
“Ah,” he says with a grin. “Clearly, you do?”
“Not really,” I say. “I’m pretty sheltered. I usually stick to the plan and play life safe.”
“So what changed?”
After a second, it hits me, and I answer, “Honestly … life.”
His eyebrows draw together as though my answer means something to him as well. Do all adults crash into a wall? Where the life we always expected turns into something else? If so, I want a do over. Or do I?
Maybe it’s the spontaneous moments in life that define our future. Perhaps we have no control over the course our life takes. The thought goes against everything I’ve ever been taught, but I have to admit, allowing life to happen naturally appeals to me.
Battle turns down a narrow path off the main road on to Old Man Parson’s wheat farm. Long sprigs of wheat pelt loudly against the car. I’ve never been down this path, but I can’t imagine anything exciting at the end of it.
When Battle stops and turns off the ignition, I’m unable to hide my curiosity and ask. “Why are we here?”
“This is my favorite place. Come on, let’s get out.” Battle grabs my bag from the backseat and slips out of the car. He sets the bag on the hood and stretches, exposing his defined and drool-worthy abs. Quickly, I glance away before he catches me staring.
My nerves are on full attack. I’m anxious and excited as I push the door open against the wheat. Once outside, I shut the door, glancing around for signs of life. There are none. The long grainy strands of wheat tickle my legs, and some reach my waist. The interior light of the car shuts off, leaving us in the dark.
I say a silent prayer. Something along the lines of please don’t let Battle be a deranged serial killer.
Thankfully the moon is nearly full, casting enough light to see my way to the front of the car.
“Old Man Parson’s place is the Battle McCoy’s favorite place on Earth?”
He chuckles. As my eyes adjust, I make out a smile on his face.
“Do ya hear that?” he asks, jumping up on the hood of my Mustang.
“No,” I answer and hop up next to him.
“Exactly, you don’t hear a thing.” Battle pulls the bottle of Jack from my bag. He twists the lid off and tosses it into the thick dark night. My eyes stay on his full lips as he takes a long draw from the bottle. He finishes and says, “You can’t hear a damn thing, but you can see a hell of a lot.”
I have no idea
what he’s talking about. This desolate place harbors no interest for me. It’s a wheat field. There’s nothing to see. He, however, has my undivided attention.
He scoots backward, resting his back against the window and looks up into the night sky.
I lift my chin. The stark-black sky littered with thousands of stars paints a remarkable canvas, one far more breathtaking than my suburban backyard where light filters the view. I lie back next to him and lace my fingers together, resting them on my abdomen.
“When I come here, it reminds me how short life is, and I can see plainly how insignificant I truly am.” His voice is low and pained with a hint of what he’s hiding from the world.
“You think you’re insignificant?” I ask.
“Aren’t we all?” Battle asks, completely serious. “Think about it. We’re only specks in a vast universe.”
“I guess I try not to think about the universe,” I admit and take the bottle of Jack from him. Seeking courage, I take a small sip and continue. “But here on Earth, you’re the Battle McCoy.”
Battle turns on his side to face me, propping up on his elbow. He peers up at me from under his dark-brown hair that’s fallen in front of his eyes. “And who exactly is that?”
I laugh. “You’re the fearless superstar bull rider with panty-melting eyes, who has thousands of adoring fans.” I’m teasing him in hopes of lightening the tension of this conversation. Battle doesn’t laugh, nor does he smile. His expression maintains a seriousness that makes me uncomfortable. I giggle to mask the awkwardness. “See. You’re not insignificant.”
“You’re hardly so naïve. Who am I really?” he asks more incessant.
I exhale loudly, delaying my answer, because I don’t want to admit it. I was having fun before he went all philosophical on me. “I guess I don’t actually know.”
He shifts and lies on his back again. His hands move underneath his head for support with his elbows out to the side as he stares at the stars. “That’s my point. Even in your small universe, I’m insignificant.” His lighthearted voice clashes with the seriousness of his words.
“Yeah, well, you’re also cynical.”
He laughs deep. I feel the vibration through the glass. “Maybe, but I prefer to think I’m experienced.”
“Or scared,” I say bravely.
Without a reply, Battle grabs the bottle of Jack from my hand and brings it to his lips. His deliberately long, slow swallow proves I touched on something he doesn’t want to talk about.
“Don’t think you know me,” he says, his playful voice gone. Bitterness mars his words as he continues, “We’re all scared of somethin’, sweetheart.”
He’s absolutely correct—I’m scared of him, of being without Wyatt, and of failure. “True, and since neither of us feels up for sharin’ what scares us, let’s talk about somethin’ else.”
I take the bottle from him and down a few small sips.
“Okay,” he says, sitting up. “But let’s make a game out of it.” His voice lowers to a husky, seductive tone. He leans over me, his fingers sliding gently along my jaw. My eyes close. “I’ll tell you somethin’ I think about you. If I guess right, you drink.”
My eyes open and he removes his hand. “And you?”
His devious grin would make the devil himself proud. “Oh, sweetheart, I’ll drink even if you guess wrong…To keep it interestin’.”
“Nice try, McCoy.”
“What?”
“If you drink every time, I won’t know if I’ve guessed correctly.”
“I’ll tell ya.” His boyish grin only proves to make me more skeptical. “All right. I’ll play by the rules. You can go first,” he offers.
I sit up cross-legged, opposite from him. He does the same, setting the bottle on the hood between us.
He licks his lips, distracting me. I’m having a hard enough time thinking of something to ask him. While my brain struggles, he makes a loud sound like a buzzer. “Time’s up. My turn.”
