by Vicki Tharp
Jenna said the dress was such a good idea.
Now all I wanted was to get this over with, wanted everyone’s attention somewhere besides on me. Not that they were really on me so much as Hank, but still. I hoped my beer would still be cold when I got back because my saliva had somehow turned to superglue, sticking my tongue to the roof of my mouth.
By the time we got to the railing, the noise level had abated to a dull roar. My ears rung as if I’d stood too close to the speakers at a rock concert all night as Hank scaled the railing and jumped down to the soft dirt. I followed, doing my utmost to keep from flashing the crowd as I scissored my legs over the rail. Then Hank’s hands were on my waist and he lifted me down and we walked to the center of the arena.
I tried not to think about how much I wanted all the people to evaporate and have Hank’s hands on me again.
While he spoke, he kept his arm draped around my shoulder holding me near as if declaring to everyone that we were together. Were we? This time last week I didn’t even know him. Although, with the week we’d had, it was the type of situation where you got to know someone fast—not foxhole-in-the-winter-on-the-Western-Front fast, but between that and college dorm-mates fast—where you learned to trust and depend upon them more rapidly than you might under more normal circumstances.
Maybe that was one of the reasons I was having such a problem with the idea of being with Hank. The close working environment, the stress, the potential danger made strange bedfellows. Even though the situation wasn’t exactly like Iraq, it was similar enough to have me question how much of our attraction was intertwined with the situation and how much of what I was beginning to feel for him was real.
What I did know was that he made me feel like the world wasn’t about to crush me if I stood still too long, that maybe there was more to me than an empty shell. That maybe I had a future.
That maybe my living mattered.
Tears stung the back of my eyes and I forced myself to tune into Hank’s words because no way in hell was I going to break down here in front of God and everybody. As he wound down, he said, “…Last but certainly not least, I’d like to thank all the men and women in the service who fight every day for our freedom. It’s through their sacrifice we can do what we do.”
His words were standard fare for an event like this, but I appreciated the sentiment. Then he paused and cleared his throat. “For our returning veterans, I wish them all the peace, in mind and body, so that they too can enjoy the fruits of their sacrifice…Amen,” he said, his voice thick with emotion.
“Amen.” The audience parroted in a way that made the word feel solemn, appreciative, and heartfelt. I knew I was not the only veteran out there who struggles day to day, but in my heart, his words spoke to me alone. To hear the amen in full body surround, it filled me, body and soul and schnick!—another piece of my soul snapped back into place. Damn him! I couldn’t hold the tears back any longer. People in the stands were too far away to tell, so I let them fall, not wanting them to see me swipe them away.
Shifting his arm so his hand rested lightly at the base of my spine, Hank escorted me to a side gate instead of over the rail and back into the stands. The gate opened into a narrow concrete walled alleyway that led beneath the stands before opening up to the surrounding concourse.
For the time being, we were blessedly alone. The hum of the voices seemed distant and the light breeze carried the aromas of tangy BBQ and buttery popcorn, sweet funnel cakes and yeasty beer. Hank backed me against the wall; the rough concrete pricked me as the cold soothed the skin across my shoulder blades. I closed my eyes for a second and sniffed hard, wishing I had a tissue and waited until the lump in my throat deflated before speaking. “That was b-beautiful. Thank you.”
I heard the faint scrape of his skin on the concrete as he braced his left hand on the wall beside my head; then he cupped my face with his other hand, brushing away the tears with his thumb on one side and kissing them away on the other. His lips were soft and tender as they made their way down to the corner of my mouth, his cheek for once smooth against mine. Just when I was about to wrap my hand around his neck and deepen the kiss, he pulled back. “You amaze me,” he said.
No. That was the first word to come to my mind because what he’d said was so far from the truth the bookstores would shelve it somewhere between fantasy and sci-fi. I was not amazing. In many ways, I was barely alive. For the past year, I’d survived on the edge of society too afraid to connect, too guilty to believe I deserved any better.
