Page 22 of Maverick
I don’t feel like going out, but that makes me feel like I should go. Because what am I going to do otherwise? Sit in my trailer feeling sorry for myself? Feeling like a virgin who can’t even get to a championship? Yeah. Not in the mood.
What I try not to think about then is how it hasn’t even occurred to me to try and hook up with anybody since my poker game escapades. Because my brain has been stuck on Maverick, and honestly, I’m not a huge fan of that reality.
“Sure,” I say. “Is there a group walking over?”
“Yes,” says one of the other girls – Cam, who won tonight. She smiles at me. “You did great. It’s just bad luck that you knocked that barrel over the other night. The rest of us would’ve been chasing you if not for that. And I know that Colt getting injured affected you.”
“Thanks. But don’t try to downplay your win. You were amazing.”
“Yeah. I’m sad Colt’s not here because I would’ve liked to celebrate with him,” she says, smiling.
I fight the urge to roll my eyes. I should be used to it. Everyone was all over Dallas and Colt. When they were here. And so it doesn’t surprise me that there is some sadness that they’re not here for the celebrations.
I shove my hands in my pockets, and four of us start to move toward the driveway in a small pack.
“Did you ever sleep with Colt?”
I jerk my shoulders into a straight line. “No.”
“You slept with Maverick, though, didn’t you?”
Oh. Great. The rumors have spread. Technically, I did sleep with Maverick like we were an Amish couple bunking up during Rumspringa.
“Yeah,” I say, looking straight ahead.
“He’s scary,” Cam says, shivering slightly. “Colt seems nice.”
“Coltisnice,” I say. “Which is why he’s one of my best friends.” And also makes me wonder if it’s why I never…
I don’t like that at all.
Do I like Maverick because he’s mean? Because he’s scary and dark and a project? As if my own life isn’t messy enough that I would need to fixate on a man who is – putting it nicely – disastrous.
I should be kinder to myself. I try to think of a very nice guy who remains in the circuit that I could maybe… It doesn’t have tobe a bull rider. We are all drawn to them, I feel like it’s a function of biology. It is that measure of danger. The risks that they take, and then that’s just dumb, because in an evolutionary sense, who wants to pass down genes like that? Not that our sex drives are entirely linked to those kinds of things anymore, I don’t believe, but it does seem foolish.
And yet, here we all are.
There are some good-looking bronc riders. And tie-down ropers, frankly.
I just can’t think of any right now, because Maverick’s face is looming large in my mind’s eye.
That’s just annoying.
“Ouch,” one of the other girls, Elizabeth, laughs. “That’s damning with faint praise.”
“He definitely doesn’t deserve faint praise. He’s the nicest guy.”
“Sometimes I think nice guys are overrated.”
“They aren’t,” I say. “Especially when they’re actual nice guys and not nice guys in the way some of them are. The self-proclaimed ones. But…”
“Are you going to hook up with Maverick again?”
This is treading closer to being a lie. Because we did sleep together, we didn’t hook up.
I grit my teeth, not quite sure what to say, but before I have to worry about it, the neon sign for the Prickly Cactus comes into view, and everyone is distracted by what drinks they want to order.
The bar is overflowing. There are celebrations occurring in all corners, and there are pockets of people from Buckle Bunnies to Rodeo Royalty, rodeo employees, riders, and attendees. And I decide to just let all the drama go. This is the fun part. I’m not injured. And I’m not trapped underneath my parents’ expectations anymore. Maybe I don’t feel as accomplished as Iwant to. Maybe I don’t feel like I’m getting where I need to go just quite yet, but I’m here. And this bar is cool. There are metal cacti placed all around the room, and there’s a mechanical bull at the back of the building. Neon is everywhere, and the jukebox in the back is blaring country music. Sometimes I feel like an interloper in this culture.
