by Roxie Noir
Even if we’re kindred spirits, even if we’re more alike than I thought. Even if I really feel like he gets me.
“See you tomorrow at 6:30?” Bruce says, and I realize we’re standing in the motel parking lot.
“Bright and early,” I say.
As I walk back into my room, my phone goes off. It’s Jackson.
Meet me at 9:30 around the side of the motel.
Crap.
18
Jackson
At 9:15 I drive my truck around the back of the motel. Then I hop out, lean against the back, and wait.
I should be out drinking and celebrating with everyone else. They’re all getting drunk at Betty’s again, and I’m sure there’s a whole pile of women there too. In an hour, they’ll all be arm-in-arm, singing old country ballads off-key.
And here I am, waiting for a girl to meet me in secret. And I’m excited. I’d rather be here than drunk with two girls on my lap.
She never texted back, but my phone says she’s read it.
At 9:35, a figure comes into the shadow behind the motel, looks around for a moment, and then walks toward me.
“Hope that’s you and not a psycho killer,” I tease.
“It’s me,” she says, but her voice is oddly stiff. She stops a couple of feet in front of me, just out of arm’s reach.
The pit of my belly goes cold.
“The Lamplighter Motel’s got a room with our name on it,” I say.
I take a step forward and she takes a step back.
“Bruce knows,” she says.
In the dark I can see she’s looking at the ground, not at me.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“I mean Bruce knows,” she hisses. “What else does that mean?”
“It means, is he going to write about this?” I ask. “Are we news now?”
“I don’t think so,” she whispers.
“Did he tell anyone else?”
“I don’t know, Jackson,” she says, her voice choking up. “I’m not fired yet. That’s all I’ve got.”
I put a hand on her shoulder but she pulls back.
“I knew this was dumb from the second you showed up with wine at my door,” she mutters. “I can’t believe I did this.”
“So we’re not going anywhere tonight?” I ask. My voice sounds hollow, even to my ears.
Mae just shakes her head.
“I’ve nearly ruined my life because of you enough times,” she says, and suddenly anger flares through me.
“I’m not the one who got drunk and practically hopped on my dick six years ago,” I say.
She shoots me a glare.
“You could have stopped this any time, Lula-Mae,” I go on. “And you didn’t.”
“I am now,” she says. She still won’t look at me.
“You don’t think it’s too little, too late?” I ask.
“I think every second we spend together is dangerous,” she says. Now she’s leaning against the truck, still just out of reach, arms crossed defensively in front of her.
“Because we might get caught?” I ask. “Or because you know you’re the reason we got caught?”
“I’m the reason?” she says. She finally looks at me, her blue eyes blazing, even in the dark. “I’m not the one who tracked me down in the arena last night, practically in public.”
“You’re the one who screams loud enough to wake the dead,” I say.
She blushes and glares. She opens her mouth but closes it without saying anything and looks away again.
“I’m not about to apologize for that,” I say.
“Of course you’re not,” she mutters. “You win rodeos and sleep with lots of women and everyone loses their shit over you because you’re the golden boy. I’m sure you don’t apologize.”
Anger seethes through me, and I take a step toward her. I feel like everything that’s happened the past couple of days is bubbling up in a black boil right now: Raylan being a dick, Darlene giving me talking-to after talking-to, sneaking around with Mae, falling off Crash Junction.
Knowing the whole time that Pioneer Days is gonna end and we’re gonna go our separate ways.
Mae telling me that I can’t even have her this one last time.
“Okay,” I say. I try to keep my voice steady, but there’s a hard, rough edge biting into it. “I’m sorry we slept together and we had such a good time that everyone found out. I’m sorry you wanted it as bad as I did.”
Mae snorts.
“Nice apology,” she says.
I take a step forward and now I’m right next to her, our bodies almost touching.
“But most of all, Lula-Mae, I’m sorry that if you changed your mind this minute, I’d still take you up on it in a heartbeat.”
“I’m not going to change my mind,” she whispers. Her glare shimmers with tears.
“Your loss,” I say.
“I’m leaving tomorrow morning anyway,” she says. “One more time doesn’t matter.”
“So why not do it?” I say. “If it doesn’t matter.”
“You know why,” she snaps. “Because I’m not giving up my career over some fling.”
I’m not stupid. I always knew there was a timestamp on this, but hearing her say that hurts more than I thought it would.
“You’re right. Some casual fuck sure isn’t worth it,” I say, the words coming out more bitter than I mean.
Now she has the nerve to look at me like she’s wounded, though she doesn’t say anything.
“I gotta go,” she says, and stands up straight.
I don’t stop leaning on the truck.
“Good luck, Lula-Mae,” I say, even as something deep inside me twists.
“You too, Jackson,” she says, her voice cool and quiet.
Maybe I’m seeing things in the dark, but I’m almost certain a single tear tracks down her face.
“Go on,” I say.
She turns and leaves, and I watch her walk back around the motel. Her hips still move and roll in the sexiest way I’ve ever seen, and angry as I am, I get hard just watching her leave.
Goddammit, I think.
I kick one of the tires on my truck, fists clenched into balls.