Nothing amazing about that—unless he’d meant amazingly self-absorbed, or amazingly unbalanced. I opened my mouth to argue when he placed his finger to my lips to silence me.
“Look at me,” he implored.
When I glanced up, the stormy intensity in his blue eyes held mine and I truly believe he meant what he said. Even if the sentiment was misplaced. I would let him say his piece. I owed him that much for what he’d given me in the arena.
“I’ve seen the way you are sometimes, when you think no one is watching, when I can see your thoughts turn inward, when I can see the ghosts in your eyes. The pain in your soul,” he said.
Gah! My chest constricted, my heart fought to beat and my lungs struggled to suck in air. He needed to shut the fuck up before I completely lost my shit.
I shook my head and pushed my hand against his chest, to back him away, but I’d have had better luck pushing through the concrete wall behind me. Instead, he trapped my chin between his thumb and forefinger, holding me in place before continuing. “I can’t even begin to fully understand what you’ve been through, what you’ve endured, and what you’ve suffered. I’ve had friends who have deployed. Listened to their stories. Sure, they joked around and played it all down, but they couldn’t hide the way it haunted them, the same way it haunts you. So while I don’t know, I have a vague notion. Knowing what little I do, and what little I know of what you’ve been through, it is all enough to tell me what a remarkable person you are.”
If that wasn’t bad enough, if that didn’t have tears burning the back of my eyes and running down the back of my throat, he moved in for the kill. “Putting all that aside, even if you had never served and sacrificed for our country, even if you were the girl next door or anyone else for that matter, what you’ve shown me this week, your tenacity, strength, fortitude, smarts…stubbornness…” he added, with a wry smile. Then he released my chin and tapped a finger on my chest. “…and your heart, make you the most amazing person I have ever met.”
My throat made that loud gulp noise when I tried to swallow, but I don’t think he noticed because he’d already pressed his lips to mine and swept his tongue over the seam. As I opened up for him, a whoop and a holler echoed beneath the stands. We were no longer alone.
“Pretty little thing you got there, Nash. Why don’t you take a step back and let us have a turn?”
The hair stood up on the back of my neck. Hank drew back and rested his forehead on mine. I don’t know how I’d expected him to react, but the slow feral smile that spread across his face was not it.
“Who’s that?” I whispered.
“The men we’re looking for.” When I quirked a brow in question, he supplied, “The Talbot brothers.”
* * * *
Dipping behind the mountain range, the sun cast the stand supports in long shadows beneath the bleachers, like bars on a jail cell, backlighting the brothers. As we approached the Talbots, I recognized the men. Not because I’d seen them before, but because I knew their kind. Arrogant. Bullies. Handsome men, or they would have been if malevolence didn’t ooze from their pores like noxious sweat with the confidence a pack gave a predator.
I use the term men loosely. Male, obviously. Adult, certainly. But more accurate descriptions such as punk, riffraff, and hooligan popped to mind. All four of average height. Dark hair, lanky, and ranging in age from low to mid-twenties if I h
azarded a guess, but their faces were mostly in shadows so I couldn’t be sure.
Hank strolled up to the one on the middle left who had his arms crossed in front of his chest. The other three spread out, like a cat arching its back trying to scare the wolf. As I scanned each one, I knew I could take them. Maybe not all four at once but certainly one. Maybe two if they didn’t pull the fixed-blade buck knives they had strapped to their tooled leather belts.
After the couple days I’d had, the hard work, sore muscles, sleep deprivation, and toss in on top of that a little of the Disney’s Rock ‘N’ Roller Coaster emotional ride I’d been on, I’d almost welcome an asshat-stomping physical release.
“Boys,” Hank drawled out with an all-encompassing nod. I stood a couple feet behind him and to the side so I could see all four of the Talbots at once in case one of them turned stupid, but I doubted I’d get that lucky because one Hank equaled about two and a half Talbots. “Rumor has it you guys were up an’ at ’em early this morning. Makes me curious what kind of trouble you’ve been up to.”
