“Christ.” He lifted his ball cap off his head and yanked it back down. “Is this the way the trip is gonna be? You nagging me?”
“Nagging? Really?”
“Bad word choice. What I meant is, are you gonna keep pestering me to blab personal shit that no one else on the planet knows about me?”
“Yes, Chase, it’s really too fucking bad that I want to get to know you on more than a superficial level, because God knows I don’t have enough of those fake friendships and relationships in my life.”
“Ava—”
“I know it’s harder for you to be my friend—to trust me, to talk to me honestly—than it would be if you just jumped my bones and fucked my brains out. But you’re the one who set the friendship parameters, not me. And friends talk.”
“Can we please just fucking drop it?”
“Not a chance.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Who isn’t being real now? You’re expecting me to change and yet you don’t have to?”
“Didja ever think I don’t wanna put myself in a bad light in front of you?”
Such a self-protective macho man. Chase was so different from the sensitive West Coast guys who constantly shared every emotion, every thought, every bad and good deed. He was more of a loner than she’d first suspected. He held himself at arm’s length—a trait she recognized because she was the same. To get to the real Chase, she’d have to lay herself bare for him. The very thought caused her pulse to skip, but she’d do it.
“Great. First you wouldn’t shut up and now you’re giving me the silent treatment?”
“No. I’m trying to find a way to convince you to trust me. That whatever bad light you shine on yourself, I plan to do the same.”
Silence.
Ava watched the mile markers go by. After they’d passed the fourth one, Chase spoke.
“I wanted that type of experience, hell, any type of sexual experience, but I knew…” He puffed out a breath. “Look, truth is I was a short, scrawny, sixteen-year-old kid. I hadn’t added any height to my boy frame in over a year. Trust me. I measured every week. And every week I came up lacking. You’ve met my brothers. And my cousins.” He reached for his water bottle in the cup holder and took a long drink. “More than one person asked me if I’d been adopted by the McKays because I sure didn’t ‘measure up’ to them. Probably thought they were bein’ funny, and I didn’t have the life experience to give ’em what for.
“The first summer I started sneaking off to rodeos, I figured out I needed weight training. Not only to build my strength as a bull rider, but to change my physical appearance. I convinced myself if I was muscle bound, then maybe girls wouldn’t care so much that I’m short.”
Ava’s stomach muscles knotted at his admission, but she didn’t speak.
“In addition to ranch work, I lifted weights and added daily cardio. The change to my body came pretty fast. No steroids, in case you’re wondering. By the following summer, I’d bulked up and was no longer a skinny teenage boy. After the physical transformation…well, I finally had my pick of the ladies. So I’ve kept up a weight training regimen for the past twelve years, half afraid if I don’t, I’ll revert to that ninety-pound weakling sitting in the shadows with my cock in my hand, just watching.”
Knowing he needed a moment before she responded, she dug out a protein bar and offered him half, surprised when he took it. Maybe he thought it was a peace offering.
“No comments?” he said lightly.
“You took charge of your body because you wanted to. And it changed your life. That’s admirable. I can’t say the same. I let other people’s perceptions and expectations change mine.” She leaned across the seat. But this time she cupped her breasts. “These? Not real.”
Chase’s eyes wandered over her cleavage and up her face. “Seriously?”
“Seriously. I had a boob job two months after I turned nineteen. Wanna feel them?”
His mouth dropped open. “What? No.”
“Sure you do.” Ava snatched his hand and curled it around her left breast, holding it in place. “Because I know you’re a tit guy.”
“Jesus Christ, Ava, what the fuck are you doin’?”
“I’m providing a visual aid with my show and tell.” When he attempted to move his hand back, she circled his wrist with her other hand. “I’m not trying to turn this into something sexual. I’m showing you what I gave up in order to have the perfect Hollywood body and a rack that makes men weep with want.”
“What did you give up?” he asked hoarsely.
“I have very little sensation in my breasts. I went from flat-chested to busty in three hours and as soon as the incisions healed, I went out on casting calls.”
