Was it that easy for her to just leave? Pick up her life here in Dillon Creek and leave?
I try to act like I don’t care. Take another bite of my eggs.
It was Calder who told me last night.
I can’t chase her. If she wants to leave, that’s her choice.
Colt laughs. “Why are you still here, man?”
I put my fork down because I haven’t had an appetite since last night. Take a drink of my coffee. Stare down my brother. “Why would I chase her? It’s not my fucking business what she does.”
Colt wipes his mouth, finishes chewing, takes a long drink of water, and says, “Do whatever the hell you want, Case. But if you’re not happy in five years because Tess has gone off and married some dude and has two little rug rats and a great fucking life, remember this conversation.”
Twila stops by our table. “Hello, Casey, Colt.” She looks to me. “Casey, could you stop by my office later? I have something for you.”
“Am I being summoned?” I say, only half-kidding, and wipe my mouth with my napkin.
Twila laughs. “No, nothing like that. I’ll see you this afternoon?”
“Yeah. All right.”
Delveen walks up to our table next. “Colt, a minute of your time?”
“Yes, Mrs. Constance. What can I do for you?”
“Well, The Ladybugs are having their annual Christmas auction, and we were wondering if you’d be so kind as to donate a signed jersey from the MBA?”
Colt smiles. “The NBA?”
“Oh, did I get it wrong again? Your grandmother has to correct me all the time. In fact, she was supposed to ask you, but, well, I saw you and Casey here and thought I’d take my chances.”
“Of course, Mrs. Constance. I’ll give the jersey to my grandmother.”
“That’d be great, Colt. Bless your heart. Thank you.” Delveen touches his shoulder as she makes her way to the door.
Colt looks down at his watch. “I gotta run. Anna and I are meeting at home in ten minutes.”
We stand and throw some cash down.
Merry approaches the table. “How was it, boys?”
“Excellent. Thanks, Merry,” Colt says.
Merry looks down at my plate. “Did you not like your omelet, Casey? I can get you a new one or a box.”
“No. It was great, as usual. I just … don’t have an appetite.”
Colt leans toward Merry. “He’s lovesick.”
Merry nods. “We heard.” She reaches up and touches my shoulder. “Tess left for Ketchikan.”
I roll my eyes. “I’m not lovesick.” I eye my brother across the table. Smile at Merry. “Thanks again, and a box would be great.”
“I told him he needs to follow her, Merry.”
“True love only comes around once in a lifetime, Casey Atwood. I mean, just think if you missed your opportunity and she marries a guy from Alaska and has two kids—or worse, what if she brings her family back here and you have to see them every day? All because your ego wouldn’t let you fall for love.” Merry shakes her head. “A damn shame, for sure. And besides, maybe you two are the missing link, just what the town needs to reunify …” She pauses, knowing what she’s digging herself into. “Anyway, Lord knows our town needs some healing.”
I stare down my brother, smirk, shake my head.
“Anyway, I’ll go get you a box, Casey,” Merry says.
As we leave, I ask Colt what he and Anna are doing.
“Making a baby.”
“No shit?”
“No shit. Yeah, she’s got about a half hour between patients today.” Colt is about to head across the street to the clinic.
I pause. “You’re going to do it … in there?”
“No, dumbass. We’re going home together real quick.”
“Real quick, my ass.”
“Don’t forget Twila’s office.”
I give a nod. My phone chimes with a text message. It’s from Garrison, another bull rider and friend.
Garrison: You driving or flying to Idaho?
Adrenaline sets fire to my bones.
Maybe the drive will help me clear my head. Help me figure all this shit out.
Me: Drive.
Garrison: Meet you there.
If I leave now, I can get there by late tonight.
Instead of going to Twila’s office, I go home instead, pack my bag, and leave for Idaho.
I ease onto Chiseled, who’s fifteen hundred pounds of muscle. He’s angry, and I can feel it with every jerk in the chute. He twists against the gate.
