Page 8 of Eight Seconds

I open my mouth to defend myself. A swift poke of Rayna’s finger makes the words curl up and die on my tongue.

“I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with it. Iamsaying that Charlotte knows about it, and that type of fuckery is exactly why she’s never on the dance floor. Why, until tonight, you didn’t even notice her.”

Rayna’s right. I’ve been on this circuit for three years, and I can’t think of a single time I’ve seen Charlotte.

“In his defense, isn’t this Charlotte’s first season after the juniors’?” Travis steps up for me, but even as Rayna glares at him, I know she’s right.Thisseason is almost a month old, and not once did I see the ebony hair I know I’ll be dreaming about tonight.

“You’re right,” I concede, rubbing at the spot that feels a little tender from her strong finger. “But I wasn’t looking for her. I am now. That girl is something else, Ray.”

“Damn right, she is,” Rayna acknowledges. “She’s determined to win the title this year. And aside from the wild amount of talent she has with Rooney, I think it’s her spirit that’s going to make her impossible to beat. I’ve been around riders and ropers my entire life, dedicated, talented people—she puts all of them to shame.” She shakes her head in awe. I lean in closer, finding I feel a little desperate for these crumbs of information about Charlotte.

“We watched her race tonight.” I gesture between Travis and myself. “Left an impression. At least a better one than I did.”

“You really want to make an impression on her, Wilder?” Rayna scoffs. I nod, the realization that my interest is going to last longer than the next sunrise barely registering. Rayna purses her lips, the information I want sitting just behind them as she weighs my worthiness. When she blows her lips loose, I stand a little taller. “Don’t get in her way.”

* * *

I make it back to my trailer after a round of beers with Travis. The beautiful brunette, who immediately returned to his lap at the table, introduced me to her blonde friend, who wasted very little time making her interest clear. I indulged her innuendo-laced questions, the fingers that trailed up and down my bicep, and the repeated commentary on the band’s song selections, but I politely sidestepped her less-than-subtle offer to make sure I got back to my rig. Unlike most nights for the past few years after a rodeo, the idea of leaving with her was unappealing. I craved the emptiness of my trailer and the space to sift through the complicated thoughts swimming in my head.

After locking the little door behind me, I hang my hat on a hook before collapsing on the bench seat of the eat-in kitchen, wrestling with my boots. When I’m free of the worn leather, I set them on a tray by the door, mindful to keep the dust and dirt off the beige carpeting as much as possible. I stand with a small groan before releasing the buttons on my shirt cuffs and undo the line of them down the middle, leaving the two front pieces to hang loosely as I set about opening one of the pantry doors. I extract a package of Cup O’ Noodles, peeling the wrapper and filling it to the waterline. With my dinner spinning in the microwave, I work my belt buckle free, the heavy silver hitting against the button of my jeans when I pop it loose. At the indication that the noodles have cooked, I pull them out and grab a fork from the top drawer, impatiently slurping the too-hot food.

“Ah, shit!” I try to inhale air to cool the bite while keeping everything in my mouth, pushing the noodles around with my tongue and cussing when they burn a new spot. I wander around my small trailer, repeating the poor decision until the cup is empty. Eating most of my meals while standing next to the sink is an unglamorous part of rodeo life, but as I look out the window at the collection of other trucks, trailers, and motorhomes that fill this dirt lot, I can’t think of any life I would rather live. My eye snags on the corner of a familiar silver trailer, one I hadn’t noticed or visited before tonight. Now, I can’t help but stare at it and wonder what Charlotte is doing.

The entire night replays as I undress and slide under the worn covers of my bed at the back of the trailer. The mattress is comfortable but cool, the space feeling a little big and empty tonight. I think of raven hair and emerald eyes. A warm, curving body pressed against mine in the dusty barn, slotted against me with near perfection, like two magnets finding each other. A wicked tongue lashing my ego with deadly precision, the sting more amusing and arousing than awful. I hum a little as I think of the fierceness of the cowgirl in ribbons and braids who couldn’t see over my shoulder if she weren’t wearing her boots.

“Don’t get in her way.”

Rayna’s warning douses the pleasant and teasing memories of Charlotte with a flashing red light. It bathes my thoughts with unease and insecurity. I consider everything I said and did tonight, concerned that I’ve already dug myself too deep to recover. The parts of myself I let her see might not be enough to make up for the usual mask I wear. It’s become second nature—the bravado and lies I hide behind to keep people from getting too close. I barely fought against it when I was with her tonight. But the truth is, I lied to Charlotte earlier, and unlike the times I’ve done it with women in the past, tonight it stings.

I was never the salutatorian of my high school. Homeschool class or otherwise. I didn’t even finish high school. I ran away from a controlling and dangerous father at the age of fourteen and never looked back. The man who was partially responsible for my existence was also a world-class asshole and drunk. He drove my mother away before I was in kindergarten and gave a consistent, daily effort to see our family’s farm reflect the desolate darkness that comprised his soul.

I count myself lucky every day that I looked older than my age, allowing the farmers and ranchers in neighboring counties to take a chance on me and hire me for seasonal work until I found a local rodeo nearly two years later. Curtis Stanton changed my life the night I watched him ride. He found me a place to call home in Colorado, three states away from my father, not that my father ever came looking, and started teaching me everything he knew when he came back to town and stayed a while.

But I don’t make a habit of thinking about my childhood, and I actively avoid conversation that touches on anything beyond my choice to ride murder horses for money. Lying about my past comes easily to me because I never bother to try connecting with anyone beyond what they can give me for a night. Travis is an exception, not only because he’s not my type, but because the asshole never leaves me alone.

As if summoned by my thoughts, my phone chimes from the small bedside table, a text from the closest approximation of a best friend I have.

Travis

If you’re thinking of ignoring Rayna’s warning, and I’d bet you are, she says Charlotte’s next race is in Kansas City. She likes to get in a day early and practice at sunrise.

Me

Of course, she does. Good thing I’m going to Kansas City and can brew a good cup of coffee.

Travis

Your coffee is shit. Good luck.

5

CHARLOTTE

KANSAS CITY, MISSOURI — EARLY MAY

“Rooney, I swear to God, if you try to eat my hair one more time...”

My horse nickers at me as though he doesn't believe my toothless threat. Probably because he knows I would never do anything, but my patience is wearing thin when I feel the little tug at the end of my ponytail. This happens every time I wash my hair. I’m sure the peach scent is too much for a horse to resist investigating. I shouldn’t be annoyed at something I am completely capable of fixing, but I refuse to change my shampoo. It’s my favorite. I don’t tend to get wrapped up in many “girlie” things living the rodeo life, but my hair is the only exception. Between traveling, competing, and the general work that my job calls for, I like to indulge in expensive shampoo and colorful accessories. Ribbons, flowers, and barrettes put a smile on my face and add a flash under the arena lights. Last night, after driving into Kansas City, I took an obscenely long shower in the campground, spending a long time washing and conditioning before returning to my trailer to give the wet strands a delicate blow dry. It also had the added benefit of washing away any remaining discomfort from spending a week at my parents’ place.

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