Page 17 of Maverick
“I’m not nitpicking the method. Nitpicking would imply that I was looking for microscopic issues in a broadly fine statement, and there was nothing okay about that.” She scowls. “I don’t understand why men need another man to come in and take ownership of a woman before another man will listen to them sayno.”
“I don’t either. But they do. That’s how the world works. I don’t have to like how it works to acknowledge that. I wish it weren’t that way. But there. It’s dealt with. And I guarantee you–” I look around. We’re drawing a lot of covert glances. Holt is definitely not the only one who has watched me stake a claim. “Yeah. You’re not going to get bothered. Might have sabotaged your plans, though.”
“It makes you look like a creepy old man,” she says, pushing away from me. She goes and sits at a table, and I figure I have to join her now. I go and get in the barbecue line, grabbing myself some baked beans, brisket, and coleslaw. Then I all but slam it down on the table next to her and take a seat. “I’m thirty-five, thank you very much.”
“I said what I said.”
“You have no idea how dirty I am.” Her eyes get wide, her cheeks going red. “Don’t dare me, Stella, it’s not going to end well.”
“You’re acting like I asked you to come over here.”
“You embroiled me. You embroiled me in this last night, and now you’re living in the consequences. It is what it is, little girl.”
“Don’t you care that people are going to think you–”
“I wasn’t kidding when I said I’m happy to confirm the villain narrative. You seem to think I give a single shit about my reputation. I don’t. The only thing I care about is winning. And making friends doesn’t help you win.”
“The only thing you care about is winning and apparently who I have sex with for the first time. Are you going to find me a candidate? Are you my cowboy pimp?”
“There’s an idea.” I dig into my plate of food.
I don’t say anything. I don’t feel like it’s incumbent upon me to keep the banter going.
“Why are you such an asshole?”
“Childhood trauma.”
“Did you want to talk about it?”
“No.”
“Then why are you sitting with me?”
“You know why. Don’t play stupid games.”
“Well. I’ve already played stupid games. And won very stupid prizes.”
I raise my head and grin. “The stupidest.”
“So… You nervous for tonight?”
I laugh. “No.”
“After Colt’s accident, didn’t you think…”
“What? Didn’t I worry that I could get injured? It’s always a possibility.”
“But didn’t seeing it like that…”
“No.” It made me think of other things. But not myself. Maybe because I have deeply fatalistic feelings surrounding my own physical safety. Who’s to say?
“I don’t ride bulls because I think it’s safe. Are you in the rodeo because you think it’s safe?”
“No. I’m in the rodeo to prove to my parents that I’m not a fuck up. That I can do things. That I am as good as my sister. That I matter… By the way, that’s a dumb thing to do.”
“Why is that?”
“Because you can’t use a yardstick people don’t acknowledge to measure yourself if you want them to think you’re enough.”
