“Welcome to Madison Square Garden!” the announcer booms, and the audience cheers. I grin to myself and tug on Becca’s hand. “C’mon, I reserved some really good seats up front.” Perks of being an employee, right? I rarely use this particular perk, but being able to see Chase in action?

I don't want to miss a moment of it.

Becca jerks her head at Lisa and Ashley, who seem a little overwhelmed by the amount of people in rhinestone and cowboy hats and boots, all crowded into one arena. It’s true that it isn’t something you normally see in New York City, but hell, I had my own boots and cowboy hat on. I couldn’t exactly make fun of everyone else wearing them.

I may’ve just bought mine yesterday, but nobody needs to know that.

Oh, and lots of rhinestones on my ass. It’s my best feature, and I want to draw attention to it. Maybe later on, Chase will give it some attention too. I grin to myself. Sex with Chase was just as amazing as I knew it was going to be, times a thousand.

And thank god, no suit in sight.

We slide into our seats just as the announcer starts in on the first round – cowgirls doing barrel racing. Ugh. I am not here for the cowgirls, that’s for damn sure.

I turn away from the flashing costumes to listen to Becca while we all wait for the calf-roping event. The real reason to attend a rodeo. Well, a calf roping event with Chase in it.

“Oh my god, first we did it in the shower, then in the bed, then on the couch, then…”

Okay, so honestly, I’m trying to pay attention, but listening to Becca talk about fucking Jason is just…meh. How she could look at Jason and Chase side by side and somehow be attracted to Jason is beyond me.

“His dick isn’t that big,” she says, and my ears finally perk up.

She holds her hands out about six inches apart. “I mean, you know, average.”

I try to hide my smirk, although I’ll admit, I didn’t try very hard.

To think, just a few days ago, I hadn’t believed Lisa and Ashley when they told me that their boyfriends had 12-inch dicks. Now that I’ve seen one in person…and felt it in me…I’ll never go back.

I guess you could call me a 12-inch convert.

But, I haven’t told the girls that Chase and I fucked. I don’t know why; it just hasn’t come up yet, I suppose. I mean, he’s only here for the rodeo and he’s probably going to be leaving soon, so I’m obviously not getting attached to him…he’s just my fuck buddy.

And I don’t have to tell my friends about every fuck buddy I get, right?

My phone starts ringing – “Working Overtime.” Dammit. That means that it’s someone from the MSG calling me. Turning away from Becca, still going on about all of the places her and Jason have fucked – with his very average dick – I answer.

“Carla, we have a mess down here.” Thomas’ voice is sharp and panicked. “Can you head to the judges' booth for a minute? We need some help sorting this out.”

Double dammit. How is it that these people know how to get themselves out of bed every day? They don’t seem to know how to make the smallest decisions without me.

With a sigh, I tell him I’ll be right down; there’s no use pretending I’m in bed or sick or something, considering he can hear the echo of the announcer right in his ear, and I tell the girls I’ll be right back.

I hope I’ll be right back.

I head up and out of the bleachers, and toward the judges’ stand, wondering what the major malfunction is. If I'm getting dragged all the way down there so I can help them figure out where the pencils are, I swear to god, heads are going to roll. Doesn’t anyone know the words “day off” around here? I shouldn’t be surprised; sometimes, I think they have a tracker in my cell phone and can tell that I’m at the MSG, even when I’m just attending as a regular customer.

Sigh.

“Watch out, lady!” someone yells, and my head jerks up. Oh god, oh god, oh god. Right in front of me are some giant-ass horses! I realize that they’re moving the wild horses to another pen, and fuck—I must’ve taken a wrong turn somewhere along the way, because I’m smack dab into the middle of them.

A white one, the giant beast closest to me, rears back on its hind legs, and the memory of Chase on the streets of New York flashes through my mind. Except this time, I don’t have my mace, and I don’t have my Chase.

With a shriek, I throw up my arms and drop to the ground in a panic.

Twice in one week, I’m in danger of being trampled to death by a horse in New York City.

Seriously, what are the chances?