“I'm sorry, baby. I didn't mean to get you upset. I shouldn't have...” I stop talking. I just want to hold her and not let her go, not let her be sad or in pain or anything like close to that.
“Everything happens for a reason, but it was the worst thing I have ever been through. In the end I was stronger because of it.” She held up her arms and examined them. “No scars, nothing permanent. Bumps and bruises heal.”
She isn't crying anymore and smiles a half smile. I'm sure she's trying to make me feel better.
Sure, skin heals...
“I love you, beautiful girl.” I kiss her hair.
“I love you, handsome man.”
We fall into a deep sleep, entwined in a warm embrace.
* * *
Three weeks ago by, and Addison has spent almost every night at the house. Luca is even here most days which Rex seems to really be happy about.
I ended up going to Jeremiah's, and we sat on his porch, talking everything out. I told him all about Gwen, everything she did, including what happened in my bed. He was angry; for a moment I think it's with me, but he explains that he knew she wasn't right for him and that he hasn't seen her in over a week.
I apologize for any problems between us, we clink bottles, vowing to never let a crazy girl get between us again. We talk about Addison and her new job, her brother and his new job, and Jeremiah seems happy to have another helping hand on the ranch.
Since that day a lot of work has been done at home, we're preparing for a busy rodeo season.
Addison is busy at work. She's started on a night shift rotation, so there are times when we don't get to see each other. I miss her a lot.
It's been so different having a woman actually staying at the house. There hasn't been a feminine touch to that place since my mother died, and it feels warm and inviting now. There are even flowers in a vase on the dining room table from Addison's little flower beds at her condo.
“I told Alex everything we need done before Thursday night,” Jeremiah says, closing the lid on the large tack box. I help him lift it into the front of the black trailer.
This weekend is the first rodeo of the season for me in the Rocky Mountain States circuit, and Addison got the time off from work, so the four of us are travelling the one hundred and fifty miles to Cody together.
“Getting nervous, old man?” he jokes, clicking the big steel door shut.
“Nope.” I lie.
Anytime I think about lowering myself down onto a two-thousand pound ticking time bomb I tense, but when I'm actually in the moment, my mind is clear. You have to push every fear out of your mind or your body will give you away, and the bull will feed off of it. Like he's not pissed off enough already.
“Everything okay, love?” I ask Addison. She's been quiet all afternoon.
“Yeah, I'm good, babe. Just trying to make sure I've got everything.” She kisses me and slides on her flip flops.
The drive to Cody takes a little longer than expected, as we stop twice for bathroom breaks. Pulling into gates at the event, I can see Addison and Alex in awe. To Jer and I this is normal, something we've done many times. I forget that we're travelling with newbies.
Everything about the rodeo has been pre-planned well in advance, and we pull into our designated area. We walk around for a while, looking at some horses, and I talk to some familiar faces I've seen over the years. Introducing Addison as my girlfriend, I can see they all approve by the grins on their faces—grins that quickly fade to friendly smiles, as many of them are also standing with their wives or girlfriends, and a few get that “excuse me!” glare or an elbow to their side.
She is a beautiful sight, I can't deny it, and I'm not going to get jealous over the looks from others. As long as they remain looks. I think if someone touched her I’d go crazy and stake my claim over her like some caveman.
If I were a kid, she would be the shiny medal I won at the championship baseball game. I would proudly wear her around my neck, showing her off to all my friends…but not letting them get their hands on her.
Since we're sharing a hotel suite with Jer and Alex, we are respectful and somehow manage to keep our hands from tearing our clothes off when we get into bed.
Alex snores, which keeps me awake so I sneak outside and sit in a wooden lounging chair by the front entrance. I slouch down to look up and watch the night sky. Hours pass—I don't know how many.
A few guys stumble by, helping each other walk in to the rotating glass doors. They're laughing and singing an old country song way out of tune.
“Can't sleep?” Jeremiah surprises me by pulling over a chair to sit beside me.
