Chapter 4
Taryn Ledell—Back Then
“You really race Superbike?” Billy said again.
He was blinking at the ground like he was having trouble seeing straight, walking next to me toward the barn they’d designated for the riders’ dance. And I understood exactly how he felt. I was having a hell of a time equating the legendary farmhand-turned-motorcycle racer with the man who’d been so great with all the kids through the Mutton Bustin’: cheering them on beside me until he hopped the fence, helping to dust them off after they ate dirt.
He never took credit for making sure they all walked away smiling or sought any praise himself. He’d even changed out of his black competition shirt and into a pale-green pearl-snap one sometime before he picked me up. No one would ever know he was the guy the rest of the rodeo couldn’t stop talking about.
Still, history dictated that once I told him my real job was racing Superbike, all I would hear for the rest of the night were his best track times on the Moto Grand Prix circuit. Possibly a long list of the ways his motorcycle is technically faster than mine.
Moment of truth.
I squinted into the setting Kentucky sun, soaking up the last bit of heat after the brisk day, and prepared myself for the inevitable undoing of Prince Charming. “Yep, I really race Superbike.”
He fidgeted with his hat and smiled at me again like I was something he’d dreamed and somehow had been brought to life. “I, um, I always like how fast the tracks feel in Spain. Do you have a fav—”
“Jerez, Catalunya, Aragón, or Valencia?”
He slowed and blinked at me some more, then finally unstuck his words from his throat and got out, “Jerez.”
“Always loved racing there,” I admitted. “And Aragón.”
Billy cracked half a smile, kicking at an errant rock in our path. “Yeah, Aragón is fun. But it isn’t exactly Laguna Seca, and we don’t get to go anymore.”
I stopped dead still, my hand on his arm. A very hard, muscular arm. “Seriously?”
He shrugged. “Yeah. We go to COTA in Austin, but that’s it for the United States now. And I’m not gonna lie, I kinda miss that corkscrew.”
I totally got flustered just from him saying that, my mind already imagining him flying over the blind crest that melts into a sand-bordered downhill switchback that is the most fun, most terrifying thing you could ever do on a motorcycle. Other than racing Isle of Man, of course. But that’s practically a death wish.
“I am so sorry,” I told him with full sincerity. “Because yeah, I have a favorite racetrack, and Laguna Seca is definitely it. Specifically because of that evil bitch of a corkscrew.”
Shit, I shouldn’t have said that. But it was too late to pretend I didn’t exactly have the beauty queen lexicon I was supposed to. At least Billy didn’t balk at my colorful answer. His smile went from half-lit to full wattage, the rich depth in his voice swearing he meant every word. “Well, I’m glad y’all still get to ride it then. Since it’s your favorite. And I…well, I really appreciate you coming out with me tonight, Taryn. It’s a real honor.”
A deep blush took my cheeks, not unlike the one he’d sparked when he’d picked me up.
His truck wasn’t fancy, jacked up, or tricked out. It was a few years past needing full coverage and had the dents of a working man. But the floor mats were freshly vacuumed, and an air freshener was hanging from the rearview.
Still smelled like the dirty parts of a farm and some freshly spritzed Old Spice, but I appreciated the effort. And he’d never said anything about cleaning it for me or wanting to make a good impression on our date. No “Sorry about the mess” that wasn’t there, so I’d say “What mess?” and we’d both act like we didn’t know what was really going on. But in so many ways, Billy wasn’t like anyone I’d ever met.
He wasn’t trying to run circles around me like the cowboys at home or even flatter me into oblivion like the guys on the Superbike circuit. He didn’t stare at me in the hungry way men usually watched me, either. Like they wanted to devour me—body, mind, and soul. It was more like how I felt when I saw him rope, like you were witnessing a miracle. And it was making me into something I didn’t know I could still be. Hopeful, trusting, romantic.
I focused on the dirt beneath our feet, walking next to him and fidgeting with the long ends of my hair more than I could help. “You said that already.”
