by Logan Chance
Mom leaves us to get back to her hostess duties, and it’s awkward, to say the least. I think it’s the almost kiss on my front porch step. I mean, if it was going to happen, it was kiss perfect. The vast Montana sky gave us its blessing with a sea of stars. A soft breeze rumpled his picture-perfect hair. I wanted it. Really, really wanted it. And I thought maybe he did too. Apparently, I was wrong. Which is for the best. I don’t need any more negative things printed about me.
We stare at each other, not saying anything. I slide off the stool to platter the pot pies, so I can escape into the crowd mingling throughout the house. As I’m moving the minis to the silver tray, an arm reaches around me to pick a piece of flaky crust.
“You made this?” he asks.
Just like in my fantasy.
I snatch up the tray and spin around, right into his iron chest. The impact sends my perfect little pot pies to an an ugly, steaming mess on the tiled floor.
“Oh no,” I whisper, staring at all my hard work.
“Five second rule?” he asks with a cock to his brow.
I look up at him. “Why’d you have to get so close?”
“Why’d it have to smell so good?” he volleys back at me.
“Because that is what pot pies do,” I hiss at him, stepping over the mess to find a dust pan.
I’m not going to pretend, I’m a little angry. At him, for awakening things I’d rather stay dormant. At myself, for having no self-control. At this whole situation, which has culminated in either eating off the floor or hoping the guests filled up on tiny toothpick meatballs.
“You need to realize the effect you have on people,” I continue, without thinking, “before you invade the invisible personal space lines.”
“Well, so do you,” he bites back.
“Me?”
“Yes, you.” He takes the dust pan from me and brushes up the mess with broad angry strokes and dumps it in the trash. “I’m sure Brody’s cowboy hat doesn’t follow the rules.”
“What do you mean?” I snap at him.
He lounges back against the counter, arms crossed. “Nothing,” he answers.
“Nothing means something,” I counter. “Isn’t that the man mantra?” A little muscle ticks in his jaw. “Well, it’s not like there isn’t other food out there,” I reason. “They can’t still be hungry.”
I mean, Mom served quite an assortment of appetizers we made earlier. Plus, everyone knows you eat something before parties in case the food sucks.
“I’ll take care of it,” he says.
And take care of it he does. About a half hour later, food arrives from Pity Pub. A huge spread of ribs, bite-sized burgers, and a chicken parmesan platter that’s their house specialty. Ethan saved the day, or at least saved the party from being a major flop, which I appreciate. Mostly because of Mom, she has enough stress to deal with.
So, I push back all the anger I’m pretending to have, and all the fantasies as well, and I do something unexpected, because I am an Ethan addict.
“Would you possibly want to come to a rodeo with me?” I ask him when the party is clearing out.
“Rodeo? Is that a real thing?”
“Of course, it’s a real thing. Tomorrow I’m doing a news segment as a rodeo clown.”
He laughs, a rich, hearty laugh. “Now this I gotta see.”
Chapter 15
Ethan
Know the old saying ‘this ain’t my first rodeo’? Well, this is my first rodeo, and we’re here. With dust and dirt kicking up my heels. And the whole place smells like manure.
When Nova first told me she signed up to be a rodeo clown for her news segment, I laughed. ‘Cause, well, she must’ve been kidding.
But, she was serious. And after I Googled what a rodeo clown actually does, I no longer like the idea of her risking her life with a wild bull.
“Nova, this is stupid?”
“Is that a question?” she throws back at me. “I’m just going to run around and show what it’s like to be a rodeo clown.”
She continues toward the camera crew, setting up their gear, as if she’s going to distract a puppy instead of a snorting thousand pound pissed off bull.
I clutch her arm and swing her around to face me. “You know people can die from this, right?”
“Don’t be so dramatic,” she says, which is ironic considering they’ve painted her face to make it look like she’s crying, and the white paint surrounding her full lips turns down into a frown. “It’ll be fun.”
“Being in a ring with wild bulls doesn’t sound like fun to me.”
She’s hard to take serious in her oversized cowboy hat with a red flower poking out the top of her shirt and a baggy jumper with bright patches.
“Well, maybe you’re boring.” She gives me a squirt from her flower, and it hits me as she walks away.
She’s doing all of this because of that dick of an ex-boyfriend who called her boring. I want to hurt a man I’ve never met.
He didn’t appreciate her.
“This is crazy, right?” I ask a local woman standing nearby.
She crinkles her eyebrows at me like I’m the crazy one. “They won’t let her get hurt,” the woman assures me.
She’s right. Yeah, she is. They wouldn’t put her in any real kind of danger for this stunt. At least they better not. If so, I’ll call my lawyer. He’s the best in LA, and even though he’s an entertainment lawyer, I’m sure he can scare a few local rodeo workers into making everything right.
I walk away from the wise stranger, find a front row seat in the metal bleachers, and wait for the show to begin. My foot taps on the concrete. I don’t think I’ve ever been more nervous in my life.
