Page 53 of One Last Rodeo
My whole-body lights up like someone flipped a switch. Because nothing about her body language was saying she wanted to leavethat guy. If anything, her body language was saying that she was settling in for a long night of darts and laughs, and I was preparing for a long night ofpain.
“Did he already pay?” I say, without asking her to elaborate on why she’s ready to go.
“I don’t want to be rude. He's a nice guy.”
My jaw ticks. When the hell has she ever cared about being rude?
“Better yet, I’ll pay. You go to my truck. I’ll cash you out.”
She laughs lightly. “You’re not having fun supervising my date,Dad?”
I lean in, voice dropping. “I’m not a daddy yet, but we can change that tonight.”
Immediate mistake.
I'm going to blame it on me being sober and having to watch her laugh with another man for the last two hours. I thought it would come across as teasing or flirty. It did not. It definitely came across as suggestive and highly inappropriate.
Her eyes widen. Her mouth parts in surprise. She blinks like I slapped her with a future that she didn’t sign up for.
Fuck.
“That came out wrong,” I say quickly, trying to recover.
I told myself I wasn’t going to disrespect her, wasn’t going to cross any more lines because I didn't want her to put back up those professional boundaries she likes to throw around. Yet here I am, sprinting through lines like I don’t see them, making completely inappropriate innuendos while she's on a date with another man.
She blinks again. She doesn’t look mad. That’s a good sign. But she does look surprised. I can’t get a read on what she’s thinking.
“It was a joke,” I add. "Sometimes I don't think before I talk, and often times I don’t know where a sentence is going to take me when I start it."
She clears her throat and straightens her shoulders. Her date comes back to their table and looks around the bar like he’s trying to find her. Fuck me. I really ruined the night.
“Let me...” she starts and pauses. “Let me go talk to him.”
Then she turns and walks away from me. No glance over her shoulder. No flirty smirk or promise she’s going to tell him goodbye. Nothing.
I sink into my barstool, hating how tight my chest feels, like someone’s cinched a belt around my ribs. I know I should probably get the hell out of here. Be a grown-up. Let her have her night. Let her date be her date instead of me groveling in the corner when I know I shouldn’t have her.
But I can’t. I can’t leave her. She’s in a new city. This is a first date for her. She barely even flirts unless she forgets she’s doing it. The thought of her navigating some random Nashville bar alone with a stranger who thinks tonight’s his lucky night? Not a chance.
What if he hurt her? Fuck, I'd never forgive myself for leaving her.
I watch as she anddress-up cowboyline up for another round of darts. She doesn’t look my way once.
Another woman approaches my table, touching my shoulder with long nails.
“Hey, handsome. Can I buy you a drink?”
“No.”
I don’t even turn to see what she looks like. I don't care. All I see is Catalina.
The woman scoffs and walks away. I let out a slow, steady breath, trying to think through how I can make this right.
Sometimes I wonder if that’s all I am to women. One reckless, wild night they check off their bucket list before going back to their real lives. They see the boots, the hat, the dust on my jeans. They see the “cowboy” aesthetic, whatever the hell Pinterest thinks that is, and they like it. They love the thrill of watching me when I’m in the arena, risking everything while their friends scream in the stands with my last name worn on their back. They get to claim me when I’m doing something public.
They like the danger, the edges of me that flirt with death and then come into their bed at night. They don’t give a shit if I wake up the next day. They don’t care whether I break something, or if my body hurts from a hard hit.
To them, I’m hands, tongue, and dick. I'm a story to tell years later when they’re old. Something to feel in the moment, not someone to choose.
