Chapter 3: Flynn

“Congratulations, Flynn!”

“You broke your record; how does that feel!?”

“Is this your official declaration of coming back to the sport, Flynn!?”

“That was a hell of a ride, buddy. Way to go.”

The people were chanting behind me in the stadium as I walked through the white hallways of the horse stalls and bullpens, and every time I rounded a corner someone wanted to shake my hand. People were thrusting microphones in my face and tape recorders to my mouth, all wanting a statement that confirmed for them that I was coming back to bull riding full time.

But I had no intentions of coming back to the sport full time. I just needed a ride every so often to get my rush of adrenaline.

“Mr. Flynn!? Is it true?! Are you back!?”

That’s the thing with the media: if you don’t give them an answer, they just make up one to get you to confirm or deny. I enjoyed owning the animals I did, especially the horses and bulls. I had a couple of dogs that helped me run around and field the few chickens I had, but my main animals were the rough stock for the exact rodeos I used to ride in. I’d had a few close calls in my time, and although it never stopped me from riding, I also knew that I didn’t wanna die with the last thing I saw was some bull’s balls in my face.

Who the hell wants to die with balls in their face?

So, I took to raising rough stock and training new riders. I took on horse riders and bull riders, and trained them on the same rough stock they would then use in the rodeos and roping contests. Some people tried to challenge and say that was illegal, like giving a member of a baseball team the chance to play with their competitors before the actual game. But all I did to navigate around that was enter in different livestock animals than the ones they trained on during the off-season.

Problem solved, and I got to keep my lucrative business.

I didn’t make a ton, but I made enough to keep myself and the ranch afloat. A man like me doesn’t need a fancy vacation or nice-looking clothes all the time. Who the hell is gonna feed the chickens in a three-piece suit?

I looked at the woman staring up at me, with her blonde hair and her blue eyes, and all of a sudden, I wanted to get back my trailer.

“Well? Are you, Mr. Rawlings!?” she asked.

“No, ma’am. I ain’t coming back to the rodeo. Just wanted to remember what it felt like to be in the ring again.”

“Will you ever let us see you ride again?” another reporter asked.

“Will you ever reconsider!?” the blonde woman asked. Her skin was silky smooth, like ice cream in a milkshake, and her eyes burned with the ferocity of a dedicated fan. She reminded me of someone I wanted to forget, and suddenly I felt an anger surge within my gut.

“I’m happy training and owning my animals. If you’ll excuse me, ma’am.”

I turned my back on her and walked away as memories of that night flashed behind my eyes. Memories of Chelsea tangled up in my sheets and the sounds our skin made brushing against one another. Memories of the way her eyes rolled into the back of her head and how her wet, silky pussy felt tightening around my cock. The night before she left me was the first night I’d really felt like I’d understood how emotions played into sex, and I knew I’d want to bury myself into her for the rest of my days if she’d let me.

I sighed a deep breath of relief when my trailer came into view, and I ripped the door open before I leaped up and pulled it closed behind me. The sounds of the stadium were swallowed by the metal frame of the moving home, and I flopped myself down onto the couch before I pressed the heels of my hands into my eyes. Even today, I could still conjure the way her legs felt shaking around my head, and it made my vision tremble just thinking about it. I groaned and put my elbows on my knees and started my deep breaths, trying to rid myself of the anger in the pit of my stomach as well as the tension growing behind my pants.

It was enraging, how the memory of her could shake me to my core while still churning the fire in my gut.

The truth was there had been no one like her since. Her big, bold eyes carried a certain independence that every farm girl around here seemed to carry, but her long blonde hair and her apple cheeks always lent her a face that seemed a bit younger than she really was. She had all the curves a farm girl developed: thick muscular thighs from riding horses bareback, a strong back and broad shoulders from throwing hay on the backs of trucks, and a tapered waist from twisting and heaving an ax through the air before bringing it down onto part of the trunk of a tree.

But my favorite part of her body was the paunch of fat she had sitting right behind her belly button. She always complained about that damn piece of fat, but I absolutely adored it. It fit the curve of my hand just right, and there was something about a hard-working woman with an appetite to match that set my pelvis roaring to life. She’d always shrug me off, but when I got her naked every single evening I could, I’d suck marks right onto that little bit of jiggle while she writhed and bucked underneath me just so she’d know exactly how much I loved it.

That was another thing about Chelsea that drew me to her, and that was her inability to keep control in the sack. She’d buck and drop just like every other animal I’d ridden on, and my practice with bulls in the ring helped me to ride with her instead of delaying her pleasure by making her lay still. See, most men can’t handle a woman like that: a vocal woman whose body lost control. They think a woman’s supposed to lay there and make these cute little squeaks before doting on how big his dick is.

But not Chelsea.

Her tongue was sharp, and her words were dirty, and her body would shake shimmy, and rock just as hard as mine in the bed. Sex with her was primal, like two animals stalking each other in heat. Chelsea knew what she wanted, she knew how to get it, and she let her body take control in order to see it through to the end.

A knock at my trailer door ripped me from my thoughts, and all I could do was groan before I leaned myself back into the couch. Some fucking reporter was still trying to get some statement from me, and my mind automatically went back to the reporter with the blonde hair and the blue eyes. Damn it, she looked just like Chelsea, and something told me that’s exactly who was banging down my door. The knock started soft, but it slowly grew in volume, and I knew that if I really wanted to be left alone, I’d have to get up and answer it.

“Just a sec!” I called out.

I heaved myself up from the couch, and I winced before a pressure descended between my legs. My pelvis was aching, and my bulging dick was straining against my chaps, and I figured I needed to go ahead and remove them if I was going to situate myself before throwing my trailer door open to someone. I ripped my chaps off as I ran through different things I could say to the woman, and I jammed my hands down into my pants and pulled my chub up against my body before I sighed in relief.

But then, the knocking became harder and more persistent.

“Jesus-... can y’all hold on a second!?”

I was gonna play nice, but this knocking was getting on my nerves. I heard the muffled sounds of the stadium roaring, and it was probably some other person who’d been thrown from a bull or something. See, there are three kinds of noises a stadium watching bull riding competitions makes: there’s the winner’s cheer, the “oh!” sound of someone falling off, and the shocked gasp when someone is about to get hurt.

I’d heard the winner’s cheer and the shocked gasp, but the sound the crowd was making now told me someone was falling off their bull.

And then, that damn knock turned right into a fucking police fist bang, and I’d had it with whoever was at my door.

“Now, I told you very nicely to hold on, and all you got to give me in return is-”

I ripped my door open and felt the breath leave my lungs. It was like someone had slapped me right across the face with a baseball bat full of nails. I clenched my jaw, and my fist bared down on the handle of the trailer, and as I studied the honey blonde hair and big, blue eyes in front of me, my mind suddenly went blank.

It’s wasn’t a reporter, and it wasn’t a fan. It wasn’t the bull inspector or a student, and it wasn’t even an assistant offering me another chance to ride for the crowd.

It was Chelsea.

Chelsea fucking August.

“Hey there, slugger,” she smirked.

And all I could do was stare.