My heart slams against my chest as I push my right hand underneath the rope—the only thing that keeps this beast from tossing me into the air with one single jump. He’s a ranked bull in the PBR right now. Fucking lucky as hell I got him in the draw. Some bull riders might not see it that way. If I can ride this guy for eight seconds, I have a chance at taking the purse, and that would push me closer to the World Finals.
Adrenaline shoots through my body like nails.
There’s a moment between life and death. I ask myself a question every damn time I get on a bull, hoping like hell it won’t be my last ride. The question is, Would you do it all differently, Casey?
And every time my answer is, No.
I’m familiar with a bull. I’m comfortable. It’s what I know, and it’s what I’ve known most of my life. Hell, even before I was allowed to ride bulls, I was riding bulls. I can’t imagine doing anything else. This all comes to me the second my hand is secure.
Maybe I should want something else. Something stabler. Non-life-threatening. Less dangerous and easier on the body. But bull riding is like a cheap drug that goes straight to your veins, gets in your head, and never lets go.
I’ve grown addicted to the adrenaline rush.
I’ve grown addicted to the nerves.
I’ve grown addicted to my own ego, I suppose.
And I’ve grown addicted to the need to be a world champion just one more time.
I want the hard bulls.
I want each and every one of them.
The clock will start ticking the minute the bull breaks the plain—hell, maybe that’s true in life too.
The clock’s ticking, and I’m just begging for another day.
“You ready, cowboy?” Randy, the gate guy, yells.
I nod the single nod that puts my life on the line every time. I know by doing that, I’m just living on a chance.
The chute opens, and the entire arena goes silent and moves in slow motion.
Spin.
Buck
Twist.
Spin.
Spin.
Twist.
Jerk.
Spin.
Jerk.
My eyes are focused on the rope and my hand under it. Bulls are a hell of a lot smarter than we think they are. If I stay ahead of the bull, then he doesn’t get power over me. It’s like a dancing partner—they move, and you follow. Jump for jump.
Eight seconds seems a lot longer than it actually is when I’m on a beast that wants to kill me.
The machine of an animal and its massiveness can’t be described; it can only be felt, as I’m doing as its muscles contract underneath me. When the buzzer sounds, I pray I land on my feet because only on a good day can I reach the fence faster than the bull can.
I land on my feet and run for the fence but not without listening to the crowd explode.
I’d do this without a crowd. But it sure feels good to hear them scream.
The announcer says, “Well, I’ll be doggone! What a ride from Casey Atwood, ladies and gentlemen! What. A. Ride! Let’s wait for the judges’ scores.”
Breathing hard, my ass safe up on the fence, the crowd still screaming, and with the bull safely behind a fence, I jump down. My heart pounding with excitement, I throw my hat in the air. Eight seconds isn’t an accomplishment; it’s a necessity. But riding Chiseled for eight seconds and having a great score are like winning the conference league in sports; it’s not
quite the Super Bowl, but I know I matched him jump for jump. We danced in the arena as if we were old lovers. While it clung to freedom, I clung to my guts.
Garrison runs to me, picks me up, and screams in my face.
Several cowboys, fellow riders, the bullfighters slap me on the back.
Everyone knows it was a damn good ride.
I feel it in my chest. In my head.
The bright lights from the arena make everything more surreal.
I wonder if my dad is watching at home, I think to myself. My brothers? Tess?
“We have a score, folks! Ninety-two points for this cowboy and his bull! Ninety-two! Stan, I haven’t seen a ride like that in quite some time! Hell, maybe Atwood can pull off a third title!”
Ninety-two.
Garrison slaps my back again. “Fuck yeah!”
The crowd is wild.
The adrenaline rush I have right now makes all of this worth it.
The pain in my legs from surgeries.
Pain in my wrists, my neck, my shoulders.
All fucking worth it right now.
“Ninety-two,” I say to myself, bending over and resting my hands on my knees. “Ninety-fucking-two!” I might be sick.