“Well,” he drawled, “I meant it.”
I snorted and took his elbow when he extended it to me, mentally side-eyeing myself for falling for such a sappy maneuver. But there were worse things than sappy. And Billy made me feel like I was experiencing this for the first time all over again. No monsters behind me or in any of my closets, because he’d beaten them to the punch.
It wasn’t true, but it felt like it.
Reality came crashing back when a guy ran up from out of freaking nowhere, planting himself in front of me and holding out his hands. “Miss! Miss, I gotta stop you! You’re making a huge mistake!”
I jerked back, panic climbing up my throat as I clamped the hell out of Billy’s bicep. Fight-or-flight responses waged war inside me, my mind quickly going down the list of things my self-defense coach said to watch for.
But this stalker stuff wasn’t supposed to happen here. I was home, away from the circuit, where no one knew me!
“Mason, what are you doing?” Billy said, lightly tugging on my arm and winking at me.
I locked my jaw shut and sucked in air through my nose, forcing myself to breathe and think. It was possible my paranoia was getting out of control. But there were still the piles of letters at my parents’ house. The threatening emails from strangers and random phone calls clogging up my cell phone. The endless barrage on social media. And there will always, always have been that guy outside my hotel room in London, standing there smiling with a length of rope coiled under his jacket and a bunch of chocolates the police said were laced with GHB.
If my manager, Mike, hadn’t stepped out of the elevator behind me a second later, I don’t know what would’ve happened. Well, I know, but I don’t like to think about it. Too fucking scary.
This guy was a little smaller than Billy, and when I squinted against the setting sun to better see his face, he had the same blue eyes, same high cheekbones, same long nose, and same black hat. Name rang a bell, too. Gotta be the brother.
“Miss, you don’t want to date this guy,” Mason said, the sour stench of whiskey rolling off his breath. “His truck is older than Methuselah, he thinks deodorant and cologne are the same damn thing, I once saw him try to put lipstick on a duck, and he’s banned from going to Applebee’s in all fifty states. Not that it matters, because he’d rather eat chicken nuggets with ranch for every meal if he could. Now, by comparison, my truck actually has power steering and heated seats, I respect the choices of farm animals, I’m only banned from Walmart and Long John Silver’s, and I’m a way better bull rider, dancer, and lover—”
“All right, that’s enough,” Billy growled.
He let go of me and took Mason by the shoulders, marching him off a step as Mason called back, “And the doctors still haven’t figured out what the fungus is on his foot!”
A snicker burst from me, and I clapped my hands over my mouth to cover the sound, praying Billy didn’t hear.
“Git, Mason!” He flung his brother’s hat farther ahead, Mason scrambling after it.
“Dick!”
“Don’t let me catch you drinking tonight,” Billy warned, pointing at his brother’s back.
Too late, I thought. Though Mason was clearly of age… Billy had to be in his late twenties at least, and Mason wasn’t that much younger than him.
Whatever. It was their business.
Mason hooked his hat on his head, then started creeping backward toward the barn, pulling out a flask from somewhere behind him and grinning as he
took a swig. “Whatcha gonna do? Tell on me like when we got busted with Duke Bricker’s Arabian?”
Billy’s spine went rigid. “You were the one who stole it! I was trying to put him back!”
Mason cackled and took another swig like Billy’s words were the furthest thing from the truth. “Sure, Brother. Whatever you say.” Then he turned and disappeared into the barn.
Billy deflated, shifting his weight and clearing his throat when I slowly walked up next to him, doing my best to take in everything said between the two men—and all that wasn’t.
“That’s my little brother.” Billy was looking down, a hand hooked on his belt as his other thumb flicked once at his nose. His eyes were hidden by the wide brim of his hat, and I wondered for a minute if that was why he wore it that way—not overly big so everyone could see him coming but big enough that he could disappear beneath it when he sometimes needed.
