by D. R. Graham
She glances at the stands and then over at Chuck and BJ. “I’m interested to learn about what you guys do for your pre-game warm-up, or whatever you call it. But I wouldn’t want to be in the way if I stayed.”
“You won’t be in the way. You’ll probably get bored watching us stretch, though. And you’re definitely going to wish you didn’t have to listen to Chuck’s inappropriate jokes. But you’re welcome to hang out here.” I pull out a fold-up lawn chair from the back of the truck and set it up for her.
“I won’t be bored, but I don’t want to mess up anybody’s routine by lingering.”
BJ hops off the tailgate and slides on his leather vest. “Making lewd comments to girls is part of Chuckie’s warm-up routine. And I personally perform better with an audience, so you’ll be doing both of us a favor.”
She looks over at me. “Are you sure I won’t be in the way?”
“Positive. Sit down.” I slide the chair over for her and then open my bag to grab my spurs and boot ties.
Chuck, who’s only wearing his compression shorts, sits on the grass to stretch his hamstrings. “So, Della. Back to our earlier conversation about how you’ll celebrate if any of us scores in the nineties; what kind of underwear are you wearing under that pretty dress of yours?”
“Shut up, Chuckie,” both BJ and I say at the same time.
“What? That is a legitimate question. If she’s going commando I’m about to have the ride of my life.”
I shake my head and shoot her a you-asked-for-it look. Either she’s inexplicably amused by his infantilism or she’s trying to prove that he can’t get to her.
Chuck and BJ both have good rides—seventy-nine and eighty-three. I’m up last. My horse is loaded in the chute. And I’m nervous as hell. I underestimated how having Della here would affect my performance. It almost feels like the first time I ever rode.
“Woo!” Chuck slaps my back and then hooks the latigo. “I hope Della is warming up for that commando back flip because I feel a ninety coming on. Show her how it’s done, Havie.”
Motivated by his enthusiasm I strap on my neck collar and climb into the chute. After pulling my hat down over my forehead I wedge my glove into my rigging, roll my fingers, and crack my arm back for a tight fit. Lean back. Heels up. Nod.
The gate opens and the world literally blurs. I pull my knees up and drag my spurs along the horse’s shoulders, hitting his rhythm. The crowd roars because they can sense it’s a good ride. Better than good. Eight seconds of ripping on a horse that’s bucking like a champion.
The buzzer goes and the pick-up horse nudges next to me. I slide over its backside and land on my feet. As I tip my hat, I scan the crowd. Della is bouncing up and down in the front row and whistling with her fingers in her mouth. I point at her and then turn to watch the scoreboard. Too bad she was joking about the back flip because my score is definitely going to be at least a ninety.
Chapter 7
Della
The boys are so excited about how well Easton rode. They are literally hooting and hollering as we pile out of Chuck’s truck and head to the front door of the bar. They ended up placing first, second, and third. Easton’s ride was apparently close to perfect and they are all pumped up. I have no idea what a good or bad technique is. But, even to me, it was obvious Easton was in control the entire time. And the horse was so powerful. At the start of the event, when the first two riders in a row fell off—one on his head—I couldn’t fathom why anybody would attempt to do something so painful and idiotic. Then Easton rode, and now, even though I have vicarious whiplash just from watching their heads being thrashed back and forth for an eternally long eight seconds, I can absolutely see why they love doing it.
The bouncer lets us pass without paying cover because the boys are rodeo contestants. The drinking age back home in Canada is nineteen, but in the three years since I’ve been legal, I’ve only been to a bar once before. It wasn’t really my scene during my undergrad since I don’t drink and can’t dance. And the prospect of picking up a stranger was nearly panic attack inducing back then. It still is. That bar was a techno-type dance bar. This one is a rustic country bar that could pass as a barn.
