by Roxie Noir
This time she takes the whole thing, and as she does she arches her back again and groans, a long, low animal sound from somewhere deep in her throat.
I put my hand on my cock again and swallow, hard, watching as she fucks herself. Her face is flushed bright red and her eyes are half-closed and watching me, on the screen.
It takes a second before I realize she’s matching her rhythm to mine.
“You’re pretending I’m fucking you,” I say.
“What else am I gonna do with this?” she murmurs. “Of course I’m pretending it’s you. I’m pretending you’re here and you’ve got my knees over your shoulders like you did that first night.”
“The night my cock made you nervous?”
She laughs.
“I got over that,” she says.
She’s still fucking herself with the vibrator in the same rhythm I’m stroking my dick, and it’s a terrible substitute for actually getting to fuck her but it’s probably the second best thing.
“Turn it on,” I say.
She does.
Her back arches and she squeezes her eyes shut, her other hand grabbing the bedspread in a fist.
“Oh shit,” she gasps. “God, Jackson, I’m gonna come.”
Now I’m matching my strokes to hers instead of the other way around as she works the vibrator, her whole body a vision of ecstasy. She’s moaning loud enough to wake up her neighbors for sure.
“Jackson,” she gasps.
I’m right on the brink, my entire cock pulsing as I watch her fuck herself. Thinking I’d give anything to be that vibrator right now.
“I wish it was you inside me,” she whispers.
I reach for the box of tissues on the table but it’s too late because I explode, every muscle contracting so hard I get jizz on the ceiling, and it just keeps coming.
On my phone, Mae shouts, “God yes!” and then I can see the orgasm wracking through her body as her eyes slide shut. She arches her back and turns onto her side, her hand disappearing between her legs as she writhes, turning her face into her bedspread.
“Oh my God, Jackson,” I hear her moan. Her whole body tenses one more time, and even though I’m finished I just watch her, enrapt.
She finally turns to look at the camera, and I think she’s about to say something when she comes again, bringing her knees to her chest and then arching her back.
It’s hot beyond words. I want to keep watching her come forever.
Finally she’s on her side, panting for breath, and she takes the vibrator out, turns it off, and tosses it to the other side of her bed.
I try to subtly clean up with a tissue. I feel like I’m thirteen again, because that’s the last time I made this big of a mess. I’m twenty-five, and I should probably be able to control myself.
“I think I like the gift,” she says. She’s still lying on her side, legs half-curled in front of her, and now she’s pulled a pillow under her head.
I walk across the trailer back to my bed, tucking myself back into my pants as I go.
“I’m glad you like it,” I tease. “You’re not the one who’s got a complex now about being inferior to something with batteries.”
“You’re impossible,” she says. “You made me come from two thousand miles away and you’re upset about it.”
I flop onto my bed, turn onto my side, and grin.
“I’m less upset now,” I say.
I like talking to her like this, curled in our beds. In some tiny, stupid way it feels like we’re together, having pillow talk. For a few moments, we just lay there quietly, together, thousands of miles apart.
“There’s something I didn’t tell you,” she says, suddenly.
Anxiety wraps around my chest.
She has a boyfriend. She’s married. She’s got cancer and has six months to live.
“What is it?” I say, trying to sound as calm as possible.
She reaches her hand out and taps a finger on her bedspread a few times before she finally speaks again.
“I’ve been on the pill this whole time,” she says.
Mae drops her eyes to her finger. It’s kind of adorable how awkward she is talking about sex except for when she’s talking dirty to me.
I grin. Of course she’s been on the pill, because Mae’s nothing if not cautious.
“You still want to ride me bareback,” I tease. I’m glad I just came, because otherwise I’d be rock-hard already.
“I just wanted to discuss the possibility,” she says, her face slightly pink. “See how you felt about it, and talk about... logistics.”
“I feel like I’d love to fuck you skin-to-skin,” I say. “And Lula-Mae, of all people, when you say you’re on the pill, I believe you.”
“So you don’t think I’m trying to ensnare you with a secret baby so I can get your rodeo money,” she teases.
“I don’t think you need a baby to snare me,” I say.
Her fingers stop tapping. She looks at the camera, and suddenly my heart’s pounding in my chest.
We text all day, we talk half the night, we send each other stupid postcards, and I want her so bad I can taste it, but I’ve never actually said anything to her. For starters, I have no idea what to say.
There’s a long pause.
“Good, because I don’t think that works all that well anyway,” she says.
“You’d also be disappointed with rodeo money,” I tease.
“Yeah, if I’m gonna have a baby to get someone’s money, I think I want a hockey player at least,” she says. “Or maybe soccer?”
“We don’t have to talk about whose baby you’re going to have,” I offer.
I try to sound light, but the thought of Mae with anyone else, even someone who doesn’t even exist, is unbearable.
She laughs, and I frown.
“First you’re jealous of a sex toy, and now you’re jealous of a hypothetical situation that’s not gonna happen,” she says.
“I am not,” I say.
“You’re making your jealous face,” she says.
I have a jealous face?