Seriously, what is Nova thinking? These are real fucking bulls with horns. It pisses me off the longer I sit here. I’m not sure why I’m so angry, but there’s no time to psychoanalyze myself, because the announcer enters the bright-lit arena. I listen as he introduces Nova and the other clowns. Everyone hoots and hollers as the clown posse comes out and are projected on a big screen.
I spot Nova and laugh a bit at her ridiculousness. But, it’s her face I’m appreciating: her wide smile and fearless eyes alive with anticipation.
The camera zooms in on her.
She’s loving it, and I calm down for a bit.
They do a silly opening act and then stand facing the crowd as the emcee announces the rider. Shit’s about to get real.
Name of the game is, apparently, they release a wild bull with a rider on top and he hangs on for dear life as long as he can. Once he’s bucked off, the clowns step in to taunt the bull so he doesn’t go after the rider.
It’s all a bit ludicrous to me. My heart pummels in my chest when I see the beast behind the iron gate. A bell sounds, and it charges out stirring the dirt into a plume of smoke.
The rider hangs on to the rope, waving his hat with his free hand. Idiot. I scan the screaming crowd. No one seems to be worried. The man with a death wish hangs on a bit longer, and then thrown to the ground. He’s back on his boots, running, in a split second.
The clowns take off, gaining the bull’s attention.
All except for a frozen in place Nova. I stand.
The chaos plays out in a few seconds. The clowns race around, distracting the wild animal, and it takes the bait. A few of the small group hop over the gate to safety. Nova rushes the wall, but she didn’t get a running start, and the clown near her hops over, and then reaches down to pull her to safety. Before she clears the wall, the bull rushes her.
“Fuck,” I whisper.
One last effort to get Nova up the wall, and before she’s safely over, the bull hits her backside, sending her the rest of the way over. I’m already in motion, toward the spot she landed on the other side.
The show continues on as adrenaline races me toward Nova. When I reach the area, I push my way through the clown wall surrounding her. “Nova,” I say when I find her.
“That was a close one,” some goofy clown says.
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I glare at him. And then I do something I know I shouldn’t, but my nerves are shot.
I grasp the ruffled collar of his silly shirt, fisting it, and slam him against the wall. “You should have sent her over first,” I grit out.
He pulls at my tight grip. “Calm down, she’s fine.”
I push him again, a little harder this time. “She’s not fine, and she should have been the first one over the wall.”
Nova’s cameraman touches my arm. “Mr. Hale, you should let him go.” He nods toward a group of bystanders right outside the tent.
I give one final push, and let him go, turning my attention back on Nova. A medic checks her vitals.
“You ok?” I ask her.
She nods.
“Just a slight concussion,” the medic informs us.
Click. Click.
Paparazzi snap away, and the cameraman’s eyes meet mine. “Get her out of here. I’ll handle them,” he says.
Instead of letting her try to walk, I swoop her up in my arms, carrying her out the back entrance.
It feels too damn good when she wraps her arms around my neck, nestling her head against my chest. I’m sure she can hear my pounding heart.
I don’t say a word as I put her in the front seat of her Honda. Before I close the door, I lean down, pushing a few strands of her blonde hair behind her ear. “How do you feel?”
“I’m fine,” she slowly draws out.
She’s not fine. This need to ‘not be boring’ is getting out of hand.
We don’t talk the entire car ride; my thoughts are heavy and all over the place.
I’m pissed at her, at her whole need to live this unboring life, and in the process putting herself in danger.
I want to beat the hell out of the guy who put these crazy thoughts in her head. What an ass.
When I pull up to her house, I walk her to the unlocked door. When is this girl going to listen to me about locking up? I follow her inside.
“Come on in,” she says after the fact.
“You might need me.”
“I’m fine, really.”
“Nova, you’re not. You could have really gotten hurt.”
“But, I didn’t.”
She shuts the door with an exasperated look on her face, then, goes to the kitchen, opens a cabinet and pulls down a bottle of pills. She downs a few after getting a glass of water.
I step closer, wanting her to realize how unnecessary this is. “Nova, this needs to stop.”
Her eyes search mine. “What does?”
I step even closer, and she bumps up against the counter. “You trying to prove that you’re not boring.”
She pushes on my chest and moves around me. “That's not what I’m doing.”
“Isn’t it?” I raise a brow.
“No.”
“He was an idiot, Nova.”
“Who?” Her voice is a quiver, breathy and hot.
“He didn’t know the real you.”
Her gaze darts to the floor. “I know.”
I tilt her chin back with my hand. “He didn’t get you.”
She looks at me. Into me. Ever felt that pull to someone you’re not supposed to want? It’s like a noose around your neck and you know if you step off the edge, you’ll die. But if you don’t, well, you never fucking lived. Before either of us can say another word, I crash my lips down on hers. And, fuckkk, I was right: soft and silky. So damn sweet.
Unable to restrain myself, I push against her, as my tongue begs for her to let me in. She moans, opening her mouth for me and our tongues move along one another in an endless tease.
She kisses so good. It’s not enough. I need more of her. More and more.
I don’t let up, hoisting her onto the counter to step between her legs so she can feel how hard I am. She grinds against my dick. As much as I don’t want to leave her lips, I have to taste the rest of her. Mark her. My lips trail down her neck, sucking and biting.