A house band with a female lead singer is on stage playing something twangy. I don’t know any country songs. Hopefully they don’t all sound quite that down home. Chuck asks us what we want to drink and heads over to the bar. He walks somewhat oddly, like an arrogant penguin with swagger. It might be a combination of the cowboy boots and a bronc riding groin strain thing, but BJ and Easton walk normally, so more likely it’s a Chuck thing. They hang out with me at a bar-height table that is designed for standing at. The band goes on a break and the DJ music they are replaced with is a million times better, even though I still don’t recognize the songs. Two girls who must already know the boys come over to congratulate Easton. There is a lot of arm touching and shoulder hanging going on from their end. Flirting doesn’t look too hard. I could do that.
Easton introduces me to them, but they’re more interested in talking to him. Obviously.
“Do you want to dance, Della?” BJ asks and extends his arm as an invitation.
“Oh. Uh.” No. That would be tragic. “I can’t dance. I mean physically I can move my limbs, but it would more closely meet the definition of a seizure than any modern definition of dancing. Even if I knew the song, which I don’t, it wouldn’t make a difference. Thank you for asking, but no.” I touch his arm to practice the flirty thing. It feels weird when I do it. I probably just creeped him out.
He nods to accept that I turned him down. And now there is an awkward silence.
“Really. Thanks for asking. I’m too klutzy. I would like to dance with you, but I lack rhythm. There is a good chance I’m tone deaf. One time at a family wedding I attempted the chicken dance with my sister and I knocked over a candle. It set the bride’s dress on fire. Literally. Flames.” I gesture with my hands to demonstrate the enormity of the inferno. “They had to use an extinguisher to save her life. It was awful. I was traumatized. So, yeah, maybe for your own safety and the longevity of the bar you should ask—” I point conspicuously over my shoulder at the red-headed girl who is talking to Easton.
“I can teach you how to dance, darlin’.” BJ wraps his hand around mine and leads me out to the dance floor.
I reluctantly follow, mostly because I know it will draw more attention to me if I flail and attempt to escape. Once we are on the dance floor I survey the surroundings for flammable objects. The coast is clear unless we get too close to that long horn thing on the wall.
“All right.” BJ faces me and rests his hands on my shoulders to make me square up. “I’m going to show you how to two-step. It’s real easy, basically just walking.”
“I’m not consistently good at walking.”
He chuckles and slides his hat back slightly as if he’s worried I’m going to knock it off his head. Probably a prudent move. “All you have to do is let me lead. Put your weight on your left foot.”
After a half-second delay to confirm with myself which is my left foot, I shift my weight.
He shifts right. “The first two steps are quick. Then the next two are slow. Like this.” He demonstrates on the spot and I copy him. “Now go ahead and turn in a circle by yourself – quick, quick, slow, slow. Quick, quick, slow, slow.”
I don’t know how to do that, so he does it. It’s technically more of a square, but it’s not actually that hard. It just feels a little embarrassing to do the four steps facing each wall of the room until I circle back to face him.
“See, you got it already,” he says encouragingly. “Now hold my hand with your right hand and rest your left hand on my shoulder.”
Wow. Holy cow. His muscles are simultaneously smooth and rock hard like the marble of a masterly carved Roman statue. No wonder the ladies are flocking around all the rodeo contestants. AKA specimens of the male physique. The giant flashy belt buckles they wear are like a beacon alerting the female specie
s to the treasures that lie beneath the plaid button-up shirt.
BJ positions my arms properly. “Start by stepping back with your right foot. Quick, quick, slow, slow.” He steps towards me and the momentum causes me to stumble because I forgot to step, but he stabilizes me so I don’t fall.
“Sorry.”
“It’s all right. Let’s try it again.”
I glance across the bar at Easton. He’s watching us with a smile on his face, even though the girl beside him appears to still be talking to him. Okay. I’m going to look like an idiot in front of everyone, but I want to learn how to dance. I exhale. Reposition my arms. And stare down at my feet.
“Don’t look down.” BJ lifts my chin with his finger. “Look at me, or over my shoulder. Your feet will do what they need to do without you looking at them.”
“You have a lot of faith in my feet. You probably shouldn’t.”
He smiles and waits patiently for me to get set. “It’s just walking to music, Della.”
