by Roxie Noir
I adjust the lens.
“What about you?” I ask.
“It was always rodeo,” he says. He turns his head and looks toward the arena, a really good shot. “Been hooked ever since I was a kid. It’s all I ever wanted to do.”
“I never really wanted to be a lawyer,” I say. “I just wanted... I don’t know. I wanted more than Lawton had to offer.”
Jackson nods.
“When I’m not traveling I live in a trailer on my parents’ ranch,” he says. “It rattles like hell in the wind and freezes in the winter and leaks in the rain.”
“Haven’t you won enough to get something better?” I ask.
“Sure,” he says. “Most of my friends from home have settled down. They all married their high school sweethearts and now they’ve got two kids and a dog and a mortgage in Sawtooth.”
Sawtooth is his hometown, in the middle of nowhere, Wyoming.
“But you wanted more?” I ask.
He runs a hand through his hair. I shoot it.
“I don’t know if I wanted more, exactly,” he says. “Just different. Now I wonder if I’m stuck in the exact same kind of holding pattern that got them.”
“Jackson, you’re about to become the biggest star the rodeo world’s ever seen,” I say.
“Maybe,” he says.
“Maybe,” I say. “But a week and a half from now, your face is gonna be on newsstands from California to New York City. Is that different enough for you?”
“I think so,” he says, and then leans against the wall of the chute, crossing his arms in front of himself. “But the closer I get, the more I wonder if I should have just married Cassie, settled down, gotten work on a ranch. Have a steady, quiet life.”
“Who’s Cassie?” I ask.
“High school sweetheart,” he says. “She’s married now, two kids and one on the way. At least, that’s what my mom says. Mom gives me lots of Cassie updates.”
“She think you should have married Cassie?”
I adjust the exposure and snap two more, holding my breath. My stomach squirms, and I ignore the twinge of jealousy.
“She thinks I should have done anything that wasn’t riding bulls,” Jackson says.
“Understandable,” I say.
There’s a moment of silence. Jackson’s looking at the arena and I’m looking at him, trying to be objective, but between the light, the way he moves, and his perfect handsome face, I’m also just staring.
“I feel that too,” I admit. “I go home and my friends are getting married, having kids, and I see them and think, what does that feel like? To be satisfied with what you’ve got and not always be reaching for the next thing?”
Jackson looks over at me, face serious, arms crossed.
“Are you asking me?” he says.
“No,” I say. “I don’t think you know either.”
He just smiles and ducks his head.
“You got me,” he says.
“I don’t think you’d be happier with two kids, a wife, and a job,” I say softly. “I think you’d be wondering what would have happened if you’d given this a shot.”
Far away, the gate creaks open. We stare at each other, wide-eyed.
“Go,” he says, his voice low. “I’ll cover for you.”
My heart skips a beat, but then it thunders back. I shake my head.
“Face the arena and grab the gate,” I say. “We’re having a photoshoot.”
He does it. I snap away blindly, and then a few moments later, I see another man rounding the corner.
“You’re still here?” Wayne’s voice says.
“Jackson came by, so I decided to get a few shots before tomorrow,” I say.
“Jackson’s here?” Wayne asks.
I point into the bucking chute.
“Hey Wayne,” Jackson calls out. “I think I ought to hire her for my nudie calendar.”
Wayne rolls his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he says to me. “He swore he’d behave.”
I can barely keep the smile off my face.
“He’s all bark and no bite,” I tell Wayne. Wayne peeks into the chute and Jackson waves.
“Watch yourself,” Wayne tells him.
“On it,” Jackson says, grinning.
Wayne nods at me again.
“Have a good night,” he says.
He walks off, around the arena, out of sight. I snap a few more photos.
“We should go,” I tell Jackson once Wayne’s out of earshot, and start putting my equipment away.
Jackson saunters out of the chute.
“No bite?” he says. His hazel eyes are flashing, and I laugh.
