by Roxie Noir
“Next,” I say to Edwin when I step out of the bathroom, and he steps in.
I give my elf outfit a good, hard sniff, and decide I can wait one more day to wash it, stuffing it back into the locker. I put on my coat, grab my purse, and head out the break room door and back into Kensington’s.
I pull out my phone as I walk past the makeup counters, nodding at the girls standing behind them, like we’ve all been to war together or something.
Then I frown, because I’ve got about a million notifications: voicemails, emails, texts. Usually I’ve got one or two, maybe, at the end of a day.
Before I can even look through them, my phone starts buzzing again.
JANICE PENN, the caller ID says, and my heart leaps.
Janice is my agent.
I clear my throat, hit the button, and answer.
“Hello?”
“You’re from Texas, right?” she asks, skipping a greeting.
I blink at a rack of thousand-dollar designer coats.
“Yeah,” I say.
“Perfect,” she says. “I got you a gig. Shooting a rodeo for Sports Weekly. You fly out of La Guardia tomorrow morning at six.”
I stop short, my brain swirling.
Sports Weekly?
“Did you say Sports Weekly?” I ask. I’m staring at a mannequin wearing a very sparkly dress, pretty certain that I misheard what she said, because Sports Weekly is a very, very big deal, and they’re not about to hire me.
“I did,” she says. “They’re doing a big story about some hot young rodeo star who they think might turn the corner and be a real celebrity. Jackson Cody.”
The name nudges at something in my brain, but I can’t quite put my finger on it.
Did I go to high school with him?
I did go to high school with more than one guy who wound up on the rodeo circuit, though I’m sure if someone local had hit it big, I’d have heard about it from my parents.
Did my brothers know him somehow? Was he a friend of a friend or something?
I can tell it’s going to drive me crazy.
“They hired someone else, but the poor bastard’s appendix burst and they need someone tomorrow,” Janice goes on. “I sent them your photos of Texas high school football, and voila. They’re offering nine hundred a day.”
“I’ll do it,” I say quickly. “Yes. Definitely. I’ll definitely do it. Absolutely.”
I press my lips together, forcing myself to stop telling her yes.
“Great,” she says. “I’ll email you the plane ticket and everything. Glad you could take the job.”
“Me too,” I say, but she’s already hung up on her end.
New Yorkers, I think. Even after two years here, sometimes I still feel like an alien in this city.
Still standing in front of the sparkly mannequin, I look up Jackson Cody on my phone. Most of the pictures are of a guy on a bull, standard plaid-jeans-and-cowboy-hat ensemble, and I scroll through his Wikipedia page, wait for anything that might trigger my memory.
Born in Wyoming on a cattle ranch, graduated high school, started winning rodeos. Seems to party a lot and sleep around more, which isn’t exactly a surprise.
I flick my thumb over my screen one more time, annoyed that I can’t figure out why this guy’s name sounds so familiar, and I finally get to a closeup.
I freeze like a deer in the headlights, my stomach twisting, Jackson Cody’s ruggedly handsome face grinning at me from my phone.
You have to be kidding me, I think. There’s no way that’s him.
I look up at the mannequin, but she’s no help at all. I close my eyes, like maybe if I give them a break I’ll look back and there will be someone else’s picture there.
I open them. Still the same guy.
Unbelievable.
I put my phone in my pocket, straighten my spine, and walk for the exit of Kensington’s.
It’s fine, I tell myself. I’m sure he doesn’t remember, and even if he does, it doesn’t matter.
You were kids. Now you’re adults, and you can both act like it.
I swallow and head for the subway, but I’m feeling strangely unconvinced. Maybe because the last time I saw Jackson Cody, I acted like anything but an adult.
He’s a big rodeo star who’s notorious for drinking and sleeping around, I think. He won’t even remember you.
I sure do remember him, though.
Jackson Cody is the reason I pretty much don’t drink any more.
