by Naomi Niles
“Okay, okay, deal.”
The billboards let me know we were getting close and the line of RVs and pickups pointed the direction. Once we got onto the grounds, I saw young women wearing t-shirts with Blake’s likeness everywhere I looked. I snapped some photos of these and would get model releases or blur their features later. I was there for a purpose; to chronicle a day in the life of a bull rider—and one very particular bull rider at that!
Bob and I entered the stands after payment for admission and I splurged and bought a Temple t-shirt for myself. I thought it might make a cute bio photo when I submitted the article.
I did a little research, moving about in the stands and asking people for their comments about him.
“Helluva guy,” said a man in a red shirt.
“Wish I weren’t married,” came from a blousy woman in an orange tube top.
“Shook his hand when he won his first trophy,” bragged an older guy whose face was as wrinkled as a dried apple doll.
“A drunk,” said a guy who looked to be Temple’s age and possible a competitor.
“Why do you say that?” I asked him.
“Because he can’t get on a bull without getting drunk first, that’s why. Afterwards, he’s argumentative and picks fights. Hell, he’s been before the judge a half dozen times.”
“Yeah, what for?” chimed in the man seated next to him.
“I don’t understand,” I pushed gently for more information.
The second man continued, “Hell, him and that judge are thick as thieves. Judge throws a little fine at him and he’s on his way. I don’t know what Temple’s got on him, but it must be good.” I was taking very detailed notes and got a little sick at my stomach at that report.
A black-haired woman in the upper stands was only too glad to contribute. “He fathered my child,” she blurted out.
“Hell, April, you know that ain’t true!” a woman next to her protested. “You was hopin’ it was his so’s you could lay a paternity suit on him. You know as well as I do that babe belongs to Henry.” The woman, April, frowned, her face falling as she realized she had missed her five minutes of stardom. I took her picture, just in case.
There were a few more repeats of what I’d already heard. I settled back down next to Bob and asked if he knew how I could get some background material on Blake.
“The library,” he said in a clear voice.
“Really?”
“Yep. He’s all over it in the papers. He’s just about the winningest bull rider on the circuit and he’s got a heap of problems, too.”
“What kind of problems?”
“Well, what did the others tell ya?”
“Things like they wanted him, that he was a drinker, and one woman said he father her child, but the woman next to her called her a liar on that one.”
“If he didn’t, he could have,” Bob commented, rubbing the back of his neck. “Look, Meli, it’s really not my place to say, but he’s one helluva athlete; there’s no denying that. Is he marriage material? Not like he is. Would take a good woman to break that bull, if ya get my drift. Did he father that woman’s baby? I guess not, but he could have. He gets around, if you know what I mean.”
Suddenly all the wry grins and teasing winks soured in my brain and I saw him as a cowboy version of a Latino playboy in a Queens nightclub. I fell for his bullshit as readily as all those women he bedded. Well, this put an entirely different spin on the story I was there to write.
The event had begun and I sat patiently though calf ropers and bucking horses until the bull portion began. I had to admit that it looked pretty dangerous and the riders pretty darned brave. The riders were coming out alphabetically so I timed it and got up, walking down to the front as though I was going to the ladies’ room, trying to get a more up close shot.
Temple’s name was announced, followed by a litany of awards and achievements that sent the crowd into frenzied clapping. I snapped a few pictures of that in general and then heard the announcer talk about the bull he’d be riding. Evidently, this bull named Cain was considered the worst of the worst. Temple was taking on a killer, literally. The bull had thrown and then trampled two other riders in Oklahoma before being brought to Texas. The association wasn’t even convinced they should allow him to ride. I got most of this by overhearing two old cowboys who were standing near the rail. They were evidently on call in case things got out of hand and the clowns couldn’t handle the animal.
There was a ruckus behind the gates and a collective sound of fear rippled through the stands. Even some of the parents were pulling their children back, as though the animal could leap right into the stands. I had to admit, he was huge. I took as many shots as I could from my angle.
A roar went up as Blake, the Texas version of a toreador, mounted the wood partition and lowered himself down onto the bull. Cain was furious and the handlers motioned quickly for more help. The bull was kicking backwards, splintering the boards behind himself. I knew that pen was trashed and had to feel a bit of admiration for Temple, even if he was a jerk.
The handlers were losing control and Blake wrapped the rope securely once again before nodding to them to open the gate. It was more of an explosion than an opening as Cain burst from his own hell onto the dirt arena. Blake’s face showed a bit of surprise at the bull’s strength and he leaned forward more to keep his seat and give himself a low center of gravity. It was like trying to ride out a typhoon from the hold of a ship. The closer to the source of action, the less whiplash.
A giant, digital clock was ticking off the seconds and just as it cleared six, the rider left the bull. Temple was on the ground, shielding his head from the deadly hooves as clowns and the two men I’d overheard jumped in. I saw there was an armed man with a rifle off to one side. Evidently at some point it could get that bad.
Temple rolled away from the bull and toward the enclosure, then up to his feet and with a quick wave to the crowd, left the arena. His fans were loyal, however, and a roar broke out over the facility. He may not have kept his seat the full eight seconds, but he’d come closer than any man, dead or alive.