“Nope. How could you with that racket?” I snort, then turn to face him. “I'm nervous, Jer.”
He looks at me, unsure of how to respond.
“I just feel...” I look up at the sky and close my eyes. “Scared.”
“You've done tons of these, Blaine.” He tries to sound reassuring and shrugs his shoulders. He’s probably trying to understand my fear, but can't really relate since he's never actually sat astride a bull in a chute before. This will be the first of many for me this year; I've got to get a grip.
I don't get much sleep, but I wake up before everyone else. I shower, shave and dress—jeans, boots, a black button up shirt with long sleeves, and my black Resistol hat. My vest and chaps will come later. After everyone wakes up, we have a hearty breakfast of omelettes, back bacon and thick toast, courtesy of room service.
“My, oh my. I don't know if I should let you walk out in public like this.” Addison straightens the collar on my shirt and wipes lint off my shoulders.
“Oh no?” I grin.
“No, but I guess I have to.” She pretends to pout and kisses me, telling me it's for good luck.
She stands with Alex while Jer and I get everything prepared. It will be the first time she's seen a bull riding event, and I know she's nervous for me. Some crew have taken Del Mar, my bull, to the chute where he will wait, very irritably, I'm sure.
“What's the matter, baby?” I cup her face in my hands, searching for something in her eyes.
“Nothing.” She smiles, an attempt to stop me from seeing the worry in her face.
“I'll be fine, I promise. It's over in the blink of an eye. The worst that's happened is I've got a bruised ass for a few days.” I laugh and pull her closer into me. “Thankfully I've got my own nurse at home.”
We kiss. I can feel her body relax in my arms. I am nervous, but I don't dare let it show, especially not in front of her.
Anything can happen in the few seconds when the gate is opened. I've seen it firsthand, bodies flying through the air, landing poorly, and bones broken. Bulls can and will turn if you don't get out of there as fast as possible. Two years ago a guy was gored in his thigh by a bull. Thankfully, it wasn’t life-threatening, but it sure was deep enough that he was rushed to the hospital.
The bull’s anxious, and I hold on to the steel rails while I slowly lower myself down on him. He pounds the dirt, and one of the flankmen smiles at me encouragingly. Del Mar tenses, and I slide my gloved hand around the braided leather, ready for the ride of my life. I've only ever lasted seven seconds on Del Mar—the longest seven seconds of my life, mind you—but my time’s too short to be anything to brag about.
I'm quickly introduced, and in the seconds before we're released, a calm washes over me. I pray to God to keep me safe, keep Del Mar away from me when our bond is broken, and that I come out victorious—and alive.
I slowly exhale through pursed lips; it's time. He jolts forward, and I lift up, holding myself one-handed as tightly as I can and trying to stay dead-center.
Seconds are seconds. They go by too fast and for the regular onlooker, it's over quickly. But for the person on the back of a hurricane in the form of an animal, it's more like slow motion. He whips and thrusts, making me inhale until my lungs can't hold anymore. Everything starts to blur—and I go black.
CHAPTER EIGHT
&n
bsp; When I turn eight my brothers make me a birthday cake that has green, red and yellow icing all over it. It says, “Happy Birthday, B” in shaky writing made of colored sugar. Dad doesn't sing along with them wishing me a happy birthday, but he sits at the table smiling. When the song ends, they tell me to blow out the candles, and I do.
I wish...I wish for...
I don't know what to wish for. What do eight year olds usually want? Dirt bikes, BB guns? I already had all those things because my older brothers got them for presents on their birthdays.
I don't make a wish; instead I open my eyes and blow out the eight white candles. Smoke slowly lingers up toward the ceiling and disappears in the wooden beams.
“Here ya go, my boy.” Dad pushes a box across the table; it's wrapped in black paper with “Happy Birthday!” written in bright neon colors printed all over it. I tear it open. Inside the box is a baseball glove and a hard white ball.
Looking at my dad and brothers, I say, “Thank you.” I smile, slide my small hand into the leather glove. It's smooth and smells like oil.
