Torch

by Roxie Noir

  The shop calls a number and another guy steps forward, grabs his sandwich, and leaves. Jackson turns and looks at the counter.

  “My dinner tonight got canceled last minute,” he says, keeping his voice low and normal-sounding, like he’s talking about potato chips.

  “So you’re available early?” I ask.

  My heart thumps, and something warm and liquid begins to snake through me, just like always.

  “Let me take you to dinner,” he says.

  He picks up a bag of chips and shows them to me.

  “Pickle chips?” I ask, and wrinkle my nose.

  “I heard they’re good,” he says, but he puts them back.

  Someone else walks in. We’re quiet until she starts ordering, and then Jackson steps next to me again, so we’re facing the same way, talking quietly without looking at each other.

  “We can’t,” I say, pretending to be incredibly interested in reading the labels on the soda fountain.

  “Far away, off the strip,” he says quickly. “Vegas is big.”

  At least he didn’t call me Lula-Mae in public, I think.

  “I don’t know,” I say.

  “Please?”

  I take a deep breath. I want to say yes, to go out in public with Jackson like we’re normal people and not people having some secret torrid rodeo affair.

  I cannot believe I just thought the phrase torrid rodeo affair.

  “It has to be low-key,” I say.

  “Is that a yes?” he asks.

  “I’m serious,” I say. “This is stupid, Jackson.”

  “Chicken salad sandwich for Jack?” a woman behind the counter calls. Jackson steps forward and takes it, and I stand alone in the middle of the sandwich shop, heart racing. He grabs some napkins and packets of mustard, then nods at me again.

  “I’ll pick you up,” he says quietly. “Text me where.”

  I just nod.

  “Good to see you again,” he says, louder now, and smiles at me.

  “You too,” I manage to say.

  Jackson leaves, and I wait for my sandwich, feeling like a pile of sweat and nerves and stupidity.

  I’m almost used to watching him ride. Even I have to admit it’s impressive, because bull riding is hard, dangerous work, and Jackson’s good at it.

  Hell, he’s the best. My heart might stop every time I think about it, but I also get a thrill every time the crowd cheers for him. There’s a flash of fierce pride every time someone screams his name, and God knows I could watch his cocky swagger all day long.

  Today he’s riding a bull named Screaming Heat. The bull doesn’t sound like anything special, but Jackson got a good score yesterday, so he’s neck-and-neck with another cowboy. He needs this ride to qualify if he’s going to win this thing, so the closer we get to his name, the tighter the knots in my stomach get.

  Tomorrow he rides Crash Junction, but I’m trying to take things eight seconds at a time.

  “Up next is Jackson Cody on Screaming Heat!” the announcer finally says.

  The crowd loses their minds.

  I thought yesterday was nuts, but today they’re twice as loud, easily. People are jumping up and down and waving signs. In the media area, everyone pushes forward, all eyes on him.

  I force myself not to smile. This is just another ride, I tell myself.

  I steady the camera on his form jumping into the bucking chute. Screaming Heat snorts and shakes.

  Jackson tightens the rope, and just like always, he looks at me for a moment.

  Please please please please please please is all I can think, a heart-pounding prayer that he’ll be okay.

  The gate opens. Screaming Heat bolts out and the clock starts, the seconds ticking up slowly. My palms are sweaty with anxiety but Jackson’s got this, riding the bull with confidence and panache, totally in control the whole time.

  It’s impressive. Also kind of sexy.

  The clock ends, and Jackson jumps free and rolls once. There’s a horrifying moment where I think the bull’s after him, but then it trots off toward the exit.

  Everyone screams. The whole arena echoes with the sound of it. There are even more signs today than there were yesterday, and people are waving them like mad, along with pom-poms and cowboy hats.

  Jackson grins and waves at the crowd, turning in a quick circle. Just before he heads for the gate, he finds me again.

  In what’s becoming some kind of ritual, he looks at me for a little too long. Then he nods and touches the brim of his hat. He’s breathing hard and looking at me like he knows that I practically dissolve when he looks at me like this.

