by Shey Stahl
I’ll follow you anywhere. Clearly.
I take his hand and let him help me out of the truck. We walk around the back where he puts the tailgate down and then bends down to pick me up, setting me on the wet metal. “Up you go.”
He climbs up there next and walks to the back window, reaches inside and turns up the Zac Brown song I adore. And then he moves, shifting his feet over a muddy truck bed toward me, reaching for my hand.
I take it, again, and he draws my body near. His hands move to my waist, mine to his shoulders. “And wonders if this bed is strong enough to hold us . . . ,” he sings in my ear, altering the lyrics.
I pull back and shake my head. “You never alter Zac Brown.”
He raises his eyebrows in amusement. “Noted.” His chest shakes with laughter as he forces me to lay my head against his chest, his body slowly moving in circles. I listen to the lyrics. “He thinks of Ellensburg and the girl he left behind him.”
I laugh this time, shaking my head that he altered the lyrics again. But it makes me smile and I want him singing to me. His rough voice sends shivers through my body and I tremble against him.
“You cold?” His arms tighten, holding me a little closer. It feels good to be with him like this, my head against his chest, hearing the gentle rhythm of his heart.
I breathe in deeply; the fresh smells of rain and wet dirt invade my senses. And then the fresh smells of Grayer, leather, dirt, ones I’m growing to love. I’ll remember this moment right here, too. I will because while he’s slow dancing with me, the rain starts again. My heart is telling me, remember this, cherish it because it’s going to be a memory I keep, a sliver of light in a darkness that surrounds me at times.
The song switches, but we don’t stop dancing, and Clay Walker comes on next.
I’m not always the most graceful person around and with the mud in the back of the truck and then rain, we slip and then we fall, both trying to right ourselves but causing each other to fall again. “I forgot how slippery this bed gets in the rain. I once broke my wrist back here.” He laughs, but then notices that I’m wincing in pain. “Shit. Are you okay?”
I can’t fight the giggles and break into laughter with him, clutching my elbow that I know is gonna be bruised. He reaches for it, kissing it softly with wet lips. “Better?”
I sigh, watching him. “Your mouth certainly has a way of making me feel better.”
He scans my eyes as the tip of his fingers trace along my cheek until they meet my lips. “There’s a lot more my mouth can provide, you know.” Beads of water drip from his chin and then his eyes sparkle, playful as a smile tugs at his lips, his breathing as heavy as the rain falling over us. “Sex in the rain?”
I blink, trying to see him through the drops. “Are you sure?”
“Definitely.”
I laugh, turning my head to face him. Over his shoulder, I see the clouds rolling in are low, like fog blanketing the valley we’re parked in. His hand raises and wipes down the side of my face freeing it of the rain. He rolls and then he’s on top of me—that buckle digging into my stomach. He winks, remembering, his eyes holding mine like heavy weights. “Did you think about that after I left?”
“I couldn’t stop.” My lashes sprinkle water on my cheeks when I blink, it feels like soft kisses. Grayer’s arms give way and he settles his weight on me, giving me every hard, defined line of his sculpted body. The cool metal of the bed gives me a jolt, adding to the spike in my adrenaline that he’s this close again, something I swear I’ll never get used to.
The rain picks up and I smile, closing my eyes and feeling Grayer’s heavy hot breath warming my skin immediately. Arching my back, he draws back to sit against his feet. After removing my shorts, his hands work my wet shirt over my head and then palm my breasts, rolling my wet nipples between his thumb and forefinger. I moan at his touch, consumed by him and wanting everything and anything he’s going to give.
Pulling against his shoulders, I have to have him now. His lips make a path up my body slower than I care for and I’m eagerly tugging at him, writhing against him. Anything I can do to get him inside me. He seems hell-bent on taking his time and it’s both frustrating and endearing that he wants this to last. It seems anytime we’re together, he’s trying to stop time, slow it down and worship me.
We’re soaking wet in minutes when the rain picks up and his body slides over mine. My head tips back, his hands cradling the back of my head, his mouth moving over my chest to my nipples and then back up again when he enters me with a low groan.