I nod and close my eyes. “Okay. Go.” I step my right foot back. Quick, quick, slow, slow. I repeat the instructions in my head for every single step, and it only works with my eyes closed, but it’s fine because he’s ushering me around the dance floor in a circle. My knee bonks into his. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay. You’re doing good.”
I open my eyes and lose my timing. He pauses and waits for me. I glance at Easton again. He’s still watching, but he isn’t smiling anymore. Maybe he feels sorry for me. Or for poor BJ, who probably regrets taking on this assignment. And just got bonked in the knee again. I close my eyes again and repeat quick, quick, slow, slow as we dance, if it could be called dancing. Every once and a while he angles me slightly to the side, which I assume means we are side-stepping another couple. Or open flame. I don’t know because I haven’t opened my eyes. Whoops. That was his toe. “Sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it, darlin’. I get stepped on by hooves all the time. I can’t even feel your puny little feet.”
I open my eyes in an attempt to focus on his face while still moving. It maxes out my capacity for physical multitasking, but it feels rude to not look at him. “Thanks for being patient. How did you become such a great teacher?”
“I have two little sisters back in Houston. I helped my mom raise them.”
“Oh. That’s sweet. How old are they?”
“Ten and thirteen.”
“Aw. They must miss you.”
“Yeah.” He nods and swallows hard. “It’s been tough on them, but my mom wants me to finish my education. I only have one more year left, if I can keep my grades up. Then I’ll be able to get a job and support them financially, so they can pursue their goals.”
“That’s very sweet. I guess that’s why Easton told me you’re sensitive deep down.”
“He said that, did he?”
Oops. I shouldn’t have spilled that. “He also said you’re cowboy to the core. Tough. Manly. With a nicer truck than his.”
He laughs and steers me clear of the long horn on the wall. “You’ve turned that boy into a gabby gossiper. How’d you manage that?”
“I talk too much. I don’t know when to shut up. Evidently it’s contagious.”
BJ laughs again and spins me in a half-circle that requires my eyes to be closed to successfully execute.
When the song ends, he extends his arm across my shoulder and hugs me into his side. “You did it. Good job.”
I open my eyes and smile as we walk off the dance floor unscathed. He invites me to step in front of him and steers me by my shoulders through the crowd. “Thank you for being my instructor. How’s your knee?”
“I might need surgery, but it’s all right. At least you can dance now.”
“You have a very loose definition of dancing. I wouldn’t go quite that far.”
We both laugh as we return to the table. The two flirty girls are gone and Chuck is back, which might be directly correlated if he said something rude to them. “Rum and coke.” He hands BJ a glass. “Virgin strawberry margarita for the new roomie.” He hands me a towering pink slushie. “Nothing for me since I’m driving. And boring Corona for the big winner tonight.” He points at Easton. “The rest of the rounds are on you, by the way.”
I take a sip through the straw and the liquid burns my throat. “Whoa.” I cough. “Holy cow. That’s not a virgin margarita.”
“Oh, really?” Chuck acts all innocent and feigns disbelief. “The bartender must have made a mistake. Sorry about that.”
“Don’t drink it if you don’t want it,” Easton says. “I’ll get you another one.”
I glance at him and then back at the mountain of crushed ice. My parents don’t drink, which is why I never have. I could, though, I guess. I take another sip. Nope. Don’t like it. “Sorry. It’s not really my thing. But I don’t want it to go to waste.”
“It won’t.” Easton shoots a look across the table. “BJ can give it to the next girl he dances with.”
There was something different about Easton’s tone when he said that, as if it was meant to contain an underlying message. BJ smiles as if he knows exactly what the tone was designed to convey.
I slide the glass over to Chuck. “Thank you, but you should give it to someone who will appreciate it.” I touch Easton’s arm lightly but retract it the instant I realize I’m doing the flirty thing. I don’t want to creep him out. “I’m just going to get some water. I’ll be right back.”
He nods, and as I’m walking away, he warns Chuck not to try to slip me alcohol again. It’s not exactly a threat, but I’d take him seriously if he ever spoke to me in that tone. For someone who didn’t grow up with siblings he sure has the protective thing down. My sister would like him for that.