“I can show you bite,” he says, his voice lowering to a dangerous register.
I lift my camera bag to my shoulder, glance after Wayne, and then give Jackson a quick but hard kiss.
“I know,” I say.
The next day goes by in a rush. It’s the last day of the festival and so everything feels like it’s amped up to eleven. There’s a sold-out, stuffed-to-the-gills crowd, and they’re tipsy and loud. After the rodeo there’s going to be fireworks, a concert, the whole shebang.
I’m just hoping it’ll be enough distraction for Jackson and I to sneak off somewhere. I’m forcing myself not to think about the fact that it’s going to be the last time, because this is not a relationship, this is casual sex, our worlds can never meet, he lives in a trailer in Wyoming and I live in Brooklyn. Et cetera, et cetera.
Hell, I almost forgot that this is his big night.
He’s riding Crash Junction, the only undefeated bull left in the country. Already this week, Crash threw one cowboy in three seconds and one in two. He’s notorious, and the crowd’s amped up.
Jackson doesn’t even need to ride him. Unless everyone else stays on their bulls and gets super-high scores, he’s headed for the Rodeo World Finals next month. If he does half-decently tonight, he’s probably going to finish Pioneer Days in first place.
I also try not to think about the buckle bunnies who’ll be lining up for him.
As we’re waiting for the bull riding to start, Bruce and I are standing in the press area. It’s more crowded than usual tonight — there’s a news crew, a couple papers, and even a rodeo blogger — but it’s still a welcome relief from the press of the crowd.
“Are you missing any shots?” Bruce asks.
I shake my head.
“I don’t think so,” I say. “I went through everything last night, so I think I’m good.”
He nods.
“I hate this part,” he confesses. “It’s like packing, when you think you’ve got everything you need, and then you show up on vacation and you’ve forgotten to pack any socks, except you can’t just go to the drugstore and buy a really good quote.”
I laugh.
“You can at least sort of make those up,” I say. “I get the perfect moment, but someone moves? Forget it. Gone forever.”
“That’s why I stick to writing,” Bruce says, and smiles. “It’s a little less dependent on outside conditions.”
After three days of being together most of the time, I think we might be having a personal conversation.
“Alriiiiiiight ladies and gentlemen!” booms the announcer, his voice thundering over the arena speakers.
Everyone in the stands cheers.
“Are you all ready for the final night of Oklahoma Pioneer Days?” he asks.
They are. Loudly, they are.
“I said, are you ready?” the announcer asks, and everyone screams, claps, cheers, stomps.
It goes on like that until the bull riding finally starts. The first cowboy’s bull runs out of the gate and throws him right away. Poor guy doesn’t even make it a second, and Bruce shakes his head next to me.
“The last night’s always rough,” he says. “They’re tired out and sore.”
Somehow, that hadn’t occurred to me. I’m starting to wonder at the luck of Jackson pulling the hardest bull tonight.
More cowboys ride. The knot in my stomach clenches as most of them get thrown, and fast. I watch man after man limp off, and now more than ever, I’m realizing how much this sport breaks the people who love it. I’m certain they all have stories like Jackson’s: compound fractures, shattered bones, pins and plates everywhere.
The crowd can’t get enough, though. The more men get thrown, the more they cheer.
Finally, Jackson’s next. When the announcer says his name, everyone in the stands screams. My heart pounds. My palms get sweaty.
I want him to stay safe and unhurt, of course. But more than that I want him to win, to ride this bull that no one else has, because I get it. I get wanting something.
By my side, hidden from Bruce, I cross my fingers. Even that feels wild and daring.
“This ought to be good,” Bruce says, leaning against the barrier.
Crash Junction is in the chute, and with a flush of embarrassment I realize it’s the one where we were last night.
No one knows, I tell myself. Calm down.
I think of Jackson saying you’re gonna be the death of me, his lips against my neck. His voice gentle and teasing. I force myself not to smile, even as a bolt of heat flows through me.