“Did the ah…enhancement work?”
“Yes. I got the first role I auditioned for. And the second. But by the third cattle call, I realized I looked like everybody else. We were clones. Interchangeable. Blonde hair, big boobs, tanned, toned bodies, collagen lips. The only differences were our eye colors, but that could be changed too.” Ava gently removed his hand.
“Your parents…?”
She closed her eyes. “My parents were appalled I’d ‘maimed’ myself. It was awful. Not having their support hurt me so I lashed out, reminding them it was my body, my choice, my life, all that crap. We had limited contact for almost a year. That’s not the worst part.”
“Hey. Ava darlin’, look at me. Talk to me.”
Ava looked at him. “The first time I ended up in bed with a guy after receiving my new gigantic breasts? I felt nothing when he touched me.”
“Could it’ve been operator error?”
She actually laughed and saw his quick smile. “I’d hoped…until the same thing happened with the next guy to come along. And the next guy. Stimulation by my own hand or a lover’s hand rarely does anything for me. So I just…” An honest to God blush heated her cheeks because she’d never admitted that to anyone.
“Come on, friend. Don’t hold out on me now.”
“Well, I am an actress. I learned to fake my response when guys went crazy over my tits.” She scowled. “Wasn’t something I had to worry about with Jake. The fact he wasn’t enamored with my chest should’ve been a tip-off.”
Chase grinned. “Yep. Them shoes and him not bein’ all over you twenty-four/seven were clues you missed.” He reached over and traced the outline of her jaw. “Sad to say, most of the women I’ve been with over the years are interchangeable and unmemorable, so I know clones. And you, Ava Rose Cooper Dumond, are not a clone. Not even fuckin’ close.”
That was one of the sweetest, most heartfelt compliments she’d ever received. “Thank you.”
He refocused on his driving. “We’re about ten miles outside town.”
“Do I go to the contestant area and they’ll let me back there to find you?”
Chase shook his head. “The contestant area is for contestants only. They’re strict about it and have security guards to keep non-authorized people out.”
“So how am I supposed to get close ups of your rides?”
“Doesn’t your video camera have a zoom?”
“Yes, but the footage will be better if I’m closer.” She really couldn’t believe there wasn’t some way around the security rule. “No one gets back there?”
“Authorized people. Stock contractors. Event coordinators. The media.”
That gave Ava an idea. Might take a few days to execute, so she said nothing.
Chase seemed distracted and didn’t speak until they parked at the main entrance to the fairgrounds. “Hang out at the grounds and I’ll find you when the rodeo ends.” He grabbed his equipment bag from behind the seat. “Will you be all right driving around here?”
Ava snatched the keys from him. “I’m from LA, remember?” She squeezed his biceps. “Be careful tonight, Sundance.”
“Always. See you later.”
Chapter Eleven
Chase repositioned his equipment bag, trying not to smack into bystand
ers as he made his way to the registration table. The long line indicated he’d found the right place.
He automatically lifted his hand to adjust his cowboy hat, a nervous habit he’d had his entire life, but his fingertip connected with the curved bill of his ball cap, not his Stetson.
Everything about being here felt damn weird. He glanced around. Looked like the chutes were well maintained. The spectator stands were covered to keep out the worst of the midday heat and the occasional cloudburst. A brand new electronic scoreboard anchored one end. All in all, a nice county rodeo.
The line moved ahead a few feet. When Chase reached for his duffel bag, something struck him in the left shoulder. He glanced up sharply to see the young kid in front of him, backing away, a look of alarm on his face.
“Sorry. I lost my grip and it slid down… I didn’t m-mean to…”
Christ. The kid was barely eighteen and looked scared Chase was going to beat the crap out of him. Chase shrugged. “No big deal. I’m still standing.” He thrust out his hand. “Bill Chase.”
The kid dropped his equipment bag so quickly it missed Chase’s foot by barely an inch. “I’m Ryan, Ryan Ackerman.”
“Well, Ryan, Ryan Ackerman, what event are you competing in?”