“I want you, Nova.”
“We can’t do this,” she whispers, pushing me away.
Her chest rises and falls in tandem with mine. Technically, we can but we won’t.
Tonight anyway.
Tomorrow is another story.
I nod and walk out.
Chapter 16
Nova
Be careful what you wish for, because you just might get it. And then you’re doomed to never have anything that compares. That’s what is going to happen to me. I’m one hundred percent positive I’m going to spend the rest of my life searching for something that comes remotely close to what I felt just now when he kissed me. The odds are stacked against me I’ll ever find it.
‘Come back,’ my vagina cries after him as he walks out of my house without a word.
Still in the same place he left me on the counter, I trace the pad of my finger over where he nipped and licked and ended everything I thought I knew about kissing. Until you’ve experienced the force of what I felt when his lips touched mine, it’s easy to dismiss the notion that there is someone out there that is ‘the one.’
It has to be the concussion.
I slide off the counter and stare at the door he slammed. God, I wanted him so bad. I’m still aching where he rocked his dick into me. There’s so many reasons why I stopped him, but the number one reason is: my heart can’t handle it.
As much as I can try to pretend that we’re friends, or that I don’t like him, or any other scenario I can cook up, the fact of the matter is, I would fall so hard for him. The real him. Not the movie star. It’s easy to fall in love with him on screen, with the idea of what we think he’d be like. We mold and shape the fantasy and leave out all the bad parts—the human parts—but I like those parts of him too.
I move to the couch, pulling out my phone to watch the news segment where my ass was pummeled by a bull. That was probably the dumbest assignment known to date, even dumber than the time I went traipsing through the mountains in bear country, trying to find one.
It’s not their fault; they warned me not to get too close. ‘Just run around for a bit, make a show, and get your butt over the wall before the bull even spots you.’ were my instructions. And that was the plan. But, like all the other plans of my life, it went terribly wrong. It was pretty freakin’ petrifying.
Knowing I shouldn’t, that I’ll only scare myself to death, I pull up Google and search concussions. The first thing I see is the fact you shouldn’t use electronics, and I toss my phone on the couch cushion next to me. Perfect. Now what?
I can’t sit here and think about the kiss over and over, so I drag myself to the shower where I can wash away all my regrets. I get pajama pants and a tank and toss them on the bathroom counter. And then I get a glimpse of my mopey self. How poetic; a sad clown. A tear slides down the painted black teardrops, and I can’t even look anymore.
Or think about this.
But, that’s exactly what I do all night long.
Think about his sexy lips on mine. Think about his hands touching me. I think about what could have possibly been running through his mind while he kissed me.
And then I dream I’m trapped in a clown car unable to breath begging Ethan to open the door. He doesn’t.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
A loud hammering infiltrates my brain.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Oh my god, I’m dying from this concussion. I bolt up and press my thumbs to my temples. I should call 911. Doesn’t matter about the electronics, the damage is done. Now I won’t have to spend my life searching for someone who compares to Ethan Hale.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
This is worse than the time Ethan blared Eminem while he was staying here. I drop my hands and listen. The sound is not coming from inside my head.
Only one person can be causing this annoying sound.
Ethan.
I hop out of bed and dress in shorts and t-shirt at record speeds.
“Have you never heard of sleeping in?” I ask, stepping outside on the p
atio.
I stop cold at the sight before me.
Ethan, no shirt, skin glistening from hard work and the sun hitting his body just right, is on a ladder, tools in hand, hammering away.
My brain short circuits and pulls up hours of footage of construction worker fantasies. I knew he was in construction before the movie star thing, but never expected this is what it looked like.
“Morning.” He smiles down on me.
“What are you doing here?”
“Fixing stuff,” he says, placing the hammer on the ladder and descending each rung slowly.
“What are you fixing?” I cross my arms.
“Your gutter.” He advances until he’s standing right in front of me. “I just need a sex-bolt so I can screw it.”
Why does everything he say sound so sexual? “That doesn’t mean what I think it does, does it?”
“Wellllll, not exactly.”
“I don’t want to know, do I?”
He cracks a smile. “Probably best if you don’t.”
Well this is a really nice thing for him to do, because selling this house will be easier with all the repairs he’s doing, so I let go of the attitude of being woken up before a reasonable hour. “I’ll make coffee, come in.”
He follows me into the kitchen where I block out what happened last night in this very spot and start the coffeemaker.
Ethan doesn’t seem to share my inner turmoil. He moves around the kitchen, grabbing mugs and the creamer for the coffee, as if he’s not half naked. As if last night didn’t rock my world.
“I figure we can go to Home Depot, and I can get a drill to fix your ac unit.” He looks over at me and braces his hands on the counter. The tattoo sleeve on his forearm flexes. “Cool it down in here. You may need a bigger box to fit a nine-inch riser.”
It takes a few seconds to get any words out. “No, you don’t need to do all of that.”
My eyes trail over his pecs, down the etched abs to the small circle of his belly button, and back up.