“No trouble,” the man said with a sneer, his tone implying whatever they’d done hadn’t been a bother, and not a denial that they’d been up to no good.
“Where were you and your brothers last night?”
“I ain’t my brothers’ keeper so I can’t vouch for them, but I was at home. Entertaining company.”
“She have a name?” Hank asked because Talbot’s tone made it clear he hadn’t invited the book club over for cheese and crackers. “Or is she the type of company you have to use all of your hot air to blow up?”
“Hey!” one of the brothers protested. Hank didn’t even turn his way.
“You trade in your rodeo buckle for a sheriff’s star, Nash?” Talbot hung his thumbs in the front pocket of his grimy jeans but didn’t wait for Hank’s response. “I reckon she has a name. Never asked. Not there to talk if you know what I mean.”
“What did she look like?” I cut in.
Talbot widened his stance and dangled his arms at his side as if readying himself for a fight. To me, he said, “Blond. Barely this side of legal. Rockin’ body, kinda like yours, but with one of those faces that make ya have to turn ’em ass up.” A brother snorted out a laugh. Hank grunted and his hands fisted at his sides. Then, as if Talbot hadn’t already poked the bear enough the man added, “But that’s okay, Nash. I pictured your girl’s face when I fucked—”
Even though I’d expected it, I hadn’t seen it coming. Neither did Talbot as Hank’s fist pounded into the side of his face. One second the man was standing, the next he was sprawled on the ground, groaning, his hands covering his jaw.
The brothers backed off a step but didn’t rush to aid their injured brother either. “What the fuck, Nash?” one of the brothers griped.
“He was just giving you shit,” another piped in.
Hank flicked a glance at me over his shoulder, his eyes black holes in the fading light, his mouth hard as his jaw sawed back and forth. That old Jim Croce song started playing in my head—something about not tugging on Superman’s cape, spitting into the wind, or messing around with some dude named Jim…or Hank, apparently.
Resettling the hat on his head, Hank held out his hand to me with one eye on the boys. “We’re done here. We’ll leave you three to take out the trash.”
Chapter 11
The stadium lights buzzed and flicked on as we stepped onto the concourse. I waited until we were out of earshot of the Talbots, but they were so busy cussing and scuffling amongst themselves, I shouldn’t have worried that they’d overhear. “Which Talbot did you hit?”
He brought his arm around my shoulder and tugged me up against his side for a few strides as we ambled along. He relaxed as the remaining anger drained from him. The air cooled around us as the sun sank behind a ridge and I welcomed the warmth of him.
“Trevor. Maybe.” He kissed the side of my head. “Not sure, though. Never been able to tell those bastards apart.”
“How’s the hand?”
He reached over and placed his injured hand in mine for a more thorough inspection. His first and second knuckles were slightly swollen and dotted with blood from the abrasions. “’S all right. Satisfaction outweighs the pain.”
I brushed a thumb back and forth over the knuckle and he laughed softly. When I glanced up at him to see what he found so funny, he said, “You’re jealous.”
“Of what?”
“That it was me who hit him and not you.”
We’d stopped in the middle of the walkway, oblivious to the crowd flowing around us, a quick denial on my lips. I mean, that’s not the kind of thing most women admit to on the first date. I scrunched up my mouth and considered my answer. Hank had already glimpsed my darker side when I’d pinned Dale to the café counter, so what did I have to hide? “Would it bother you if I was?”
He closed his eyes, and I wasn’t sure because of all the people around us, but he might have groaned. That can’t be good. When he looked at me again, I stumbled a step back, the heat in his gaze so unexpected. His voice was rough when he spoke. “Only in a good way.”
The crowd maneuvered around us, and people paid us little attention as they worked their way to the stands or the concessions or the warm up arena. Hank leaned in, his lips by my ear. My breath hitched in anticipation because I knew by the wicked expression on his face what he had to say was too private, too intimate to be overheard. “I found it un-fucking-believably hot,” he whispered. “I already want you in my bed. That makes me want to get you there that much faster.”