Goddamn fucking Lula-Mae. Goddamn Bruce and goddamn Wayne and Darlene and goddamn Crash Junction.
I kick the tires a couple more times. I pace a loop around the truck, feeling like I might crawl out of my own skin with anger and horniness, with my frustration over falling off Crash Junction but also the thrill of winning.
I take a deep breath. I get into my truck and crank the engine.
Fuck it, I think. I’m getting drunk at Betty’s and forgetting all about this.
In no time at all, I’ve downed six shots of whiskey and I’m watching three guys sing She Thinks My Tractor’s Sexy very, very badly. Two girls are on stage with them, not even singing, just dancing drunkenly.
It’s obvious that they’re trying to dance sexy. In another couple shots I’ll probably agree with them. Someone shows up with a tray of whiskey, and I take one.
“That’s a sipping whiskey,” says Betty’s voice.
I look up. There she is.
“Try to make it last at least four sips,” she says.
I take a sip and look up at her.
“There’s one,” I say.
Betty moves on. I take another sip, and she’s replaced by a pretty brunette in a pink cowboy hat who spills into the seat next to me.
“Hi Jackson,” she says. “I’m Anna.”
“Hey there,” I say.
“I loved watching you ride,” she says, batting her eyelashes at me.
I take another sip.
“Even though I fell off?” I ask.
She laughs, then bites her lip. I think it’s supposed to be sexy, but she looks a little like a rabbit.
“Everyone falls off,” she says.
I keep drinking. Anna keeps drinking. The guys keep singing.
Before I know it, Anna’s on my lap, lea
ning against me, laughing and biting her lip. My hand’s on her ass, and I think I’m squeezing it. It’s a nice ass.
“You must be tired after doing all that riding,” she says, curling her fingers through my hair.
“Ain’t that tired,” I manage to say. “I could still manage a couple more rides.”
She laughs, the sound a little too nasal.
“A couple rides,” she says. “Damn, Jackson, I guess what they say is true.”
“Course it is,” I say. “No false advertising here.”
My dick’s at half-mast, and I move my hips so it moves against her.
She bites her lip again, then slides her finger around the shell of my ear. I’m too drunk for it to feel like much.
Then she leans in and kisses me. Her lips feel weirdly droopy, and her mouth is wet as she pushes her tongue into me, not that I can complain. I’m sure I’m too drunk to be any good at this either, so I just squeeze her ass and try to pull her against me.
We make out for a while, right there in the middle of the bar. To be honest, I’m barely paying attention. I’m just on autopilot. Anything to forget about how I don’t get to do this with Mae ever again.
“Want to get out of here?” she asks, breathily.
My vision is sliding left and right. My dick’s finally two-thirds hard, and I think I’m good for the last third by the time we get there.
“Sure,” I say.
She gets off me, then leads me out the front door. We walk twenty feet down the sidewalk.
On the opposite side of the street, I see a blond head. My heart leaps for a moment, but it’s not Mae, and now I’m drunk and frustrated and angry at myself for getting so excited.
I grab Anna and push her up against the plate glass of a closed shop.
“Oooh,” she says, and I kiss her hard. I run my hand up her legs and push my finger under the hem of her shorts while we kiss sloppily.
I force myself to pay attention to this, to the hot girl I’m actually going to fuck tonight. The one who’s present.
I hear a low whistle, and I break the kiss with Anna and look toward the bar entrance.
It’s Raylan, Clay, Trevor, and a couple other guys, walking toward us.
“Don’t let us bother you,” Clay says, grinning.
“We’re going for smokes,” Trevor says. “You need anything?”
Raylan looks the two of us up and down.
“I’m good,” I say.
“What happened?” Raylan says. “The photographer turn you down again?”
My whole body goes rigid.
“What?” I say.
Raylan’s swimming in my vision, but he smirks.
“What’s her name. Mae? She have a change of heart?”
Clay and Trevor snicker.
I step away from Anna, who’s frowning.
“What are you talking about?” I ask, moving toward Raylan.
“I ain’t stupid,” he says. “I got the room next to hers. I didn’t think she’d put out, but I guess when you’re Jackson Cody and you plow your way through—”
I grab him by the front of the shirt and shove him up against the wall. Everything lurches and swims, but how dare he talk about Mae like this, in public.
“You better keep your damn mouth shut, you son—”
He punches me in the stomach and plain flashes through me as my bruised ribs scream. I stumble backward, nearly falling over.
“What’s your fucking problem, Jackson?” Raylan shouts.
I swing at him. It’s a terrible punch, but it still lands on the side of his face and his head snaps around though it doesn’t connect quite right.
He shouts again and now I’m off balance, but so is he because we’re both drunk. Raylan grabs for me and misses, and we both fall to the sidewalk.
I’ve been in plenty of fights and I scramble to my feet and nearly fall over him, then grab him from behind in a headlock.
“Say you won’t tell nobody,” I shout, right in his ear.
“You ain’t my boss!” Raylan shouts, both hands tugging at my arm around his neck.
I nearly fall over but I hold on. There’s one thought pounding through my head, and that thought is fucking Raylan needs to keep his mouth shut.