“I thought you could practice this fall and maybe join the team at school in the spring. I even picked myself up a glove so we can toss the ball together.”
I don't stop smiling, even though I'm really surprised my dad just said that to me. He was going to play catch with me? I feel so happy, and I probably could cry at any moment, but I swallow it down hard and fast not letting them see me.
Owen can't stay long because he works early and needs to get home. Nick, dad and I head outside to play. Aside from Owen leaving too early, this was the best birthday I've ever had.
We toss the white ball, now streaked with green grass stains from all the times I missed catching it. It's dark when I go to bed. Nick's gone home and Dad tucks me in.
“It's hard to believe it's been eight years already, Blaine. Happy Birthday, my son.” He pats my forearm with his big rough hand and sighs.
“Thank you for the presents, daddy.” I roll onto my side. He clicks the lamp on my nightstand off, and the room goes dark. The only things I can see are the little plastic glow-in-the-dark stars and moons glued to my ceiling.
“Good night.” He leaves, and I fall asleep to the faint sound of the television downstairs.
* * *
I feel a familiar tingle on my face, but I can't think of what it is. I must be really tired because I can't open my eyes and see what's going on. Softly and slowly, something presses down and scrapes down my jaw and chin.
Then a cool dampness wipes the same places where the scraping was. Is someone shaving my face? That's exactly what it feels like, but I still can't open my eyes to see. Why would someone be doing this to me while I'm sleeping? Better yet, who is doing it to me? I don't know who would be in my bed shaving my face.
There's a faint low beeping sound, and occasionally I hear soft voices speaking, but I can't make out what they're saying.
I fall asleep again…
It's dark and quiet when my eyes lazily open, just enough for me to see little lights on a machine that blink at the same time as a low beep. I swallow, and my mouth tastes horrible. My throat feels like sandpaper, and my saliva is painful to ingest.
I can open my eyes a little wider to see I'm alone in this room. Am I in the hospital? I can lift my arm a little and see an IV in my hand with a clear tube coming from it. It runs up past my shoulder and is hooked up to a stand letting out tiny drips every few seconds.
Why am I in the hospital? What happened to me?
I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out but air. I am so stiff, but I manage to turn my head to look for one of those call buttons, the ones that alert the nurses that someone in the room needs assistance. I see it; it's pinned to the bed above my head with a metal clamp, and I try to reach with my left arm. It's painful. I'm so achy, but I manage to press the red button and wait for something to happen.
Nothing does immediately, but within a few seconds, a short woman rushes in the door. She's muttering something to herself in a soft voice. She smiles at me while she quickly looks in my eyes with a small light and checks out the beeping machine with the little flashing lights on it.
“Welcome back, Mr. Blackstock. I'm Gloria. I'm going to get the doctor for you, okay?”
I try to speak again but still can't.
“Shhh, it's okay. You're just fine; I'll be right back.” She quickly scurries out, and by the time I clear my throat, she's back with a man in dark blue scrubs.
“Hello, Blaine. I'm Dr. Tyler.” He pulls the stethoscope from around his neck, holds it in his hands and asks me, “Do you know why you're in the hospital?” He leans in, putting each end in his ears and places the cold round piece on my chest.
“You had an accident, Blaine. Do you remember?”
I shake my head.
“You were thrown from your bull in a rodeo here in Cody. You had some minor trauma, something like a concussion, so we kept you to watch your brain activity.”
I am able to open my eyes all the way now, and they're wide with anxiety.
“Wh—” I swear at myself because I still can't get the words out of my mouth. “What...hap...happened?” I manage and exhale deeply.
“Well, from what I've been told, you held on for a while. They don't know whether you were thrown or if you let go, but when you landed, you were knocked out.” I can't remember it happening, but he sounds like he knows what he's talking about, and his expression is very serious. “You've been here for four days. Your family has been, too; they just left a few hours ago.”
My family? I'm mad for not waking up sooner to see them. They must be so worried.