It killed me, standing there unable to do anything while his voice replayed in my memory, saying Mason was a better bull rider than him. But especially after meeting the brother in question, Billy’s words sounded more wrong than ever. There wasn’t anything about the junior King that seemed better than Billy to me in any way. Though I had some pretty strong suspicions Billy didn’t know that in the slightest.
I nudged his arm, waiting until he looked at me. “He kinda sucks.”
Surprise lit up Billy’s eyes, but it was more thankful than anything else and just a touch mischievous. I spotted a faint flicker of the gleam I’d caught earlier, right before he’d roped. Because hidden somewhere inside this man, beneath the gentle manners and the country drawl, lived the heart of a racer. A competitor with the singular, driving need to win.
A need I knew so well—too well.
My eyes fell to his lips, thin and modest as they were, and my heart started aching for him to lean over and kiss me, even if just to make himself feel better. Especially to make himself feel better. I didn’t mind, and then we could blow off the dance, and I could make us both feel a hell of a lot better.
But Billy just laughed it off, and he never said a bad word about his brother. “He’s all right. Come on.”
He took my hand and nodded toward the barn, and despite desire cussing at me for not suggesting we sneak off to somewhere more private, I let him playfully tug me along.
“So when did you start rac—” My voice cut off as we ducked under the crepe paper swags at the barn entrance, my breath entirely lost. Not that I wanted to breathe in that moment.
Thankfully, Billy said it for both of us. “Dang, you almost don’t even notice the smell.”
I stifled a laugh, entranced by the decorations that, as Billy so eloquently said, almost covered the dormant stench of moldy straw and horse manure. But strings upon strings of lights were draped across the rafters, mason jars set everywhere else and filled with flickering white candles. A band was playing on a makeshift stage, but most people were busy dancing, with a few couples showing off in the middle.
Billy smiled at me, wiggling his eyebrows for extra measure—dork. “You ready to show these yokels how we do it back in Memphis?”
“Hell yeah.” I held up my hand for a high five. “They have no idea what’s coming for them.”
Billy chuckled, his calloused palm meeting mine. It only took him a second to slip us onto the dance floor, melting us seamlessly into the crowd of folks spinning and twisting, some much faster than others. But Billy was slow, simple, and steady to the country love songs of my youth, his palm lightly cupping my neck under my hair, our other hands tangled together and held over his lower back. Two steps to the right, two to the left, Billy gently shuffling backward and asking me to come along.
“See?” He nodded at himself, satisfied. “Told you I was a great dancer.”
A bright smile lit up my face, taking root somewhere a little lower and spreading out steadily through my chest. My cheeks were almost starting to hurt from him making me smile so much. “Mind-blowing.”
He nodded again, more satisfied, and I couldn’t figure it out. How he was doing everything wrong and backward, and I was totally falling for it. I’d never liked it before—when men would dance with their arm over my shoulder instead of putting their hand on my lower back. It felt funny and exposed and like they were trying to wrestle me or something. But with Billy, it was like he was opening a door for me.
He wasn’t trying to touch me anywhere he shouldn’t. He was barely touching me at all, the slight pressure of his fingertips on my neck telling me which way he wanted to go and teasing me every so often with acting like he was gonna massage his way up into my scalp but never freaking delivering.
The risk was all on him, too. My arms around his body instead of his around mine. Letting me choose whether I wanted to rest my hand on his concrete bicep and keep space between us or hook onto the sturdy swell of his shoulder and bring him all the way in.
He was so…different. And so damn hot.
“You don’t really talk that much, do you?” I asked, already a little lost in the way his blue eyes looked silver under the lights and had never looked away from mine once.
“Well, the way I see it, everything I wanna say, George always says it better.”
My brow furrowed for a minute until I paid closer attention to the song the band was playing: George Strait’s “I Just Want to Dance With You.”
It was so hard not to laugh at the cheesiness of it all, but it was so sweet nonetheless. He paid attention to everything. He listened.