The best part was that I’d captured the entire thing with my camera. The words from others had been rumors, but this was proof I had witnessed. As much as I didn’t want to, I had to begrudge a little respect for the athlete, if not the man.
Bob took me straight back to Jill’s and I stayed up all night writing the story and cropping the photos that went with it. I even managed not “not” hear Jill’s current amore as they went at it in the next room. I was very intent on what I was writing and how to best frame it so it would be of interest to the most publications.
I threw together my bio and contemplated how to handle the New York City part. For some parts of the country, that would make a big-timer. For other parts, such as maybe here in Texas, it could work against me. I compromised by saying I’d been born in the city and let the rest become an assumption.
It didn’t take long to come up with a list of possible publications. I chose both daily, weekly, monthly and those that published online with an almost immediate turn-around. I attached one photo, the beginning of the article, and my bio and clicked “send.” Then came the time to wait. Satisfied with my work, I threw a pillow over my head against the sun coming up and the noises coming from the next room, and went to sleep.
Chapter 6
Blake
I laid there looking at the ceiling and wondering why it looked so different. That’s when I knew: I wasn’t hung over. As a matter of fact, I had the clearest head I’d had in maybe more than a year. I looked over and sure enough, the other half of my bed was empty. No girl. I was completely and totally alone. It felt foreign; it felt right. It was like punishment for the failure. I knew my career was over and my fans would flit away to the next big name. Blake Andrew Temple was done.
I tried to think about the woman, Silver. I had no idea who she really was, but the name fit, so I kept using it. She was someone I coul
d get close to, and easily.
My phone rang and I answered without thinking.
“Mr. Temple?” came an unknown voice.
“Yeah?”
“This is Cheryl at the Dallas Cattlemen’s Association. I work in the publications department and we received a submission regarding your ride yesterday and wondered if you’d care to comment?”
“Comment on what?”
“The story, sir, as well as the pictures.”
“What story”
“We received a submission from a writer named Melissa Christian who apparently documented your ride yesterday with photos and a story, including a number of personal interviews and some biographical information about your past. Our editor wanted to check it out before we accepted the submission—sort of a vetting process to make sure the facts are straight before we accept it.”
“Who is Melissa Christian?”
“Sir, we’ve never met Ms. Christian but she claims to be originally from New York City, presently living in the Dallas area, and she’s seeking employment as a journalist. We agree this is a bit unusual, but the quality of the article is very good, as are the photos.”
“Photos? Of what?”
“Well …” her voice fell away as though she was reaching for something. “What she sent were digital shots of people in the stands and then one shot of you, on the ground after the ride, sir.”
What?
“Did you have a comment?”
“Do you have any contact information for this Ms. Christian?”
“Ah, yes, yes we do.”
“I want you to send it to me, along with a forward of that article so I can verify it for you,” I ordered the woman and then gave her my email address. “I’ll be back in touch as soon as I read it,” I promised.
“Thank you, Mr. Temple. Please be aware that if we don’t hear from you by our noon deadline, we will publish the article and note that you had no comment. Do you understand?”
“Yeah. Send it.”
I rolled out of the bed and suddenly the room began to swirl. I cussed and grabbed a bottle, taking a deep, long swig and then waited for it to take effect. I flipped open my laptop, hit the power button, and began buttoning my shirt as I waited for it to boot.
The email was there and it wasn’t flattering. I printed it out, along with the address and strode out to the truck without breakfast. It didn’t matter; I couldn’t stomach it right then, anyway.
I plugged the address into the GPS and let it talk to me. It felt calming, sort of. I was furious. Of all the press I’d ever gotten, it had always been to cheer me on, to proclaim me the world’s best. Now there I was, my first humiliating defeat, and some journalist from New York City made it her business to be on hand and document me as a failure for the rest of my life.
All the hatred I had bottled up for Cain had now found a new form to cling to. This Melissa woman was now the target of every vulgar name I could think of. I would see to it personally that she was ruined—her career was over. She didn’t even have the courtesy to ask my permission before taking the pictures or writing about me. Yeah, I knew that I was a public persona and therefore people were free to take pictures and use them however they pleased. But it was still bullshit and I was going to stop it—now.
The navigator brought me into a run-down neighborhood that sort of reminded me of where I had grown up. I came to a stop before a dilapidated apartment building and threw the truck into park, grabbing the printout of the article on my way. I stopped long enough to determine the destination and took the stairs, two at a time, until I reached the third floor. I found the door and looking once more at the paper in my hand, began knocking loudly on it. There was no immediate answer, although I could tell there was movement on the inside.
I banged again and this time the door opened. To my utter amazement, there stood Silver.
“What the hell?” came out of my mouth before I knew it.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, her hair tussled and her voice sleepy.
In that moment I felt a stirring in my groin as I looked at her. I thought I’d never seen anything more beautiful in my entire life. Her green eyes shot fire at me and brought me back to the present.
“What do you want?” she spoke again.