Ryan’s face lit up like a firecracker. “Bull ridin’.”
“Yeah? Me too.”
“I’m official and everything.” Ryan fumbled for his wallet in his back pocket and whipped out a PRCA card.
Chase took it, checking the date. The card still smelled of new plastic, as it was only a week old. “Congrats are in order.”
“Thanks. I’m really excited to be here.”
No lie. The kid fairly bounced from boot to boot. Chase grinned. “You have been on a bull before, right?”
He nodded. “I was on the high school rodeo team. Ended up fourth in the county semifinals, but third place is the cutoff for finals so I didn’t get to go to state.”
“You’re here now, that’s all that matters.”
The line moved and Ryan kept a firmer grip on his bag even as he turned around to talk to Chase. “How long you been ridin’ bulls?”
“Officially? About eleven years. Off and on. Off, mostly lately. I decided to hit rodeos this summer to try and get back on track.”
Ryan’s gaze briefly dropped to Chase’s belt buckle, which was the fastest way to figure out if you were in the presence of a champion. But it wasn’t like Chase could wear his Man of Steel belt buckle at these events, so he’d opted for just a plain belt and buckle.
“That’s what I’m trying to do too. In between when I’m working construction for my mom’s boyfriend.”
“A man’s gotta make a livin’. So is your mom here, watching your debut?”
He shook his head. “She’s workin’ this weekend.”
Ryan was at the head of the line. He showed his PRCA pro card, and when the lady said, “That’ll be sixty-five dollars,” Ryan opened his wallet and froze.
Chase stealthily peered around the kid’s arm. He held two twenties, a five and four singles.
Ryan stammered. The woman manning the registration was sympathetic, but Chase knew she wouldn’t let the kid compete without paying the entry fee. Chase took a twenty out of his pocket and let it fall on the ground. Then he tapped Ryan on the shoulder. “Is everything all right?”
When Ryan turned, Chase noticed the kid’s face was fire-engine red. “Ah, sorry, we’re just tryin’—”
“I think something fell outta your pocket when you took out your wallet.”
Relief swept over Ryan’s face when he saw the twenty dollars behind his equipment bag. “Gosh. Thanks. I thought I had enough.”
“No problem.” Tickled Chase to no end to see Ryan’s excitement when the lady handed him his contestant number.
Ryan grinned at Chase. “Nice meetin’ you.”
“See you behind the chutes.” Chase handed over his PRCA card and entry cash to the secretary.
“Ma’am. Is there a section reserved for family?”
“Yep. Section F, first six rows. Seating is first come, first serve.”
“Thanks. I’ll let her know.”
“Good luck.”
He glanced at his cell phone. Two hours before the performance started. He texted Ava the family section info and cut around the contestant entrance. Normally he loved being behind the chutes trash talking with the other riders. But he feared he’d give too much of himself away, so he opted to stretch out, warm up and get his head in the game by finding a remote corner by the pens.
As team roping started, Chase paced along the back fence until he heard a noise that sounded like…retching. He turned the corner and found the rookie, bent over, hands on his knees.
And Chase thought he was nervous? Poor kid. He’d been there. He leaned against the rail and waited until Ryan pushed himself upright. With his pasty-white complexion, the kid resembled a zombie. Chase didn’t say anything, merely handed him a bottle of water.
Ryan slumped next to him. Took a drink, swished it around in his mouth and spat it out. “Thanks, man.”
“No problem.”
“Did you ever…?”
“Barf before I rode? Yep. ’Course, I always told myself it was from something bad I ate or drank and definitely not from bein’ scared shitless.”
That earned Chase a wan smile.
“It’s normal. In fact, I’d think you were abnormal if you weren’t shaking in your boots.”
“Yeah?”
“Uh-huh. But the trick is to use that fear and control it, not let it control you. Make sense?”
Ryan nodded.
“What number you ridin’ tonight?”
“Fourteen.”
“I’m ridin’ sixteen. If you want, I can help pull your rope.”