La Guardia at four in the morning isn’t any more pleasant than La Guardia any other time of day, though it’s at least a little quieter, since everyone is half asleep and too tired to kick up much of a fuss.
I check in, my heart lurching as the lady behind the desk heaves my camera equipment onto a conveyor belt. The huge, orange FRAGILE tag doesn’t do a lot to ease my mind, but it’s out of my hands.
You can’t control everything, Mae, I remind myself.
The security line is short, and I hand my ID and boarding pass over to the officer at the podium.
He looks at my ID. He looks at my boarding pass.
He looks at my ID again. He looks at me, his brow knitting, just a little.
My stomach sinks, because I suddenly know exactly what happened.
“Can you step over here?” the officer asks, nodding his head to one side.
Crap.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Just wait right there,” he says.
I haven’t slept. I’m hungry. I haven’t even had coffee yet, because I’m at this stupid airport at an ungodly hour.
I feel like a toddler on Santa’s lap, and I wish I could just scream.
Instead, I wait politely, because momma didn’t raise a fool.
After a while, another guy comes over and confers quietly with the first officer for a few moments, then looks at me.
“Your ID and boarding pass don’t match, Miss Guthrie,” he says.
“It was an oversight,” I say, taking a deep breath. “I go by Mae Guthrie professionally, and the ticket was booked by a client who wasn’t aware of my full legal name.”
“What kind of client?” he asks.
“I’m heading to a job shooting for Sports Weekly,” I say.
Did you seriously just say ‘shooting’ at a TSA checkpoint?
“Shooting photographs,” I say quickly, the words practically tripping over themselves. “I’m a photographer, and I’m going to an assignment for some rodeo in Oklahoma. The whole thing was really last minute, I didn’t sleep last night, and I just plain forgot to tell them to book me as Lula-Mae, not just Mae.”
He’s still just looking at me.
“I’ll ask them to change it for the ticket back, but please let me get on this plane,” I say.
I can feel myself starting to unravel, and for a moment, I’m afraid that I’m going to cry in this stupid security line, in front of all these people, all because my parents couldn’t give me a normal name.
“You’re fine,” he finally says. “We just gotta double check all this stuff. Go ahead.”
My face flushes with relief.
“Thanks,” I say.
I get through the rest of security without a problem. By some miracle, the person checking the X-Ray machine has seen a camera before, so they don’t have to dismantle my whole carefully packed case to make sure it’s not a bomb.
Even though I get coffee, I’m asleep before the plane even takes off.
2
Jackson
Out of nowhere, someone knocks so hard on my door that it just about falls off its hinges, and I jump about a foot out of bed.
“Hold your horses!” I shout.
I’m already awake. It’s almost nine and I’ve been waking up with the sun since I was old enough to put on my own boots, so I sit up and toss the book I was reading onto the peeling nightstand of this cheap motel.
I guess I don’t move fast enough, because the banging starts again, and this time the redhead in the
bed next to me finally wakes up and squints at me.
“Lord have mercy,” she whispers.
“I’m coming,” I shout. I stand and look around for a towel or something, because I’m buck-ass naked and I don’t open doors buck-ass naked.
Finally I spot the girl’s cowboy hat on her nightstand and grab it. I grin at the quick memory: her, hat on, giving me a good hard ride after half a bottle of Jack last night.
The thought gives me a half-chub, but I clap the hat over it and crack the door open.
“Are you tryin’ to knock this whole place down?” I ask.
Raylan gives me a quick once-over, thumbs tucked in his belt, and then grins.
“Cock-a-doodle-doo, sunshine,” he says, a shit-eating grin on his face.
“I been up since six,” I say, leaning against the door frame, hat still firmly over my dick. “I got nowhere to be until noon. My itinerary says so.”
“Well, your itinerary is wrong, because you got a meeting with a reporter in thirty minutes,” Raylan says.
“What reporter?”