Pulling my hair to the side, he uses his teeth gently against my overheated skin, barely brushing but enough that it sends my nerves over the edge, making me moan in pleasure and shiver with desire.
My legs part, allowing him better access, my feet resting on his jeans that are wrapped around his calves. His muscles flex when he pushes forward, the movement of his hips causing me to shudder. The moment his thrusts come a little faster, my eyes fall shut and I hold him as tight as I can. My hands slip over his rain-soaked shoulder and then raise above my head where he holds them against the metal bed of the truck.
We break apart, gasping for breath in the intensity of the heat surrounding us. He’s eager for more, his mouth parting from mine and moving to my neck. My arms wrap tightly around him when his movements slow down, making this last. Drawing back, he gives me a look I’ll never understand. Starry eyes meet the bluest of days, raindrops from his hair landing on my skin. I close my eyes. He knows what’s happening.
In the back of the pick-up truck as the sun dips down and rain kisses my cheeks, Grayer’s body moves above mine and I slowly slip from like to love.
If a rider slaps a bull with his free hand during a ride, he is disqualified and, therefore, does not receive a score.
We spend a couple days with Wyatt in Decatur and seeing Grayer as a dad, I’m convinced this guy is totally perfect. Moody as heck, but perfect. He’s so tentative and sweet, and his son is just so cute. Wyatt even lets me rock him to sleep one night and it’s like my ovaries tugged and I suddenly wanted a baby of my own. Not really, but he’s the most adorable little boy I’ve ever seen.
We leave for Tulsa on Tuesday with Ty and Haylee, all four of us in Grayer’s truck. When I think about road trips, I had no idea what they’d be like with the four of us, two lost souls and two insane bull riders, traveling across the south. And it’s the best time of my life. He tells me, after we make more detours than we probably should, “Die with memories, honey. Not dreams.”
I get my second tattoo with Haylee. We both get, “Wild Heart, Gypsy Soul” tattooed on the inside of our left wrist.
Parked at a rest stop waiting for Ty and Haylee, Grayer kisses the painful spot on my wrist and whispers, “Blame it on her gypsy soul?”
I laugh. “Or my rebel blood.” And alongside a highway, we take our first selfie together. My hair wild in the wind, his so pretty eyes shadowed by his hat. I laugh and eat a bug. On accident. It doesn’t go down easily. “Goddamn. Did it have spikes for wings?” I ask, choking.
Grayer reins in his laughter and hands me a bottle of water. It’s not that picture I’ll remember. It’s the way his grip on my hip felt and the warmth that radiated through me when he whispers, “I have a thing for dirty mouth girls who run around barefoot.”
I kiss his raw knuckles where he got his hand pinned between the bull he rode in the short go and the chute. And then I brush my fingers over the cut on his cheek where Cochise got him with his horn. “I have a thing for cold restless eyes and battle wounds.”
Sex is definitely on my mind throughout the entire drive. It’s like, all I can think about. I’m nervous to do anything in the truck with him. With only the lights of the dashboard, he sings along to Randy Travis “I Told You So.” I try to resist, but have you ever had someone whisper a Randy Travis song to you?
Exactly.
“You know you want to,” he says, my eyes on his buckle, the gold illuminating off the speedomet
er.
“I do, but what—”
My whisper is cut off by him wrapping his hand around the back of my neck. “The girl I know . . . she’s fearless.”
He knew what to say to get to me. Damn this bull rider. “You’re trouble, Eight Seconds.”
So just outside Little Rock, Arkansas, Grayer’s pulled over for speeding. Might have had something to do with me giving him a blow job while driving, but we won’t admit to it. Especially since Ty and Haylee had been sleeping just feet from us.
Passing through Lake Ouachita, we stop off and camp because Grayer tells me no road trip is complete unless you sleep outside under the stars. He asks me that night if I regret coming. I tell him, “Your heart belongs where your mind wanders.”
Ty gets stung by a scorpion that same night and throws up for a couple days, but is totally fine. Some minor numbness in his ankle, but he couldn’t feel his ankle before the sting. And somewhere along Route 66, Haylee and I sing along to “I Try to Think About Elvis” and find the true meaning behind being wild and free.