  I swallow hard, scrunching up my toes in my shoes, because as much as I hate how dangerous bull riding is, this moment?

  It does something to me, something deep and dangerous. It makes me feel like I’m nothing but raw lust and libido, and I want to jump onto the sand and run to Jackson and kiss him, right there, in front of everyone. I want him so much it takes my breath away, and I think he knows it.

  I hit the shutter and get it on camera. I’m never going to send it into Sports Weekly, but I want it for myself.

  Then it’s over. Jackson pulls himself over the gate. The cheering eventually dies down and the rodeo goes on.

  We finally wrap up hours later. Bruce interviews half the bull riders, I think, and I spend a while photographing the after-rodeo scene: cowboys sneaking drinks out of flasks, bulls and cows and horses being led away.

  Cowboys signing autographs for fans, talking to them, joking around. Jackson especially. A group of female fans asks me if I’ll use their phone to take a picture, and eight of them crowd around him, smiling at me.

  I do it, but I’m a little jealous. There are no pictures of the two of us.

  I get a text when the arena’s finally emptying out. I look around to make sure no one’s looking at me, and I spot Jackson across the room, phone in hand.

  He looks at me. I look at him.

  Jackson: ?

  I look toward the doors and think for a moment about the place I’m least likely to get caught.

  Jackson: Come on, Lula-Mae.

  Me: Okay, there’s a Super 8 on the road behind the Wynn. I think it’s a block north. Pick me up outside that.

  We look at each other across the room, and at the same time, we both smile.

  Jackson: In an hour?

  Me: Yeah.

  Jackson: :-D

  I don’t look at him again as I leave, because I’m afraid I’m just going to start laughing with sheer giddiness.

  Vegas is strange. The moment you’re more than a block off the strip, it doesn’t feel like you’re in Vegas anymore. It feels like you’re anywhere in the western United States, with one-story houses and apartments, Starbucks, and McDonalds.

  Jackson wouldn’t tell me where we’re going, but I’m glad Sasha and Dani talked me into taking a dress with me. It’s not fancy, just a sleeveless little black dress, but it’s better for whatever we’re doing than jeans.

  I think, anyway. He said dinner, but for all I know, he could mean indoor skydiving and then dinner.

  A cab pulls up. I swallow. The window rolls down and Jackson waves at me. I get in.

  The moment my door closes, he pulls me across the seat and kisses me. I resist for a moment, but it’s only a moment, and then I’ve got my hand on his face, my knee across his, and my tongue’s in his mouth.

  When I finally pull back, I realize Jackson dressed up too.

  “You own a blazer?” I ask.

  “Come on,” he says, grinning.

  “It’s not even denim,” I tease. “No boots, no hat, no giant belt buckle? Who are you and what have you done with Jackson?”

  “I think you look pretty as a peach,” he says, and puts his arm around me.

  “You do clean up nice,” I say.

  “Thank you,” he says, and kisses the top of my head. There’s something sweet and protective about it, and for just a moment, I close my eyes and enjoy this.

/>   “Where are we going?” I ask.

  “A little French place I found,” he says.

  “What’s it called?”

  “It’s got a French name.”

  I look up at him, waiting.

  “Are you gonna make me try to pronounce French?” he asks.

  I just nod.

  Jackson sighs.

  “Lee fro-mayge do-ray,” he says. “Happy?”

  I just laugh.

  In a few minutes, we’re in another part of Vegas entirely. It’s not as massive as the Strip, but as we get out, I realize that it’s just as flashy. The street has been closed to cars, and it’s lined with older casinos, neon signs, and some kind of lit-up ceiling.

  “Downtown Vegas,” Jackson says. He puts his hand on my lower back as we both stand there, looking up, gawking like a couple of tourists.

  “I didn’t know there was a downtown,” I say.

  “Hopefully, neither does anyone else,” he says, and winks at me. “Come on.”