“Sports Weekly,” he says. “Wayne’s all worked up about it and sent me to come find you and clear the bunnies outta your room.”
Practically on cue, I can hear the girl roll over in bed and sigh.
“Tell Wayne I’ll be out in two shakes,” I say.
“Ten-four,” Raylan says, and I close the door.
I toss the girl’s hat onto the bed and head for the bathroom.
“You gonna be in Sports Weekly?” she asks.
“Guess so,” I say, and close the door behind me.
I take a quick shower, hoping she’ll just leave while I’m in here. We had a good enough time, but now I can’t remember her name.
Did it start with an N? I wonder, soaping up quickly.
Nancy? Nicole?
I’ve got no idea. None of those sound even vaguely familiar, but I’ve always been bad with names.
They ought to just stick name tags to their tits, I think, and laugh to myself in the shower. Maybe then I’d get some of them right.
Show someone walking away and I can tell you exactly who they are by their gait, the way they walk and move. That’s what I’m good at.
Not names.
Nadine, maybe?
I rinse off, cut the water off, and wrap a towel around myself before stepping back into the room, hoping she’s gone.
She’s not. She’s still naked except the hat, and now she’s kneeling on the bed, hands on her knees, eyes a little bloodshot and ringed with last night’s makeup.
“Hey cowboy,” she says. “How about one more round?”
Then she bites her lip and looks at the bulge in the towel.
I shouldn’t. I can’t remember her name and I’m meeting a reporter in fifteen minutes, but I look down at her on the bed, a little worn-out looking but hot, naked, and ready.
My dick’s never listened to my brain and it’s not about to start now.
“I gotta go soon,” I warn her.
She crawls forward on the bed toward me, eyes on my erection straining at the towel.
“I can be quick,” she says, and yanks my towel off, her eyes on my quickly-hardening dick.
I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of the way women look at this thing.
Before we can do anything, there’s another knock at my door.
“Shit,” I mutter. She looks up at me uncertainly, and I hold one finger up to my lips.
Maybe if we’re quiet, whoever it is will think we’ve left already.
The knock sounds again.
“Jackson, I know you’re in there,” a man’s voice booms.
It’s Wayne, the guy who organizes Oklahoma Pioneer Days. He’s ex-military, and while I’d never call him high-strung to his face, he wants things run a certain way.
Having a quickie with a buckle bunny fifteen minutes before you meet a reporter for a major magazine is exactly what Wayne doesn’t want.
“Jackson,” he booms again.
“You gotta get,” I whisper to the girl, who makes a pouty face as I pull on my boxers and jeans.
“Comin’!” I shout, walking toward the door, still shirtless, hoping my pants hide my erection well enough.
I pull the door open to Wayne’s unhappy face. He gives me a slow once-over, arms crossed in front of his chest.
“What in tarnation are you doing in there?” he asks.
“Gettin’ ready to meet a reporter,” I say. “I thought you’d want me wearing pants.”
His eyes travel past me and land on something in the room, and his frown deepens. I resist for a moment, but then I turn and look.
It’s an open, half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels.
“Don’t you ruin this for us,” he says, pointing a finger at me. “Oklahoma Pioneer Days is a family event, you hear me?”
“Absolutely, sir,” I say.
It’s times like this I’m glad I was raised right. I can at least act respectful when I need to.
“That don’t mean start a family while you’re here,” he adds.
“No, sir,” I say.
“Sookie’s in five,” he says, and holds up five fingers just in case I’m unclear on how many that is.
Then he walks away, hands balled in fists at his sides, his spine straight. Still moves like he’s in the military.
The girl peeks her head out of the bathroom and looks at me, then winks.
“I can do five minutes,” she says.
“He’ll have my hide,” I say, reaching into my suitcase for a shirt.
She pouts again.
“Sorry, darlin’,” I say. “I had a real good time last night.”
Natalie? Naomi?
“Me too,” she says. “Don’t worry, I’ll be around.”