To truly find yourself, you need to take a road trip. You need to eat tacos from roadside joints and drink enough Dr. Pepper you think you might vomit. You need your co-pilots singing “Friends in Low Places” at 2:00 a.m. with the windows rolled down and the warm Texas night wind in your hair. You need to get caught in a tornado, hide out in a ditch and then run into an In-N-Out Burger at midnight, soaking wet, laughing and have your first taste of what real fast food should taste like and know that you’ll never ever live in a state that doesn’t have one. You need your soundtrack to be songs like Keith Whitley’s “Don’t Close Your Eyes” and Trisha Yearwood’s “She’s in Love with the Boy.” You need to blare The Kentucky Headhunters until your ears ring and maybe even throw in some Bob Dylan or if you’re Ty, Lil John. You need Ty serenating your best girl while standing in the bed of a truck rocking a fake microphone to “Achy Breaky Heart” with nothing but a cowboy hat, boots and boxers.
You need to chase the sun across the state, never look back, and have the boy you can’t stop thinking about whisper, “Your past won’t follow you on the road,” when he kisses you just before sunrise.
Joe Diffie carried us through Louisiana. Chris LeDoux played when we went over the Horace Wilkinson Bridge, and I can’t hear Garth Brookes’ “Beaches of Cheyenne” without thinking of Hwy 380 coming into Decatur. But it’s at the end of the days, when the two sleepy heads in the back are passed out and the hum of the silence fills my mind and the way Grayer’s lips feel pressed to my temple . . . that’s when I find myself and really begin to grasp that renewal awaits around the bend.
It’s days later and I find myself in Nashville with Grayer. He’s slipped to third in the points and I can tell he’s bothered by it, but he doesn’t say much about it. I sit in the front row at the Bridgestone Arena, a little sorer and smiling. Grayer’s memory burns my skin like the sweet summer kisses he gave me in the rain and all week long. I knew then that I didn’t care if this feeling lasted twenty minutes or twenty years, I’d take it.
He’s edgy today, having slept in late with me and missed a sponsorship obligation he was supposed to be at. Haylee’s beside me, reassuring me everything’s fine, despite Grayer yelling the entire way here about being late. We both look up to see Britany sitting down next to us with Wyatt, the dusty air around us bringing with it stale beer, popcorn, and manure.
Wyatt grins when he sees me, pointing to my necklace he likes to pull on. “Maes!” Apparently that’s my name he’s given me. I’ll take it.
“Hey, buddy!”
To my surprise, he reaches for me and wants to sit on my lap. I let him, as does Britany, like she’s thankful to have her arms free for a moment. After spending one night with the little guy and Grayer, I can’t imagine what taking care of him full-time is like. Boys are definitely much rowdier than girls.
“Ty!” Wyatt screams, pointing to Ty who’s standing on the arena floor, dusting himself off.
“Yeah, buddy. That’s Uncle Ty.” The bull Ty was on came out of the gate strong, but then didn’t perform like they thought he would.
“What are they scored on?” Haylee asks, wondering, when Ty’s score of eighty-one pops up on the screen. It’s a good score, but he doesn’t seem all that pleased with it when he kicks at the dirt. All three of the Easton brothers have been struggling and here we are on the last night in Tulsa and that score could have knocked Ty out of the top ten.
“Style, control. . . .” Britany’s extremely knowledgeable when it comes to bull riding and it’s clear she’s spent a lot of time around the bull riding life. Probably why she’s their manager. “Both the rider and the bull are scored on a ride. Zero to fifty points for the bull and same for the rider for an accumulated score of one hundred. They’re judged on control, rhythm with the way the rider moves with the bull, and whether he stays on for the full eight seconds. If he’s bucked off, he doesn’t get a score. But the bull still does.”
“What’s the bull scored on?” I ask.
Britany takes a drink of the water in her hand. When she’s finished, she puts the cap back on. Wyatt takes it from her, tries to remove the cap. He succeeds and dumps the water on the floor. “They’re judged on how high they kick, how hard they spin, drop to the buck, power on the rider’s arm, belly-rolls, and how many times they change direction.”