  Le Fromage Doré is one of the fanciest places I’ve ever been inside. I’m sure there’s nicer places in New York, but I’ve never been there. The tables have long white tablecloths, multiple forks, and candles. It’s dark. There’s a live piano player in one corner.

  Everyone is dressed way more nicely than the two of us.

  When Jackson gives his name, the hostess almost smiles at him, even as she eyes our clothes, clearly unimpressed.

  “Just one moment,” she says, and then walks away.

  Jackson and I exchange glances. The hostess goes to one of the servers and whispers something in his ear. He looks over at us, and he’s not impressed either. Each table setting has two wine glasses and a lot of forks, and that much stuff always makes me nervous.

  “How much do you really like French food?” I murmur to Jackson.

  He looks around the restaurant.

  “I have no idea,” he finally admits. “I thought it sounded fancy.”

  The hostess finally starts walking back toward us. She’s still not smiling.

  “I can’t believe they’ve started allowing people to wear street clothes,” says a voice behind us.

  I turn and look. It’s a middle-aged woman who’s pretending to talk quietly enough that we can’t hear.

  Screw this, I think.

  “We passed a brewpub on the way here,” I whisper to Jackson. “Last chance to change your mind.”

  “This used to be a destination,” the woman behind me says.

  “Let’s go,” Jackson says.

  I pull on his hand just as the hostess walks up to us, and I push back through the exit. Some nicely-dressed people look offended, but then we’re outside on the sidewalk, and I pull Jackson around the corner like I think someone’s gonna come after us.

  “I don’t think we need to hide from a snooty French waitress,” he teases me.

  “Shh, they’ll hear us,” I say, fighting back a laugh.

  “I can’t take you anywhere,” he says.

  “You couldn’t even pronounce the name of that place,” I tease back.

  “Why do you think I chose it?” he asks. “That means it must be good.”

  We walk to the brewpub, holding hands. It feels weird but good to be together in public, even though I’m scanning every face to make sure I don’t recognize someone. It’s a nice night, even though it’s December, cool but not cold.

  The brewpub is crowded, but somehow we get a small corner booth. As we push our way through the crowd, Jackson keeps his hand on my lower back. It’s sweet and a little protective and it makes me want to shout he’s mine, everybody!

  I mean, I think he’s mine. Pretty sure. It’s on my mental docket for discussion.

  The menu has five appetizers, three burgers, three sides, and two desserts. The rest is beer. The booth is one circular seat and we sit together in the middle, Jackson’s arm around me.

  I’m pretty sure a couple of women look over as we sit down and give Jackson the up-and-down. I fight the slightly insane urge to sit on his lap, make out with him, and flip them off.

  “You still don’t drink, right?” he asks.

  “Why, is Boone’s Farm on the menu?” I say.

  Jackson laughs and I look at a chalkboard on the wall that lists dozens of beers. Jackson drags his fingers in little circles over my upper arm, unconsciously, and it sends tingles up my spine.

  This happened anyway, I think. You still had sex with Jackson, whether you drank and did everything right or not, and it turned out okay.

  Better than okay.

  “Fuck it,” I say out loud. “I’m getting a drink.”

  “Who in tarnation are you and where’s Mae?” Jackson says.

  “Sometimes I have beers and drop f-bombs,” I say defiantly.

  “What a rebel,” he teases.

  “At least I don’t say tarnation,” I say.

  “At least I don’t say f-bomb,” he counters, grinning.

  “I thought you liked it when I cursed,” I say.

  “I like it when you talk dirty,” he says. “I’m just surprised you know all those bad words.”

  “I know way more than bad words,” I say.

  “Maybe we shouldn’t have gone out in public,” Jackson says, leaning toward my ear. His voice is going low and dangerous and it sends a spike of warmth straight through me.

  “Am I embarrassing you?” I murmur.

  “I might embarrass myself,” he says, his lips barely tickling my ear.

  A woman clears her throat, and we both look straight ahead. Heat rushes to my face.

  “Hi welcome to the Fremont Brewpub my name is Mandy can I get you two anything to drink?” she says, looking completely bored.

