Page 31 of Sexting the Cowboy
Ford makes the get-moving motion he learned from me and now uses on me. I look back at Annie because not looking feels like leaving money on a table. She’s already tossing gauze into the bin, pretending she doesn’t feel me watching.
“Thanks, Doc,” I say.
She nods without smiling. “Try not to bleed on my floor again.”
“No promises.”
I push through the flap, and the heat hits me like a wall. Ford launches into numbers and schedules, and which sponsor wants a picture of me shaking a hand I don’t want to shake. I make the right noises at the right times because that’s part of the job. Blaze walks on my other side like a guardian angel who drinks. The air is dust and kettle corn and roasted meat and the electricity that comes before anything worth watching.
But my mind is not where it should be.
We pass the lemonade stand and the same kid from yesterday sings out that he’s got pink if I want it. Ford says something about post-ride availability and Blaze points at a boy she plans to make nervous later. I nod and smile and carry on like a man who isn’t thinking about how close a mouth can be without being dangerous.
Almost is a mean word. It pretends to be a mercy. It’s not. It’s a dare.
I touch the edge of the bandage with my clean hand and feel the pull underneath. The glue will hold. So will the strips. So will the part of me that learned a long time ago to save the risk for the dirt and keep everything else civilized.
When it comes to Annie, I don’t want to be civilized.
But as Ford yanks my attention back to the schedule, and Blaze asks if I want a drink, and a kid calls my name for a selfie, I promise myself one thing. I’m going to find Annie again when the gate is closed and the crowd goes home. I’m going to find the moment we almost took and see if it’s still there when nobody’s watching.
For now, I nod at numbers, step back into the lane that leads to the chutes, and let the noise wrap me the way it alwaysdoes—familiar, loud, easy to ride. My shoulder tugs once like a reminder that I’m not made of myth. My swagger fits anyway. Pride goes before a fall.
But I fell. I got up. I’m fine.
And I’m thinking about a woman who told me so.
9
ANNIE
The smellof coffee wakes me before the sun does. Not the cheap kind they brew in the concession stands, but the good stuff—dark roast with a little chocolate at the edge. For a second I think I’m dreaming, but then the tent flap lifts and Mac walks in, holding two cups and wearing the smuggest grin on earth.
“Morning, doctor of the year,” she says, sliding a cup across my desk. “I figured you earned caffeine that doesn’t taste like gasoline.”
“You’re an angel,” I groan, reaching for it. The first sip burns just right. “How are you even functional this early?”
“Trade secret. I also never went to bed.”
“Of course you didn’t.” I laugh, then lean back in my chair, eyeing her camera strap looped across her shoulder. “You filming already?”
“Sunrise shots.” She shrugs. “There’s something cinematic about cowboys in the mist.”
“If you ignore the smell.”
She grins. “Admit it, you love it here.”
“I tolerate it here,” I say, lifting the cup in salute. “Because caffeine exists.”
She drops into the chair opposite mine, still smiling. “You look better today. Less murder-y.”
“Thanks.”
“Long night?”
“You could say that.” I fiddle with the edge of my cup, avoiding her eyes.
Mac tilts her head, reading me like the open book I wish I wasn’t. “You’re thinking about someone.”