With a firm promise to myself that I wouldn’t get carried away, I slid my hand to his shoulder, bringing him in closer. Billy’s grin grew deeper, our hands tangling a little tighter behind his back. But his eyes were soft and hopeful and still a little like he was waiting for me to vanish into a puff of smoke.
I practically needed a friggin’ cigarette from what he was doing to my body.
Every graze of his fingers under my hair made lightning crackle down my spine, and I desperately craved the width of his whole hand, everywhere. My mind raced with images, my skin happy to imagine the scrape of callouses as he’d grasp my shirt and tear it off me. The strength in his hands as he’d palm my flesh and pull me close, crushing me against hard muscles worn by harder men.
His lips could’ve been my world, his stubble, my galaxy. And in the hot air of the barn, sticky with sweat and sweet with his cologne, I was shivering from each innocuous scrape of his jeans against mine until I couldn’t take it anymore.
I looked away, my heart racing and too much heat in my cheeks, sure he would see. I didn’t act like this: falling for random cowboys just because they smiled pretty on their golden horses, borrowed or not.
I may bed them, but I didn’t fall for them. Not anymore.
Billy shifted a little closer, standing a little taller and touching his jaw to my temple. Need and want burned so hot through my body, I didn’t remember deciding to fist my hand in his shirt or to lean my head deeper against his. But something in me must have known he was exactly what I had given up searching for.
Billy squeezed my hand behind his back, slowly settling my fingers on his belt before he let go. And when his arm wrapped around me until we were still dancing but mostly just holding each other, my battle was lost right then. Because nothing felt like it was supposed to.
I felt so safe, hugging his steel-hard body under clean, pressed cotton. My cheek on his shoulder and my face hidden by the wide brim of his hat, not knowing how we weren’t bumping into everyone around us but trusting Billy to protect me nonetheless.
We could’ve danced forever, and it would’ve been fine with me.
* * *
“I had a real nice time…”
I chuckled at Billy’s words and leaned against my family’s RV, dark as the rest of them and sleepily quiet. “You said that already.”
“Well,” Billy drawled,
“I meant it.”
I laughed again, kinda loving watching him squirm under the Kentucky moonlight and wondering how much he was regretting his earlier promise of “I won’t try nothing.”
I definitely was. He hadn’t tried a thing all night.
We’d danced a lot and talked even more about racing, our horses, traveling, rodeos, and me graduating from Baylor. And he’d bought us some waters, but he never so much as looked at a beer. He’d been a perfect gentleman.
Too perfect.
“Billy?”
His head snapped up from where he’d been fidgeting with his hand, picking at the cuticle on his thumb. The wind was all but dead, the season too young for crickets, and my voice was so loud in the dark air lingering between us. But I wasn’t interested in pretending with Billy anymore; my truth seemed safe with him, and I was ready to hear his.
“What is it you want?”
“Sorry, I don’t follow your meaning.”
“With me.”
He half smiled, half shrugged, looking down and muttering, “Nothing. Told you: just wanted a dance.”
Since we were apparently showing off our terrible acting skills, I let out a dramatic sigh. “That’s too bad. ’Cause I was kinda hoping you were gonna ask for more.”
His eyes lifted to mine, sparkling with adrenaline and a drop of danger that I was impatient to ignite. “Phone number?”
“Sure.”
His smile lit up another notch, a little more crooked and a lot more sexy, and I waited as he pulled a cell phone from his back pocket, unlocking it and handing it over. Not the super latest version of anything and with a well-tested camo OtterBox case around it.
Holy crap, his wallpaper is a selfie of him with his freaking horse? Ha!
“Wait.” I stopped, serious. “You’re not gonna send me dick pics, are you?”
He snorted and looked away, shaking his head and seeming more embarrassed than I knew was possible for a bull rider-turned MotoPro racer. “Damn, girl. I can’t believe you just said that.”
I couldn’t help laughing. “Well? I have to ask now, because unfortunately, it wouldn’t be the—”
Fearless Page 5