  We get the ten-beer sampler and an order of fries.

  “I don’t know what I was thinking,” Jackson says. “I have to control myself all day.”

  “You were thinking that it might be nice to see the parts of Vegas that weren’t your hotel room or the rodeo arena,” I say.

  “My hotel room is awful nice, though,” he says. “Particularly after hours.”

  He’s driving me crazy. Up until we sat in this booth, I was doing okay, but now that he’s whispering things in my ear with his arm around me, I feel like someone’s taken a match to a pile of dry kindling inside me.

  “You’re the one who insisted on a dinner date,” I say. “I was just going to sneak over later tonight, like anyone having a torrid affair.”

  “Torrid?” he asks, grinning. “I haven’t ripped even one bodice, Miss Guthrie.”

  “Only for a lack of bodices,” I say. “Don’t tell me all my foundation garments would be in proper order if I had any.”

  “Foundation garments? I’m outta my element,” he says.

  “If I had a bodice I’d let you rip it off,” I say.

  The beers arrive. They’re all in little glasses, arranged from light to dark. I pick up the lightest one and Jackson grabs a beer from somewhere in the middle. We clink them together.

  “To our torrid affair,” he says, and we both take a drink.

  Turns out I like beer a lot better than I remembered. It doesn’t take more than a few sips of each before I’m starting to get tipsy, even though Jackson is stone cold sober.

  The brewpub keeps getting louder and louder as everyone gets drunker. It’s Friday night, after all, and sitting in this booth, I feel borderline invisible.

  Mandy the waitress comes back and we order burgers. Jackson orders another sampler of ten different beers.

  I narrow my eyes at him.

  “Are you trying to get me drunk?” I ask.

  He just laughs.

  “I haven’t tried at all,” he says, eating a french fry. “This was all your idea, Lula-Mae. I just wanted to try a couple beers.”

  “Public,” I say, wrinkling my nose.

  He slides his hand around my hip.

  “Not that public,” he says.

  “Just don’t let me talk you into doing so
mething we shouldn’t,” I say. “You know my track record with drinking when you’re around.”

  I’ve got one hand on his upper thigh and I can feel the hard muscles beneath the dark denim. It’s driving me more than a little wild.

  “I’m not sure I can be trusted with that kind of responsibility,” he says, grinning. “I don’t think you’ve got any idea how persuasive you can be.”

  “Oh, you can turn down a drunk girl,” I tease.

  “I can turn down most drunk girls,” he corrects me.

  I take another sip of some delicious beer.

  “You could turn me down,” I say. “Want to practice?”

  “No,” he says.

  I slide my hand up his leg anyway, but before I get to the zipper of his jeans he puts his own hand over mine and looks down at me.

  “You’re the one who doesn’t want to get caught,” he murmurs, our eyes locked.

  My spine liquefies.

  “I thought you didn’t want to get caught either,” I whisper.

  “I don’t want you to get fired,” he says. “I don’t care who knows about us otherwise. That was just in Oklahoma.”

  I swallow. All this sneaking around, all these rules and secrecy and hotel rooms across the city are just for my benefit.

  “Oh,” I say. “Thanks.”

  I don’t know what else to say.

  “It’s kinda fun playing Romeo and Juliet,” he says. “Sneaking around and shit, not getting caught.”

  “They died at the end,” I point out.

  “Then pick a happy story about secret lovers,” he says.

  I bite my lip and think. Jackson frowns.

  “Madame Bovary?” he asks.

  “I think she dies,” I say. “You’ve read Madame Bovary?”

  “I got hidden depths, Lula-Mae,” he says. “It can’t all be bulls, bourbon, and bunnies.”

  “What else don’t I know?” I ask.

  “I make an amazing pineapple upside-down cake,” he says. “I memorized my grandma’s biscuit recipe.”

  “What else?”

  “I think it’s your turn now,” he says, grinning. “I’ve got a reputation to uphold and my baking secrets can’t be getting out.”

  “My older brother used to buy my friends booze when I was in college and underage,” I say.