Crash is already jumpy and angry, butting his head at the gate. Jackson’s on top of the wall, and for a moment, he straddles it and looks at Crash, like he’s taking the full measure of the animal.
Then he jumps on. Crash Junction lurches, and Jackson laughs as he tightens his rope. He pats Crash on his shoulders and says something to the animal, and the cowboys standing just outside the chute laugh.
I feel like there’s a boulder on my chest, pressing down. I think of Jackson’s scars. Of his lucky tattoo. I realize I never wished him good luck for this match.
Good luck, I think. I bite my lip so I don’t say it out loud.
At the last second Jackson looks over at me, a smile around his eyes. I wish I could jump up and down and scream for him, but I can’t so I just stand there.
The gate opens.
For a moment, Crash Junction doesn’t move.
Then he barrels out, suddenly going top speed before he lurches to a stop, shaking his back from side to side. He leaps in the air, kicking his hind legs and plunging his forelegs to the ground and he hasn’t any sooner landed then he’s leaping again, twisting, spinning.
I hardly know the first thing about rodeo bulls, and even I can tell why Crash Junction is notorious. It doesn’t take an expert to know that this bull is dangerous, way more difficult than any I’ve seen yet.
I’ve got my thumb on the shutter and I’m just taking snap after snap mechanically. I’m barely looking at the viewfinder, just watching Jackson fight to stay on this animal.
The clock is counting up the seconds but it’s slower than molasses in winter, like its batteries have wound down.
Crash bucks and spins and twists. Three seconds. Four seconds, longer than anyone’s held onto Crash so far at Pioneer Days.
Five seconds. Jackson almost goes over Crash’s head but rights himself, his face a mask of concentration.
Six.
“He’s off center,” Bruce says.
He’s right. Jackson’s slid a little to one side, and I can tell that he’s starting to go, hanging on desperately to his rope.
Seven seconds, and the crowd is crescendoing, cheering and stomping in the metal stands. I’m holding my breath, frozen in place.
Crash shakes again and Jackson flies off. I yelp, then clap my hand over my mouth. It takes a fraction of a second, but he lands on his shoulder and rolls and springs to his feet but Crash has already stopped going crazy.
The rodeo clowns in the ring get Crash out of there. The crowd in the stands sighs in disappointment like they’ve got one massive set of lungs, and I feel like my fingers and toes are buzzing with excitement and relief.
Jackson jogs back to the gate without looking at me, grabs it and pulls himself up.
Please look at me, I think. Come on.
As he goes over the top, he finally glances my way.
His eyes are burning, but in a different way than usual. This isn’t his cocky how do you like that gaze, the one that makes me weak in the knees. This is a it’s not over glance, an I’ll get that bastard or die trying glance.
It’s still sexy. I still want to run backstage and wrap my legs around him, but I feel like I suddenly saw a different side of Jackson.
For the first time, it occurs to me that he wins because he’s worked for it.
Jackson’s score flashes on the screen, and I adjust my camera to the gate again. Bruce looks up at it and nods.
“Still gonna be real hard to beat,” he says. “That was a hell of a ride, even if it didn’t qualify.”
“For first?” I ask.
“Yup,” he says.
Jackson wins.
As they announce it, they bring him back out to huge applause and he stands in the middle of the arena, grinning and holding up a huge, tacky belt buckle.
Women scream. Men scream. Everyone is half-drunk on Coors and the thrill of watching rodeo.
In the middle of it, I stand quietly. I take pictures of him and the two runners up. Jackson looks happy, he looks relaxed and pleased, but I can tell that there’s something off.
It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that it’s Crash Junction. Jackson’s Everest.
Always reaching for the next thing.
After the fireworks, when the crowd has gone on to the free concert, the media finally gets to go down into the arena and talk to the winning cowboys. The TV crews ask the usual questions, “Are you disappointed you didn’t qualify on Crash Junction?” and “Are you excited to be heading to the finals next month in Las Vegas?”