That’s what Mae wants, and maybe I can give her this one thing.
“Say you won’t tell!” I shout again, but then Clay finally grabs me from behind and pulls me back by the elbows, locking my arms behind me. He gets me off balance at first, and then Raylan is scrambling up and Trevor’s holding him back.
“Let me go!” I shout.
“Get off!” Raylan shouts.
“Hell no,” says Clay.
I could probably get free, but my shirt is ripped and I’m breathing hard and God Almighty that punch hurt.
“Fuck you, Jackson,” Raylan spits out.
“Keep your damn mouth shut,” I say, and spit on the sidewalk. “Just keep it shut.”
Raylan spits on the sidewalk too, and we glare at each other for a moment.
“You gonna start again if we let you go?” Trevor asks.
I shake my head. Raylan shakes his.
They release us. I shake out my arms, glaring at Raylan. He glares back.
Anna comes up to me and puts one hand on my arm, but I move it away and look at her.
“Sorry, darlin’,” I say. “Not tonight.”
Raylan snorts, but for once he doesn’t say anything.
I wake up the moment the sun rises. My stomach’s rolling and my head feels like someone’s mining my skull from the inside. I barely make it to the toilet before I puke my guts out, then sit on the edge of the tub, my head in my hands.
I don’t remember what happened after the fight. I think I went back into the bar, did another shot, and someone sober took me back here. I’m just glad that I’m alone this morning, and that I didn’t do something impossibly stupid.
It doesn’t matter, I think. She’s leaving, remember?
I throw up again. Then I get into the bathtub and sit there, naked except my boxers. The porcelain feels good against my skin.
She ain’t dead, I think, staring up at the shower head. Just in New York. It’s not even a different country.
I cover my eyes with my hands, because it’s bright in here. I wish I could reach the bathroom light switch from the tub, but I can’t.
She’s not even working for Sports Weekly once that issue comes out, I think.
Too bad that’s not your only problem, Jackson.
You were a dick to her when she turned you down last night.
Goddammit.
After a couple more minutes I drag myself out of the bathtub and drink a couple little plastic cups of tap water. My stomach doesn’t like it, but sooner or later, I’ve gotta keep something down.
Outside, I hear a man’s voice. Then a woman’s.
Mae’s.
I don’t move. A trunk slams. A door shuts. An engine starts.
I have the urge to rush to the window, to watch her drive away with Bruce in the rental car. Like some sort of pathetic puppy.
Instead, I get back into bed and listen to the car drive away. Then I lay there, trying to go back to sleep.
An hour later, there’s a knock on the door. I pull my pants on, stomach lurching, and I open it.
It’s Raylan, wearing sunglasses. There’s a bruise purpling on one cheekbone, and he looks like hell. He holds out a huge bottle of blue Gatorade.
“Thought you might be feeling it this morning,” he says.
I open the door wider.
“Come on in,” I say, and take the Gatorade. “Thanks.”
I fall into one crappy chair, take a drink, then wipe my mouth. He falls into the other.
“Sorry about last night,” I say.
Raylan shakes his head.
“It’s all right,” he says. “Been a while since we got into a drunken fight on the sidewalk.”
“Six months at least,” I say.
“Was the l
ast one Topeka?” he asks.
“Either that or Santa Fe,” I say.
“I forgot about Santa Fe,” he says.
“I skinned my elbow on the sidewalk in Santa Fe,” I say. “Took a month to heal.”
We both take long swigs of the blue drink. I’m slowly starting to feel less nauseous.
“We good?” I finally say.
Raylan nods.
Then he looks around.
“You alone in here?” he asks, sounding puzzled.
“Unless there’s someone under the bed,” I say.
He gives me a weird look.
“You won and went home alone?” he asks.
“Apparently so,” I say.
“Shit, Jackson,” he says. “I still got one asleep in my bed.”
I lean forward. My head pounds.
“Raylan,” I say. “I don’t know what you know about me and Mae, but you have got to keep it to yourself.”
“You made that point last night,” he says, and points to the bruise on his face.
“I said I was sorry.”
He finally smiles.
“Shit, I was just kidding until you punched me,” he said.
Goddammit.
“She’ll get fired,” I say, my head in my hand. “I don’t give a shit about me.”
“I ain’t gonna tell nobody,” Raylan says. “So long as she don’t make me look bad.”
I look at him. He laughs, then rubs his temples.
I stand and grab a bottle of Advil from my suitcase and set it on the table between us. Raylan takes about five, and I do too.
By the time we leave four hours later, the hangover’s almost gone.
There’s three weeks between the end of Pioneer Days and the start of the Rodeo World Championships in Las Vegas. Raylan and I drive home from Oklahoma. I drop him off at his house in Eastern Colorado and then drive alone to my parents’ ranch eight more hours north in Sawtooth, Wyoming. I listen to country western radio the whole time.
It’s bright and clear and cold, though it hasn’t snowed yet. The sky stretches from horizon to horizon in a nonstop blue dome, and there’s nothing but waving yellow-green grass for nearly as far as I can see. It’s empty and wild, but this is where I’m from so I guess it’s home.