The line at the bar is ten people long. Is it stupid to wait just to ask for a glass of water? Maybe they have Perrier or something that I could at least pay for.
“Hey.” The girl behind me in line extends her arm to shake my hand. “You’re Della, right?”
“Yes.” I study her face, wondering when I met her. There aren’t a lot of females in my classes. I would have remembered if I had introduced myself to her.
“My name is Janine.”
“Oh. Chuck’s girlfriend. Nice to meet you.”
Her eyebrows lift in surprise as we move forward in line. “Chuckie called me his girlfriend? That’s interesting.”
“Oh, no, not exactly. Maybe I jumped to that conclusion. He was really excited to go see you for date night, so I thought you were his girlfriend. Sorry for assuming.”
Her expression registers something halfway between shock and disbelief. “He was excited about date night?”
“Yeah. It seemed like it.” Worried that I’ve already said too much, I step forward in the line and remind myself that less is more sometimes, especially in conversations with strangers.
“Well, that’s a first. All he usually does is complain when he’s with me. And I wouldn’t say I’m technically his girlfriend since I’ve never heard him use that word in reference to me.”
“Does he know you’re here? We’re just hanging out at a table over in the corner there.”
“No. I just got here. But even if he did know I’m here he’d ignore me for a while. He likes to celebrate with the boys after a win. Then after they’ve had a few drinks he’ll come over to find me and be all sweet and kissing up on me.”
“Well, that’s not what’s going to happen tonight. I’m already intruding on their celebratory boys’ night. You’re welcome to come hang out with me. He’ll just have to deal with it.” When we finally reach the front of the line I shout over the bar to order a Perrier, then turn to Janine. “What would you like?”
“Vodka and cranberry.”
I pay and hand her drink to her, very careful not to splash it on her white mini skirt. If I looked up the definition of country girl I would fully expect to see a picture of her. Big blonde curls. Baby-pink tank top with silver and turquoise jewelry
. Brown suede boots. Golden tanned skin and a cheerleader smile framed by dimples. Cute in every sense of the word.
She holds out a ten-dollar bill to pay me back for the drink, but I wave it off. “It’s my treat. You’re my first female friend in California, whether you like it or not.” Glad to have a gal pal, which is something I’m definitely more familiar with. I pull her by the elbow and escort her through the crowded bar. “Look who I found,” I sing out once we reach the table.
Chuck, who was in the middle of a joke, freezes mid-gesture and the smile drops off his face. “Hey, babe. When did you get here?” He reaches over and hugs Janine while shooting Easton some sort of dagger expression.
Easton chuckles and moves closer to me to make room for Janine.
“So, you girls met,” Chuck says with a tight smile that actually hints at a glimmer of panic. “That’s fantastic. Great. Really. Really great. So glad you met.”
Janine hooks her elbow around his but not in an affectionate way—more like a power move to take advantage of his obvious discomfort. “When you told me you have a new female roommate you failed to mention what she looks like.”
“Did I?” He points at me and then wipes his forehead with his sleeve. “That’s what she looks like. Short. Sort of pasty.”
“You mean beautiful.” Janine smiles at me, then turns her head back towards him. “How did it go today? Did you make some money?”
“Of course I made money. I always make money.”
“No, not always.” She pats his arm in a way that is a little too forceful to be considered loving. “Sometimes you fall on your head and you can’t remember that you didn’t make money. And sometimes you hit your head so hard you forget where you live and end up sleeping in someone else’s bed. Isn’t that right, sweetie?”
“Ha. You’re funny.” Chuck coughs and scratches the back of his neck as he downs the now partially melted margarita he bought for me. “You want to dance, babe?” he asks Janine as soon as he’s finished. Then without waiting for her answer, he stretches his arm across her shoulder and escorts her to the dance floor. She shoots a few directed warning glances at the other women in the bar and they all seem to accept that she has staked her claim on him and his buckle. It’s an impressive demonstration of the power of non-verbal communication.