Making my way out of the arena, my head full of nothing and everything, I try to wrap my mind around the last minute and a half of what just transpired.
Pence, Ratcliff, and Bridges, fellow bull riders, high-five me as I toss my rope over my shoulder, just trying to live in this moment for just a few more seconds.
A news reporter shoves a camera in my face. “Casey Atwood, what a ride. Can you tell me what you were thinking when you climbed on that bull tonight?”
I laugh out of truth. “Surviving.”
She laughs like it’s a joke, but it’s not.
“Yes, I’m sure. But when you got on Chiseled, were you working through what you needed to do to win?”
“Not really. Oftentimes, when we think too much, we’re too stuck in our heads, and we’re unable to run on instinct.”
“How many more of these great rides do you think you have in you, Casey?”
“I’m not sure, but this one felt real good.”
“You’re ranked seventh right now in the standings, and most likely, after this ride, you will move up. What’d you do to regroup, knowing that you are riding well and also knowing you just haven’t had a good pick of bulls in the past?”
“I got Chiseled. Enough said.”
“You finally finished the way you wanted to?”
“Yeah, I did on this one.”
“Thank you for your time, Casey, and good luck.”
“Thank you.”
I walk into the extra room at the arena, take off my gloves, shove them in my riggin bag along with my rope. I sit down on the bench and put my head in my hands, trying to collect myself.
My cell phone sounds from my bag.
It’s a text from Cash, my bull-fighter brother.
Cash: What a ride, asshole. Keep it up, and you’ll be back on top.
Other texts roll in, but I only pay attention to the one from my brother, who I haven’t heard a goddamn thing from for some time. I got hung up on a bull about six months ago and broke my wrist. I heard nothing from him.
And I’d never let him fight bulls for me. I’d stick a feather in my hat on that one. Swear my life on it. He’s reckless, irresponsible. Makes split decisions. And yet, here he is, the top bullfighter in the world right now. How the hell that happened, I have no idea.
Me: What fucking rock have you been living under?
I see the bubbles when he starts to type.
They disappear.
They start again.
I throw my phone back in my riggin bag. He won’t text back.
Garrison struts in, grinning from ear to ear. “Hell of a ride, man. Let’s go to Teddy’s, the bar across the street from the hotel, after this?”
“Who’s going?”
“Bunch of us.”
Garrison is a buckle-bunny whore. He’d take them all to bed if he could. All at the same time.
“I’ll think about it. I’m going to go back to my hotel room and shower. I’ll let you know.”
“Dude, you just had a fantastic ride. What’s to think about? You need to celebrate.”
I throw my bag over my shoulder. “I still have to sign autographs on the way out. You done yours yet?”
“Yeah. Got that shit out of the way.”
Every bull rider has to spend at least seven and a half minutes with the fans before he vacates the arena. It’s part of the bull-rider contract with the PBR.
The roar of the crowd is still in my chest. The high I just sat on feels unbelievable. I just need to ride like that two more nights to win the whole damn thing. Celebrating shouldn’t be on my list of things to do. It should be to stay focused. I need a good night’s rest.
I exit a hallway that leads to the outside to a path that’s blocked off for the riders to leave, and the fans are assembled on the right side.
When I walk out, the crowd erupts into cheers when they see me.
I fix my cowboy hat, and I can’t help but smile.
It’s been a while since I had a ride that good.
I sign autographs.
“I’m your biggest fan, Casey.”
“You’re a legend, Casey.”
“Can you sign my boobs, Casey?”
“What’s it like to be on top, Casey?”
“Will you go home with me tonight?”
I come across a little boy, and my heart seizes. I invited them here. He’s got a photo of me on Blaze, a bull I rode a few years back.
I set my riggin bag on the ground and bend down. “What’s your name, kid, and where are you from?” I know his name, but I just want to hear him say it.
“Austin, Mr. Atwood, and Idaho.”