The answers are yes and yes, obviously. Jackson plays up his folksy twang a little, does his best just a country boy thing. I stand in front and take pictures, and despite the noise and hubbub and cameras everywhere, I can feel him looking at me.
I can’t wait. I want him now, not in secret in a couple of hours.
As the knot of reporters and cameras disperses, Jackson comes over to Bruce and me.
“You need anything else?” he asks.
Yes, I think.
Bruce flips through his notes, and I pull out my own notes, pretending to go through them.
“If there is, I can’t think of it now,” Bruce finally says.
“You’ve got my phone number,” Jackson says. “Feel free to call if you think of anything.”
“Same,” I say, even though my heart’s beating so fast it’s practically vibrating in my chest.
“You want my number too?” Jackson asks.
His voice is perfectly casual, but for a moment I freeze and look at him, not exactly sure what he’s suggesting.
“Take it,” Bruce says. “Just in case.”
I get Jackson’s number, then call him so he has mine. As he puts his phone back in his pocket, I’m pretty sure his eyes sparkle as he looks at me.
“Well, folks,” he says, thumbs tucked in his belt. “It’s been a pleasure working with you. You’re heading out early tomorrow, right?”
“Practically the crack of dawn,” Bruce says. “It’s been a good time watching you ride. See you in Vegas.”
They shake hands.
“It’s been great shooting rodeo again,” I say. I shake hands with Jackson and try not to think about where else on my body his hands have been.
“Glad you could fill in at the last minute,” he says. “Maybe I’ll see you in Vegas too.”
“Maybe,” I echo, because I have no idea whether I’ll be asked back.
Then he turns and walks away. Bruce and I mosey out of the arena and toward the motel, and Bruce is oddly quiet for a moment.
“You ever heard of Amber Simon?” he asks.
I shake my head.
“Doesn’t sound familiar,” I say.
“She’s a photographer,” he says, slowly. “I worked with her about
ten years ago, when I was covering basketball.”
“Is she good?” I ask.
Is he going to put me in touch with her for networking? I wonder.
He nods.
“She was, at least. I haven’t seen any of her work since then.”
He pauses, and I frown. This isn’t going the way I thought it was.
“While we were covering the playoffs, it came out that she was having an affair with Lamar Bryson, the Lakers’ star player,” he says.
My entire body flashes cold.
“She was?” I manage to say, even though I feel like I’m not breathing.
Bruce nods.
“It was probably harmless, just unprofessional,” he says. “Her photos were still very good, but a gossip magazine got a photo of the two of them making out and ran it. Sports Weekly fired her on the spot, and word got around pretty fast that she’d been sleeping with one of the people she was photographing. After that, no one else wanted to hire her.”
“Oh,” I say. I can’t think of anything else.
“I ended up having to report on it a little,” Bruce says. “I’d have preferred not to, but when those photos were everywhere, it forced my hand. It became a story.”
“What’s she doing now?” I ask. I clench my hand into a fist to keep it from shaking.
“I’m not sure,” he says. “I think she moved back to South Carolina and became a wedding photographer.”
I understand exactly what he’s telling me. It’s a warning, loud and clear, and it’s ringing through my ears.
This could be you, he’s saying. I know what’s going on, and here’s what could happen.
“I see,” I say.
If Bruce knows, who else knows? Does everyone know?
My head is whirling. I feel like I’m walking through mud, but I keep going, one foot in front of the other.
But maybe we could still...
No. It’s over, finished, the end. I’m not risking my entire career for one more night with Jackson. It doesn’t matter how good it is. This is my life, and I’d be an idiot to pick sex over my career.
I’m leaving tomorrow morning, anyway. It’s not like I’m giving up the love of my life or something. Even if he’s rakish and charming. Even if he’s easier to talk to than anyone else I’ve ever met.