“I'm going to call them right now, okay, Mr. Blackstock?” Gloria touches my hand, the one without the IV in it. She smiles and then leaves.
I reach up slowly with my hand, touching my face. “Did someone shave my face?” I thought I dreamed it but my skin is smooth and soft, so it must have been real.
“Yes, we thought it wouldn't hurt. The young lady said you wouldn't want to wake up looking like Grizzly Adams.” He chuckles while writing something on a paper attached to a metal clipboard with BLACKSTOCK, B. Room 294 written on a white sticker across the back.
“What young lady?” I ask. Maria or Kelsey wouldn't care if I had stubble or not. And they’re not really young…
He stops writing and looks at me. “I believe her name is Addison. Or Madison, something like that. Very pretty, with red hair?”
He looks for any type of expression on my face, and when it's apparent I have no clue who he's talking about, he puts the clipboard to his hip and tells me he'll be right back.
A few hours go by, and there's no more talk of the redheaded girl Dr. Tyler mentioned, just a few random questions by Gloria about what year it was, the month, who the president is and my birth date.
“Two thousand and eleven. May. Obama. September 25, 1981,” I proudly say with a smile.
“Close; it's June. Your family is on their way to see you. Do you feel like you could take a shower?”
Gloria and a guy in green scrubs help me out of bed and into a wheelchair. The guy, introduced himself as Peter, wheels me out of my room and into the brightly lit hallway. Passing a few doors we come to one that says “Shower” and has a tag with “Vacant” on one side. Peter turns it so it says “Occupied” and opens the door.
Inside the room there is small counter to the left, a plastic chair to the right and a shower, with no curtain, in the middle.
“I don't think you'd want me to stay in here with ya, but I have to make sure you can stand before I leave, okay?” He helps me stand, and I feel strong enough that I'm sure I'll manage on my own.
“Thanks.” I'm not even embarrassed when the gown I'm wearing falls open at the back exposing my ass to him; I'm sure this guy has seen everything working in a place like this.
He turns on the shower for me, telling me to take my time and use the call button if I need any help at all.
Closing the door behind him I look at myself in the large mirror above the counter. I look like hell. My hair is a mess and aside from my face being clean shaven, I don't look like myself at all. I let the green striped gown fall to the floor. When I do, it reveals two large, yellowing bruises. One is on my ribs; I lift my arm to see the rest—it's huge. The other is down by my hip, smaller but just as colorful.
The small room is filling with steam as I step carefully into the shower. The water pressure is horrible compared to my shower at home, more like a spritz than a spray. I lather some shampoo from the tiny bottle I took from the counter and rub it through my hair. My fingers graze a lump on the left side of my head, and I wince when I touch it. I remember Dr. Tyler saying I had some sort of concussion; this is where I must have hit my head.
I begin to feel better after my shower, and I wrap a white towel around my waist. It's scratchy, but it will do. I don't put the gown back on, and I open the door and walk right by the wheelchair. I need to get it together so I can get out of this place and back home.
A few women standing at the nurse’s station see me coming and very obviously check me out. I smirk. One turns and nonchalantly clears her throat, acting like she's not eyeballing me at all.
“Ladies,” I growl quietly, nodding my head to them.
When I walk through the door to my room, I see Nick, Owen, Maria, Kelsey and my father standing there. They gasp, and Maria rushes over to hug me.
“Blaine! We were so worried. You have no idea how scared we all were!”
I hug her back with one arm, avoiding my sore side, the other holding the towel around my waist.
“I'm okay. I don't remember what happened. The doc told me though.”
She lets me go to stand back beside my brothers.
“We brought you some clothes, honey,” Kelsey says, and I'm surprised because she's never regarded me like that, ever. “Jeremiah got together a bag for you; he's been worried sick, too.”
Jer had packed me jeans, socks, boxers and a white t-shirt—the guy does know me well. I ask for some privacy while I dress; my dad is the last to leave the room.
“Happy you're okay, my boy.” He hesitates. “Thought we almost lost you.” He closes the door behind him.
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