She gets dressed fast in her denim miniskirt and fringed shirt, and I shoo her out of my room. Then I screw the cap back on the liquor, pull on my boots, and get on down to Sookie’s Diner with one minute to spare.
Sookie’s Diner looks exactly like a place called Sookie’s Diner should look. Red-checked tablecloths, thrift store knickknacks on the walls, and tons of those kinda-ugly wooden plaques with funny little sayings on them, like Cowgirl up! and Save a horse, ride a Cowboy!
I can get behind that last one.
Wayne and his wife Darlene are sitting at the table already, and Wayne looks meaningfully at the clock on the wall when I come in.
“You’re two minutes late,” he says.
“That clock’s fast, and I’m earlier than they are,” I say.
Darlene hasn’t said anything yet, but she’s giving me a good once-over, like she’s making sure that I don’t have a condom wrapper stuck on me anywhere and I don’t reek of whiskey.
I don’t think I do. No guarantees.
“Sports Weekly is doing a big feature on the Oklahoma Pioneer Days rodeo,” she finally says, lacing her fingers together in front of her.
She’s got a perfect manicure, fancy earrings, and a face full of makeup. It would be easy to mistake Darlene for a glammed-up rodeo wife, but I’ve been riding at Pioneer Days for a couple years now. I know Darlene, and the woman can rope a steer in her own right, no matter how prim and proper she looks.
“Okay,” I say. The waitress stops by with a cup of coffee for me, and I thank her.
Then I watch her walk away. She moves a little stiffly, but I’d be willing to loosen her up.
Darlene clears her throat, and I stop watching the waitress walk away.
“We could be at the center of a perfect storm that makes rodeo mainstream,” Darlene goes on. “Play everything right, and bull riders could be as famous as basketball players.”
I raise my eyebrows.
“And I’m the Michael Jordan of rodeo,” I say.
“Not yet,” Wayne says. “You still got a couple to win before you get there.”
“Think I could have my very own line of cowboy boots?” I ask.
“Don’t count your chickens before t
hey’re hatched,” Darlene says. “You got a ways to go.”
Wayne leans across the table, making his most serious face.
“You ought to take this seriously, Jackson,” he rumbles. “We’re talking rodeo championships being as big as the Super Bowl. We’re talking sponsorships, contracts, gigs doing commentary on ESPN once you retire. Play this thing right, and you’d be the biggest rodeo star of all time, because you’d be the first.”
I take another sip of my coffee. My name in lights sounds nice, but I don’t even know what I’d do with a million dollars. Buy a ranch out in the country, I guess, and then what? Retire?
The concept feels totally foreign to me.
All I’ve ever wanted to do is ride, because there’s nothing in the world like the rush of staying on a bull for those eight seconds.
A couple years ago, I got hurt pretty bad. When I woke up, I realized: this is what’s gonna kill me, and that’s if I’m lucky. I don’t know a single rider over fifty who doesn’t walk with a limp, and there’s plenty worse off than that.
Commentating on ESPN? Doing cowboy boot commercials? That’s for someone else. Someone who thinks he’ll make it past thirty-five.
Wayne leans forward over the table.
“Just act with the slightest hint of decorum for five day,” he says, his voice low.
I glance out the window, trying not to smile.
“That’s not what they’re here for,” I say. “We both know they wouldn’t be interested if I was straight-laced and squeaky clean.”
“Jackson, just be discreet,” Darlene says. Her eyes are like iron. “No loud intercourse in bar bathrooms. No showing your johnson to anyone who asks. No disappearing to Mexico for a day and showing up an hour before you’re supposed to ride, like you did in San Antonio.”
“I won San Antonio,” I point out.
“See if you can win without nearly causing a catastrophe for once,” Darlene says. “There’s a difference between a good story and a scandal.”
“Jackson, all we’re saying is take it down a notch for once,” Wayne says. “Take a girl back to your motel room instead of the alley behind the bar.”