Ooh-rah! My girly parts stood and high-fived each other as I stifled a groan of my own. You’re a goner, soldier. All that’s left to do is raise the white flag and surrender.
In a way, I was thrilled because it meant I wasn’t dead; it meant I wasn’t dead down there. I didn’t quite know how to respond to that, no one had ever been so, so…direct. Scratch that. That wasn’t true by any means. I’d been propositioned many times. More crudely and directly to boot. To hear it come from Hank’s lips, to see the flash of embarrassment and surprise on his face that he’d said as much aloud, made the admission that much sweeter. Like there was something about me that made him lose a little of his self-control.
Before I could form a coherent response, he tucked me back under his arm—a place I enjoyed being more than was prudent—and said, “Bull riding is coming up. We can head to the chutes, catch all the best action, and maybe find a couple more people on the list.”
Somehow, I managed to nod my assent. Remarkable considering my girly parts hadn’t seen fit to return the nourishing blood my brain needed to have more evolved communication.
As we walked up to the chutes, the testosterone hung heavy in the air like the humidity in south Texas in August, so thick you were drenched in it the moment you stepped out the door. If walking through the gates of the arena earlier this evening was like following in the shadow of a rock star, ambling up to the chutes with none other than last year’s PBR Champion Hank Nash must have been close to what it was like to be Moses in front of the Red Sea. People parted, bunnies and cowboys alike. There were more one-armed hugs and backslapping, handshakes, fist bumps, and so many introductions my cheeks ached from the smile I’d pasted onto my face.
Hank and I settled on the top corner rail of an unused chute next to a man as he climbed down onto the back of the first bull of the night. The bull lurched into the rails as the rider’s weight came down on its back. The chute clanked and rattled. The bull bawled. Saliva dripped from its lips in thick, slimy ropes. The stench of methane and manure saturated the air as the animal flicked feces with its tail in all directions. A small blob landed precariously close to my hand and I scooched a hair closer to Hank.
On top of the noise and the odor ran a high current of excitement mixed with apprehension on an adrenaline hair trigger. All big talk, clenched jaws, and la
ser focus. Not unlike the forward base in Iraq before the unit hopped into the Humvees for a mission.
Then with a terse nod of the rider’s head, the gate flung open, the fella operating the flank strap yanked it tight, and both the bull and rider spiraled out of the chute like a round from a sniper rifle. This close to the action, the seconds stretched. Beside me, Hank juked and balanced, grunting out lungsful of air as if the ride were his. When the eight-second bell rang, the bull squirted right as the rider flung himself to the left.
From what little I knew of bull riding, it was a decent dismount. Of course, I guess anytime you didn’t land on your head was a plus. The crowd roared at the successful ride. I glanced at Hank as a wistful expression settled on his face.
Then at the same time that the smile slipped from his face, his jugular pulsed with the thump of his heart and there came a united gasp from the fans that sucked all the oxygen out of the arena. My eyes shot back to where the rider was high-tailing it for the chutes with the bull tight on his heels.
“Stay put,” Hank hollered to me as he leaped across the chute to the gate, ready to reach an arm over the rail and give the man a hand up if needed. The rider made the leap, his hand reaching the top rail, Hank clasping his hand around the man’s wrist to tug him over to safety as the bull reached gate.
The beast swung his mighty head, his horn catching the back of the cowboy’s leg. There was the bark of the jeans as a ten-inch rent tore the fabric before the bull buried the tip of his horn beneath the protective vest the rider wore. With an almost negligent flip of his head, the beast tossed rider through the air where he landed with a thud twenty feet away.
The clowns danced and jived in front of the massive, angered animal whose muscles bunched and flexed as the men fought for position to release the flank strap. For a few of my rapid heartbeats, the rider was still. Whether he’d lost consciousness, had the wind knocked out of him, or was more seriously injured I couldn’t tell, but blood pooled beneath his injured leg as if he’d been filleted. As the rider began to move, one of the clowns leaped and reached over the animal’s back, releasing the strap. The bull spun one last time, its hind foot landing squarely on the rider’s chest.