It was all a lot of information but helpful. “Do they ever get a perfect score?” I ask, kissing Wyatt’s head. He smells so good, like syrup and graham crackers, that I can’t help it.
“I’ve never seen one. I’ve only heard of a hundred once. Although when Grayer stayed on Asteroid in the world finals to win last year, he was given a ninety-six and that was the best ride I’d ever seen. I haven’t personally seen higher yet.”
I can see his familiar hat by the chute and I smile, his memory once again moving over me when he smiles at me. Our eyes catch, lock, provoking the deepest desires within me.
Wyatt squirms in my arms. “Daddy.” He points his little chubby finger in his direction. “Dat’s my daddy.” I’m learning he sounds a lot like a broken record when he finds something he wants. “Daddy. Daddy.”
See? Broken record.
Grayer stands and throws a leg over the gate. The chute clock counts down sixty seconds as he mounts the bull and grips the flat braided rope, adjusting his bull rope and then rubbing his riding hand with rosin. Three other guys assist him hanging over the side. Sniper rears back, already trying to toss Grayer off him. Grayer grabs the bars, hands struggling to keep from falling.
After the bull settles down, Grayer starts the process of tying the rope all over again. When he has his rope secured, he gives the nod and the chute opens. That’s when I know what’s about to happen. There’s no control in Grayer’s movements and it’s clear he didn’t have a good grip on his rope.
The bull storms out of the chute and twists sideways, kicking up his back legs. Grayer keeps his balance, but I can immediately tell there’s something wrong. He doesn’t have that same confidence in him.
He’s rattled.
Britany tenses beside me, her hands fly to her mouth when she realizes what’s about to happen and hides Wyatt’s face from what’s going on. I hand him back to her, and he twists and turns trying to get a good look at his daddy again.
The bull turns back into Grayer’s hand and that’s when I see it happening in slow motion.
Grayer’s thrown hard into the dirt and lands on his stomach only to have the bull turn on him and come down on his back with his front legs. Grayer screams in pain, and I can hear it from here. He curls into himself, holding his hat with both hands, a two-thousand-pound bull inches from him, bucking wildly.
All three of us jump to our feet as the bullfighters distract Sniper and two more guys help Grayer to safety. He stumbles around, holding his back, but appears alert.
Britany grabs my hand. “Let’s go down there.”
Being their manager is handy beca
use they don’t even bat an eye when she pushes her way into the room where Grayer’s sitting, shirtless, his head in his hands as a doctor looks at his back. I hadn’t seen it from our view, but the bull’s horns had got him in the ribs. Even with wearing his protective vest, his ribs are already purple, swollen, maybe even broken.
“Are you okay?” I ask, wanting to go over there, but he holds up his hand, as if to stop me.
“I’m fine.” His voice is different, tense, cold, detached. His eyes find Britany’s and he glares that she has Wyatt in here. “Get him out of here.”
Wyatt tries to reach for him, crying, “Daddy?”
Britany looks at Grayer and then me, shifting Wyatt on her hip so Grayer’s out of his view. “I’ll give you two a minute,” she tells me, and walks out with her son.
I step toward Grayer. “Are you sure you’re okay? That looked crazy bad.”
“I’m fine, Maesyn,” Grayer says, waving me off. “Just go back and watch the show.” I don’t want to and I think he knows it. “Go.”
He gives me this look that I can’t describe. It’s an emotion more than a look. I want to cry when I see it. It reminds me of when he found out I was only seventeen. He’s mad, maybe at himself, but I can’t help but think maybe it has a little more to do with me being here with him.
Bull riders wear spurs that are required to have dull, loosely locked rowels (the wheel-like part of the spur that comes in contact with the animal). The spurs help a rider maintain his balance by giving him added grip with his feet. The spurs do not cut or scratch a bull's hide, which is seven times thicker than a human's skin.
“You’re okay, man. You’re good,” Reid tells me, trying to get through to where he knows my rattled mind is going.
I’m in pain. Excruciating pain. It’s enough it takes my goddamn breath away and leaves me breathless, searching for any way to make it go away. I don’t want touched, or talked to.