I cleared my throat and reached deep for indignation. “This!” I pounded the printout against the door. “What the hell is this?”
Her eyes widened and she reached to take the paper from me.
“Explain yourself!” I ordered her, noting that the bottom of her robe had opened and revealed a pair of tanned dancer’s legs. I felt myself go hard and was suddenly lost in the green-eyed silver of the apparition before me.
“Jesus!” she shot back. “Let me see it, and if you’ll quit shouting and come in here before the neighbors start talking …”
“Oh, I’ll come in, all right. But I don’t think this is the kind of place where you worry too much about the neighbors. I believe they have a little diversion of their own to attend to.”
“Get in here,” she took my hand and dragged me inside. Pushing her silvery hair back from her forehead, she began to read the printout and a smile of intense joy broke out on her face. “They got it!”
“Yeah, you could say so.”
“I tried so many, but wasn’t sure if I’d get any bites. And look! My first one!” She was obviously elated about something.
“What do you mean, you tried so many? So many what? Who?”
“I sent that to every publication in the state, praying someone would buy it. It’s my start, don’t you see?” she looked up at me and I was lost in visions of green. “What’s wrong with you?”
“What the hell do you think is wrong with me? You’re out to ruin me!” I screamed at her.
At that point a door opened and a young woman bearing a resemblance to Silver emerged, rubbing her breast and said, “Hey, can you guys keep it down out here. Man, we were up all night.”
“Who are you?” I asked, as though I had any right whatsoever to know.
“I’m Jill—her sister. You’re in my place. Hey … I know you. I’ve seen your picture on billboard and on the news. You’re that horse guy …”
“Bull.”
“Well, I’m pretty sure it was you,” she emphasized, her forehead wrinkled as she tried to remember.
“No, bull! I don’t ride horses, I ride bulls. Big ones. Big ass bulls that can kill someone with one throw of their hoof. Ask your sister. She likes to watch. In fact, she watched and took pictures of me almost getting killed yesterday!” I was so furious I could hardly speak.
“Well, hell, if you don’t want to get killed, don’t get on the damn thing,” was Jill’s response and she scratched her breast again and went back into the room, shutting the door behind her.
Silver was still reading. I stood there, fuming. Suddenly, from the next room came the sound of thumping: a headboard was knocking against the wall. I knew immediately what was going on and this served to add further indignity to the situation.
“Look,” I said to Silver. “I’m going out to the truck—I’m parked right out front. You get dressed and meet me out there in five minutes. We’ll get something to eat and discuss what you’ve done to my life,” I ordered and strode out of the apartment before she could argue with me. And I knew, argue was exactly what she wanted to do.
* * *
At least she had enough common sense to take me seriously and was coming toward the truck a few minutes later. She looked all wild, like a new foal; her long legs descending from short shorts and her hair, barely combed and a bit damp on the top of her head. I leaned over and opened the door for her. She climbed in and was re-reading the printout as she slammed the door.
I grabbed the printout and tore it in half. “You’re not publishing that,” I said firmly.
“What? What are you talking about? That’s my big break! I need a job and that was my only hope!”
“Not at my expense, you don’t. Go w
rite about some laid up cowboy or a jockey or a washing machine repairman, but kindly leave my life alone!”
“Geez, it’s not that bad. You stayed on almost long enough. I was impressed. I saw it. He was as big as an elephant but fast and awfully mean. You’re lucky you weren’t killed.” She was trying to make the event sound better than it was.
“If I’d been killed at least my name would have a hero’s reception today. I’d probably been better off.”
“Woah, you have some sort of death wish, or something? Why do you do what you do?” she asked.
“Never mind that, you’ll just run in and add my comments to your article and send it in again. No, you’re getting out of my business.”
“You can’t.”
“I can’t, what?”
“You can’t stop me,” she said in denial.
“The hell I can’t!”
“Freedom of the press. My first amendment rights. Surely even here in Texas you know something about that!” she was firing at me.
I glared at her. I let the Texas comment go. I knew how she was working this. She’d get me riled up about something unrelated, hoping that I’d forget the real reason I was pissed. She wasn’t going to do it.
We had arrived at the restaurant and I fairly dragged her out of the truck. Inside, we went to the back booth and I pushed her in ahead of me and slid in next to her. I could see the long legs stretched out before us and I had this sudden urge to spread them. I was losing my cool. Hang on, ol’ buddy, I told myself.
“You’re being awfully pushy and rude. I thought you southerners were known for your hospitality and how you treated ladies.”
“If a lady comes in, you let me know,” I slammed her and felt bad as soon as the words were out.
The waitress came and I ordered two of the special and there was a smile on the woman’s face as she poured our coffees. She recognized me. I could always tell.
“Now then,” I started. “Tell me why you did this.”
“You’re making too big of a deal about this. Look, my name is Meli Christian and I’ve just moved down here and am staying with my sister until I get on my own feet. I just graduated college six months ago and I have this degree but nowhere to use it and no way to earn money. Bob, he’s my taxi driver and the father of the bride from the wedding you crashed, oh and he says thank you very much for the money …”