“You’d do that?” Ryan asked with total surprise.
“Ain’t like we’re competing against each other. We’re tryin’ to best a bull, and in my mind, that puts us on the same side.”
“You’re right, I guess.”
Chase nudged him with his shoulder, or tried to, but the kid was a solid six inches taller than him. “I’m always right. Now come on, let’s get ready to ride us some bulls.”
Barrel racing ended. Most competitors were behind the scene, willing to lend a hand to whoever needed it. Chase watched as three of the first eight riders covered their bull. Then three more.
The kid was quick getting his hand in position and a wrap. An older guy stayed to help and released his hold on Ryan’s vest when the kid nodded his hatted head.
The gate opened and they were off. First thing Chase noticed: Ryan wasn’t spurring much, but he remained on the bull, matching his upper body movements to every jerk and twist. When the buzzer sounded, Chase whooped and hollered with the rest of the riders.
The score boomed over the loudspeaker. “How about a ride of seventy-eight for the PRCA debut of this Nebraska cowboy?”
Not a bad score for a rookie. Not bad at all.
Chase wandered down to his chute and performed a couple of stretches before he secured his headgear. Funny thing was, for as much as he’d initially bitched about wearing the helmet during the training with Cash, he’d gotten used to it.
“Here. Lemme hold it for you,” Ryan said. Once he was set, Chase slipped in the mouth guard and ran through his final mental checklist.
Good seat. Check.
Hips parallel. Check.
Chin up, arm up. Check and check.
Ready to rock and roll.
Chase nodded at the gate man.
They exploded from the chute, dirt flying. Chase didn’t hear the crowd. He kept his focus on adjusting to each minute maneuver the bull made, and somehow, everything clicked into place.
The bull wasn’t a jumper, but a spinner. Or so Chase thought until the animal nearly went vertical. But he gritted his teeth and held on until the buzzer sounded. As soon as he jerked his hand free, he sailed off and whipped off his helmet, squinting
at the scoreboard. Nothing yet. The bullfighter jogged over with his bull rope and high-fived him.
Finally, as he reached the side gate, he heard, “Folks, we have a new leader. Let’s hear it for an eighty-one point ride from Wyoming’s Bill Chase, on the rank bull, Gnarly Dude, brought to you by Jackson Stock Contracting.”
Chase waved to the crowd and disappeared into the contestant’s area, switching out his helmet for his battered ball cap. He leaned against the railing to catch his breath. To replay the ride while it was fresh in his mind.
Isn’t that Ava’s job as a videographer? To provide you with instant replay?
Ava. He hadn’t thought about her in hours. So when someone poked him in the chest hard, three times, he half-expected he’d look up into those stunning aquamarine eyes of hers.
No such luck. Ryan jammed his finger in Chase’s sternum twice more. The kid looked furious. Before Chase could speak, Ryan bit off, “I need to talk to you. In private. Right now.” He stomped over to the corner by the empty pens.
Chase followed. “What’s up?”
Ryan loomed over him. “I’ve wanted to be a bull rider since I was nine years old. So like any kid who discovered a dream, I became obsessed. I watched every bull-riding event on TV. Including spending the last five years studying the riders.” His voice dropped to a fierce whisper. “Did you really think no one would recognize your ridin’ style, Chase McKay?”
Shit.
“I’ve studied your form more than any other rider, including the reigning champs. You’re like my hero…and instead of bein’ happy I finally get to meet you, I’m pissed off that you’re running around here lying to folks. Are you doing this for kicks? You don’t get enough adoration ridin’ in the big league and bein’ on TV every week?”
Chase tamped down the immediate flare of temper. “I understand why you’re upset. But if you truly know my percentages and how I ride, then you also know how bad I’ve been sucking it up. Not just in the last few months, but in the last year. I’ve had a boatload of distractions. Made some piss-poor choices that affected my ability to concentrate.” He sent Ryan a questioning glance. “When was my last good ride?”
Chasin' Eight: Rough Riders, Book 12 Page 13