“Why would I be jealous?” I ask. “You didn’t just ask any of them if they’d bareback you.”
“Well, technically, the vibrator already—”
“I’m throwing that thing out a window,” I mock-growl.
Mae laughs again.
“If I get to see you in person I’m okay with that,” she says. “But look, there’s one more thing.”
“You want me to get tested,” I say.
“I think we should both get tested,” Mae says.
I raise my eyebrows.
“This isn’t my first rodeo,” she says. Then she grins. “Pun intended.”
“I should demand to wear condoms just for that,” I say. “Puns are contagious.”
She sticks out her tongue at me, and I laugh.
“I’ll get tested, Lula-Mae,” I say. “They can stick a hundred needles in my dick if that’s what it takes.”
“You’re sweet, but I don’t think that’s gonna be necessary,” she says.
21
Mae
The week before going to Las Vegas is brutal. No matter how busy I try to stay, each day crawls by slower than the one before it.
Jackson goes a couple days early so he can get a feel for everything, practice a little, all that. The night before he drives down, we establish some basic rules for public behavior.
Well, I suggest them and Jackson agrees.
No texting, in case someone else can see our phones.
He must change my name in his phone to “Mae Sports Weekly Photographer,” like he needs help remembering who I am. We are to call only for professional reasons.
Handshakes only.
No staring.
No winking.
No flirting.
No calling me Lula-Mae, or Miss Guthrie, or darlin’, or anything that suggests our relationship might be anything other than purely professional.
The night before I
leave, as I’m packing, Sasha comes into my room and holds up a pair of cowboy boots.
“You want to borrow these?” she asks.
“Where did you get those?” I ask. “And when?”
She laughs.
“I’m actually not sure,” she says. “I think I borrowed them from someone for Halloween one year, but when I went to give them back they told me to keep them.”
I take them from her. They’re well broken-in and soft.
“When in Rome,” Sasha says.
“Now all I need is a pair of cutoff jean shorts that show half my butt and a rhinestone cowboy hat,” I say.
“Tell me what you really think about rodeo groupies,” she teases.
I scrunch my nose, and she grins.
The flight to Vegas is totally uneventful, except for the fact that I want to kill everyone in both airports for walking at a snail’s pace. I find Bruce, and we share a taxi to the Wynn, where Sports Weekly is putting us up. I left New York at 5 a.m., so with the change in time zones, it’s still only mid-morning by the time we’re heading to the arena for the bull drawing.
This is way, way bigger than Pioneer Days. I’d expected that, but as soon as we’re within a couple blocks of the sports arena, it’s wall-to-wall hats and buckles. Inside, the place is stuffed with people selling belt buckles and wall plaques with funny sayings and hats, and we make our way through the crowd to the press room, where they’re drawing bulls again.
The list of cowboys is about a hundred long, and Jackson is near the end. This time, they’ve got the names projected on a screen, and instead of drawing slips of paper one by one, someone hits a button and a bull’s name pops up next to a cowboy’s name.
I know Jackson’s in the room somewhere, but from where I’m standing in the back I can’t find him in the sea of seated people. I feel like the air is vibrating, or maybe it’s just me feeling like a thirteen-year-old with a crazy crush on the cute boy in her gym class.
This rodeo has the same basic structure as Pioneer Days, just way bigger: they ride three days in a row and the winner has the highest average score. So each cowboy gets three bulls picked, one on each night of the rodeo. I don’t recognize the first two bulls that Jackson gets assigned, but someone else gets Crash Junction.
The announcer starts going down the list for the third day. He names cowboy after cowboy, and nobody pulls Crash Junction. Jackson’s only three from the end of the list, and as they close in on his name, I cross my fingers.
It makes me nervous as hell to think of Jackson riding Crash again. Crash still hasn’t been ridden. He’s the only undefeated bull to ever make it this far in a season.
But I remember Jackson’s face after Crash threw him. That determined, driven, fierce look in his eyes. There’s no doubt what Jackson wants.
The announcer calls the cowboy in the list ahead of Jackson. He doesn’t get Crash Junction. I hold my breath: there are only four names left. That’s a twenty-five percent chance.
I cross my fingers.
“Jackson Cody,” the announcer says.
Someone hits the button, and a moment later, a bull’s name pops up next to his
CRASH JUNCTION, it says.
A corner of the room erupts in loud cheers, whistles, stomping, and the general carrying-on that only cowboys are capable of. I press my lips together so I don’t smile, even as my heart twists in my chest.
The minute that the draw ends, everyone stands. Bruce and I push our way through the throng toward where Jackson was sitting. When we get there, he’s surrounded by a ring of people with notebooks and cameras. There’s even someone with a video camera and a woman asking him questions.
It’s more than I expected. As much as I thought about this, I didn’t realize how in-demand he was going to be, or how much media was going to be here.
Maybe this is all a bad idea, I think. Maybe I should just stay away from him in Vegas, if he’s going to be under this much scrutiny.
I know it’ll never happen. I’ve got lots of self-control, but not that much.