I laugh and smack his chest. “Fine! You go first.”
“Okay. You maintained a four-point-oh GPA through college.”
I take a minuscule swig from the bottle. This game could last a while. My goal is not to end up so intoxicated I won’t remember it in the morning. “That one was kinda easy. My turn. You did not maintain a four-point-oh GPA through college.”
I giggle, but he makes another loud buzzing sound. “Wrong!”
My eyes widen. “You had a four-point-oh through every year of college?”
He takes a drink and sets the bottle down. “No.”
“I was right. You should drink double.”
“No. You were wrong. I never went to college.”
Oh. “Kinda cheatin’, but okay. Your turn.”
Without hesitation, he says, “You believe in love at first sight.” His eyebrows rise when I don’t reach for the bottle. “Oh, come on, sweetheart. Drink up.”
It’s my turn to make a buzzer sound. Only mine comes out in a croak and he laughs. I laugh too and shake my head. “It’s true. I believe a couple can have an instant physical connection, but that’s not love. Love’s an emotion cultivated over time. It grows with trust, with every touch, every stolen glance, and every kiss, until eventually it consumes you.”
“Hmm… So, you’re a romantic, just not a hopeless one.” I shrug. He continues to laugh, clearly proud of himself. “Your go.”
“You,” I say, poking my finger into his firm chest, “don’t believe in love at first sight.”
His hands remain in his lap. My eyes bulge as I stare at him with my mouth agape. “You’re such a liar. There’s no way the Battle McCoy believes in love at first sight.”
“I don’t,” he says, his voice wavering slightly.
“So, you have to drink.”
A loud buzz bursts from his lips. His eyes narrow as he leans close to me and pinches my chin. “One has to believe in love in order to believe in love at first sight.”
I remove his hand. I don’t know anything about him, but how sad and lonely he must be to feel this way makes my heart ache. “Battle …”
He interrupts. “Don’t! I see that pathetic look in your eye. Don’t pity me. I accept my life for what it is.”
“Don’t you want to share your life with someone?”
“I have a dog.” He laughs, but it isn’t pure. It’s tainted with the truth he’ll never admit.
“Are you genuinely happy all alone? I think it’s sad. And I don’t believe you have a dog.”
“I do too,” he balks. “His name’s Roy.”
I laugh, but more in annoyance than because he’s funny. “Oh, right. Like the dog food. Of course.”
“No, like Roy Acuff.” I tilt my head, trying to remember who the hell Roy Acuff is. I’ve heard the name. “The country singer,” he helps me out at the same time I remember.
“Oh…” I scrunch my nose. “The old country singer,” I say, emphasizing the word old. “My grammy loved him.”
“Me, too.” He smiles.
“Hmmm.”
“What?”
I shrug. “I didn’t take you for a country music lover, that’s all.”
“Why’s that?” he asks, lifting an eyebrow.
His insistent stare makes me squirm. “You’re … Well … Er … you’re not actually a cowboy.”
He looks down, stroking his top lip with his index finger. His jaw tightens as he faintly shakes his head before he asks, “Is that so?”
The expression on his face worries me. I’m not sure what I’ve said to irritate him, but it’s obvious I have. “I didn’t mean to offend you. My friends say you’re not a real cowboy. I guess I let them influence me.”
“And why exactly do your friends assume I’m not a real cowboy?”
“Because you don’t wear your buckles, or boots, or a big hat.”
He draws circles on the hood of my car with his middle finger, tapping the metal a few times before he lets out a loud huff of air. “Not everyone
fits perfectly into a little box. That’s what’s wrong with people today.” His voice rises, but it’s not the volume that alarms me. It’s the agitation vibrating in his tone. “Can’t we accept people for who they are?”
I flinch at his words as they hit straight to the gut. I’ve always thought of myself as an accepting person. Am I? “I’m sorry. I only meant everyone’s a certain type of person and—”
“Type, do you actually believe that?”
“Yeah, of course. We’re all a certain type of person.”
There’s anger in his laughter, but his eyes smile. “Okay, and what type of person are you?”
“I think I’m a good girl. The responsible type. One who makes smart choices and does the right thing.”
He shakes the bottle of Jack. “Says the girl drinkin’ whiskey with a complete stranger in the middle of nowhere. Incredibly responsible.”
I’ve dug this hole unintentionally. Every time I open my mouth it gets deeper. What am I doing here? This isn’t me. “Drinkin’ alone with strange men isn’t somethin’ I do every day. In fact, never. We should probably go.”
I slide forward, prepared to leap from the hood of my Mustang and drive back to Dakota’s. Battle’s grip on my arm stops me.
“No, I don’t wanna go yet. You bein’ here with me is exactly my point. People don’t come with labels that tell ya what’s inside. We create expectations of who we’re supposed to be, and how we’re supposed to act, but eventually, who we are surfaces. We do somethin’ unexpected, like tonight. These are the moments that make us unique.”
I pull my arm free and smile, although it’s small, because I’m feeling like a self-righteous jerk. I know all about those expectations and what it can do to a person who’s constantly trying to attain them, but I also have doubts about relinquishing control. I have to justify my beliefs, or at least I feel like I should. “Or these moments are nothin’ more than bad decisions that lead to trouble and jeopardize our future. And if that’s the case, I don’t want to be unique.”
He laughs softly. “But you are. We all are. You shouldn’t try to fight who you are, or label yourself. We’re always changin’. Conformin’ isn’t nearly as beautiful as soarin’ through one’s own sweet way. Be true to yourself, sweetheart. Don’t live your life for anyone else.”