His eyes are wide, and I’m not real sure if it’s from fear or something else. But it takes everything in me not to pull him into my arms.
“My father is Mr. Atwood. You can call me Casey.”
“My mama says it’s respectful to address adults like that.” I hear the Southern drawl.
“It doesn’t sound like you’re from Idaho, Mr. Austin.” I wink.
“Nah, I’m from Texas. Moved to Idaho a while ago with my mama and daddy.”
I nod and take the photo from him.
“I just never met a hero before.”
God, don’t fall apart, Casey. Don’t lose your shit.
In all my years of doing this, I’ve never been called a hero. I’ve also never felt like one, especially for this eight-year-old little boy, and this causes a lump in my throat and takes the air from my lungs. I try to maneuver around his words. Try to allow them to settle inside me, but they won’t. They feel uncomfortable. Because I don’t feel like a hero. I feel like a guy who’s let a little boy down. I feel like a bull rider who’s had a pretty damn good career, doing what he loves. I don’t rescue people from burning buildings. I don’t protect my country. And I certainly don’t risk my life for another’s life.
“I’ll let you in on a little secret, Mr. Austin. You want to be a hero?” But I stop there.
A boy his age needs to have someone believe in his dreams, like my dad did in mine. I always wanted to be a bull rider and nothing else. I wasn’t the type of kid who was a natural on a bull. I didn’t have the God-given talent, but I sure as hell had a hard-work ethic that never slept.
So, instead of telling him to go be the type of hero I thought he needed to be, I tell him, “Balance on basketballs every minute you can. Study the bulls. You know about YouTube?”
Austin smiles and looks confused at the same time. As if to say, Doesn’t everybody know what YouTube is?
Instead, he says, “Yes, sir.”
“Watch all the bull rides you can. Get your balance right. You ride horses?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Ride those too. All the time. And I guarantee, you’ll make it to this
level, Mr. Austin.”
I stand and put my hand out. He puts his right hand out and takes mine firmly.
“Man”—I shake my head—“a great handshake is a good start. It was nice to meet you, Mr. Austin.” The lump in my throat grows as I feel his little hand in mine. My dry, callous, experienced hand to his soft, gentle hand.
He nods. “Mr. Atwood—I mean, Casey, can I ask one more question?”
“Shoot.” I pick up my riggin bag and throw it over my shoulder, trying to act casual.
“You ever feel like you’re at the right place at the right time?”
My eyes meet his. For a moment, I see myself, and all I want is to hold him more than I’ve ever wanted to hold anything in my life.
“Yes, Mr. Austin.”
“Me too, Casey.”
Back at the hotel room, I shower and try to get Mr. Austin out of my head, cleaning my body from the bulls, the dirt, the smell of the arena. With the adrenaline slowly leaving my body, I feel the aches and pains of the ride. My left hip is sore, along with my knees, which will probably cause a bit of a limp later. I think about Tess as I wash my body, remembering her hands and what she used to do to me. I wonder what she’s doing in Ketchikan, Alaska.
There’s a knock on my door, so I jump out of the shower, dry off, throw a towel around my waist, and walk to the door. I look through the peephole and see it’s Garrison.
I didn’t plan on going to the bar. But I know he’ll make me go for a beer.
When I open the door, he shoves his phone in my face. “And now, you’re breaking women’s hearts all across the country. Fucking A, man. You’ve become this overnight sensation.” Garrison walks past me.
“It was a great ride. That’s it. Not everybody and their mother watch bull riding, Gar.”
He throws himself on the bed. He looks up at me. “What? No, I’m talking about the little boy.”
“What?” I take his phone from him and watch the short clip of me with Austin.
Shit. That’s not what I meant to do.
“This shit has gone viral. Look at the bottom. Look how many times it’s been viewed.”
I look down at the number. “Two point five million?”
“And you know half that number are hot moms who are just creaming all over you. And the ones without kids too. Dude, you’re so getting laid tonight. Fuck you, man.”
Saving Tess Page 5