We hang back. Other people are asking Jackson questions and he’s answering them, laughing, grinning, looking perfectly cocky and in control and relaxed. I watch him voraciously and try to act normal, but I think my bones are turning to lava just being this close to him.
I want to shout. I want to scream I’m right here, but I don’t. Bruce writes things down in his notebook. I snap a few pictures and try to breathe normally, just watching him. I feel like a teenage girl at a rock concert or something. I don’t know what to do with my hands, or how to stand, or where to look.
Jackson scans the knot of reporters again, and it’s obvious he’s barely listening to what they’re asking him, smiling and nodding.
Finally, he looks at me. We lock eyes, and I squeeze my hand into a fist, forcing myself not to laugh with the giddiness that’s bubbling up through me.
Slowly, Jackson grins.
Stop it, I think, but I don’t want him to stop. For that second, we’re the only two people in this room, and nothing else matters. Not the group of reporters, not all the other cowboys, not the rules we set up. Just us.
Then someone else gets his attention and the moment’s broken. I look down at my camera, trying desperately not to smile, but there’s something warm and fuzzy and completely ecstatic in the pit of my stomach, and it won’t quit jumping up and down.
It takes a long time, but the crowd around Jackson finally thins, and that’s when we walk up to him.
“Bruce,” Bruce says, holding out his hand. “Sports Weekly.”
“Good to see you again,” Jackson says, shaking his hand.
“Mae,” I say, holding out my hand as well.
He takes it. We shake, and then he holds on just a beat longer than necessary, his hazel eyes sparking. I feel like his hand is electric. I don’t want to let go, but I do.
“I remember,” he says.
I almost laugh.
“Good to see you two again,” he says.
The three of us chat for a few minutes, about Crash Junction, about maybe winning three rodeo world championships in a row, about how rodeo is suddenly turning a corner into mainstream.
Finally, Bruce glances across the room.
“Excuse me for a moment,” he says. “I need to ask him something.”
He walks away, and suddenly Jackson and I are alone together. Other people are milling around, but they’re not within earshot.
“I hope you remember my name,” I tease.
He crosses his arms in front of himself and grins.
“No breaking rules,” he says.
“Which rule am I breaking?”
“No flirting,” he says. His eyes sparkle dangerously.
“That rule is clearly open to interpretation,” I say. “I just meant I hope you remember my name because I took a lot of photos of you.”
“Sure,” he says. “Not because I’ve been—”
“Someone’s behind you,” I mutter.
He stops and glances over his shoulder casually. Two middle-aged men are sauntering by.
“This is harder than I thought,” I say, watching the two men.
“That’s not the only thing,” Jackson says.
I just shoot him a look.
“Sorry,” he says.
His cocky, charming grin clearly says I’m not sorry.
Across the room, Bruce shakes someone’s hand and starts to walk back.
“I’ve got something for you,” Jackson says.
I give him an exasperated look.
“Not that,” he says, keeping his voice low. “Not right now, anyway.”
He clears his throat and pulls something out of his pocket.
“You should have my business card,” he says a little too loudly, and hands me a small white rectangle that says Jackson Cody, Professional Bull Rider.
As I take it, I realize there’s something underneath it, a hard plastic card that says Mandalay Bay on one side.
&nb
sp; “Room twenty-oh-eight,” he says.
“Tonight?” I ask, sliding it into my pocket. My heart is racing like my blood is high-octane fuel, every nerve surging.
“I’d say right now if I thought we could get away with it,” he says.
“I wish we could,” I say.
It’s taking everything I’ve got not to jump on him right here, but I don’t. A moment later Bruce is next to us again and even though on the inside I’m shaking and on fire and also experiencing some kind of sexual tornado-earthquake, Bruce and I make professional chitchat for another moment.
Then we shake Jackson’s hand again and leave.
The rodeo itself feels endless. I hate that Jackson’s so close to the end, because the entire time I’m keyed up and nervous for him.
Finally he’s up. This is slowly becoming a pattern: he jumps on the bull, situates himself, looks over at me. The chute opens and he rides, and I think my heart stops for the full eight seconds but he makes it and jumps off.
The crowd is deafening, and for a moment, Jackson stands there, grinning. He waves at the stands, then picks up his hat and puts it on his head. I get a great shot of him, facing me, people holding up signs and screaming their lungs out on the bleachers behind him.
Then he looks right at me and touches the brim of his hat, and I can practically feel his eyes burn right through me. I don’t know how I’m going to survive the hours between now and tonight, but I don’t think there’s any alternative.
Jackson pulls himself back over the gate and he’s gone. The crowd takes a while to die down, and then they announce the next cowboy.
As he’s getting onto his bull, Bruce looks over at me. I look back. Neither of us says anything.
I get dinner with Bruce, along with a few other reporters and photographers. There’s even someone from National Geographic, and I’m briefly star struck.
“You did that photo essay on nightclub culture in Siberia,” I say. “I really liked it!”
That’s the best you can think of?
“Thank you,” she says. She’s got shoulder-length brown hair, streaked with gray, and down-to-earth manner that seems almost alien in Las Vegas. “I really enjoyed your Sports Weekly spread.”