Finders Keepers

The dance had been almost over, the music ending and couples trickling out of the gymnasium. My date was making out in the corner with some guy—not that I cared—and Jesse had just left Josie’s side to head to the bathroom, and I saw my opportunity. I knew it wouldn’t last, but I’d realized that, from then on, I’d only have Josie in stolen, fleeting moments.

Before I’d made up my mind, I was heading her way. She was leaning into the bleachers, waiting for Jesse. I realized that I’d give everything to have her one day waiting for me like she was him. I made a quick stop at the DJ’s, begged him to play one last special request, and once he’d reluctantly agreed, I went to Josie. I didn’t say a word; I don’t think I even smiled. All I did was grab her hands and pull her back onto the gym floor as Garth Brooks’ “The Dance” started to play.

“What are you doing, Garth?” she’d asked, giving me a careful but a genuine smile.

“Stealing you away,” I’d replied.

“Jesse’s coming right back.” She’d sounded like she was putting up an argument for why the whole last dance thing wasn’t a good idea, but her body wasn’t. She kept coming with me, her hands planted in mine.

When we’d reached the middle of the floor, I drew her close and looked her in the eyes. “Finders keepers.”

That night, that dance, that girl . . . had messed me up something fierce. In good ways, but mostly in bad ways. I had to watch the girl I’d grown up wanting be happy and in love with my best friend. The three of us still hung out, but nothing was the same after that dance. For Jesse and Josie, for Jesse and me, and for Josie and me as well. Everything changed in one night, and all I remember thinking was how badly I wanted to go back in time to the first time I set eyes on her on that bus and blurt, Choose me. Be mine. I know we’re only in kindergarten, but promise you’ll go with me to Homecoming our freshman year. Be happy and find love with me.

Those were the thoughts I was lost in when the chute flew open. Bluebell threw me with his first buck out of the gate. At least when I hit the ground, it was on my left side. My right side had already taken so many blows, I would be black and blue. I muttered a curse, sat up, and threw my hat. I’d gone from staying on four seconds last month to barely staying on two this month. Eight seconds of glory was not my friend.

“You spend any more time rolling in the dirt, and you’re going to turn into a pig,” Jason hollered from his perch on the fence.

I wanted to introduce him and his smiling pretty-boy face to my left hook, but I’d worked too hard lately to ruin it. Jason wasn’t worth it. Since I couldn’t let my fists do the talking, I let my talking take the jabs. “I thought your mom and sister already told you—I am a pig.” I lifted a brow and grinned cockily.

Shooting me a scowl, Jason leapt down and followed the other guys leaving the arena. “Excuse us, Black. The real bull riders are going to get a few drinks before getting laid.”

“Just so you know,” I hollered after him while standing, “your hand and imagination don’t qualify as getting laid!”

I knew he heard me, but he didn’t reply. Probably because I was right. That guy was getting laid about as frequently as I was lately. Which was a whole lotta nada. When I’d told Jesse how long I’d gone without sex after promising him I was up to the task—mostly—of being his best man, he was silent for a whole ten seconds before breaking into a fit of laughter that went another ten seconds. I guess me going weeks without getting laid was one of the funniest things he’d ever heard, but I wasn’t laughing. Neither was my dick.

“You want me to fetch you a bandage? Maybe an aspirin? A tissue?” Will crossed the arena, shaking his head. “It looks like you need all three, but all I really want to give you is a swift kick in the ass.”

“Your damn bull’s inflicted enough damage, so it’s only fair you have a go at me, too. Take your best shot.” I patted my ass at Will.

“As much as I’d love to kick it, I’d rather see that ass of yours stay on a bull for a whole eight seconds. Hell, I’d settle for the old four-second routine you had going a few weeks back.”

“And I’m paying you good money why? Coach,” I added with some sarcasm.

“To make what used to be a good bull rider into a f**king great one.”

“Hoorah,” I grumbled with a weak salute. I’d been a decent bull rider, but I wasn’t anywhere close to “good” anymore. If Will thought “great” was even an option for me, he’d been knocked in the head too many times.

“Son, you can be as big a smart-ass as you want, but it doesn’t change the fact that you came to me because you know I can help you be better.” I dusted myself off and lifted my eyebrows. Will chuckled. “Well, and you came to me because, in my day, I was one of the best. You don’t become the best without learning from one of them, right?”

“It seems the only title I’m capable of winning after training with the best is ‘the worst.’”

Will seldom found my humor funny. And by seldom, I meant never. His face ironed out. “Any time you’re ready to shut up and let me do what you’re paying me to do, I’m ready.” I clamped my mouth shut and waited. “You’re one hell of a rider. That’s as obvious as it is that you’ve convinced yourself you’re not. You come from good stock. Your daddy and his daddy before him were championship riders until a couple of accidents and a whole hell of a lot of booze got in their ways.”

“Thank you for bringing up the family tree. Always a thrill hearing about the line of a**holes I came from.”

Will stuck his finger into my chest and then my face. “The point I’m trying to get through your thick head is that you’ve got bull riding in your blood. That’s a point in your corner these others pretenders would sell their soul for.” After tapping me a few more times, he leaned back a bit. “But that’s not where your talent stops. You’re a hard worker, and you’ve got an intuition that few people in this sport have. I saw you ride back when you used to still be on top of that bull when the buzzer went off. You moved before the bull did every time, like you knew exactly what that animal would do a split second before he did. You have the intuition. You’ve got the golden ticket. It’s a hell of a shame you seem to have lost it.”

My mind went to a dark place. “I have a knack for losing things.”

“Listen, son, I don’t have a psychology degree, and even if I did, you’re not paying me to work on your head. You’re paying me to keep you on that bull, but in my professional opinion”—I gave Will a look. Professional opinion . . . no psychology degree, my ass. Will tapped my temple—“you need to fix whatever’s going on up in there before you’ll get back to your eight seconds of glory.”

“If I spend all of my time fixing what’s wrong up here”—I drilled my finger into my temple—“I’ll be dead of old age before I’m on a bull again.”

Will nodded, studying me. “It’s like you’re restless, son. So damn restless you can’t even manage to stay in the same spot for eight seconds. Whatever it is or whoever it is that’s messing with your head, you either need to let it go or grab hold of it. Once you figure that out, you’re going to be unstoppable. You’ve got what it takes. It’s in your blood and you’ve put the sweat and tears into it, so don’t let that God-given and God-taken ability go without a fight. Find that thing or that person that puts you at peace, and you’ll remember how to stay on the bull again.” Will went from straight-up preaching to turning his back and heading out of the arena.

“Thanks for the gentle, not-at-all confusing words of wisdom!” I shouted. “Doctor Will.”

He didn’t reply. He didn’t stop. He’d said what he needed to and kept going. I was ready to pack up my gear and get the hell out of there so I could get back to the Gibsons’—and Josie’s and my bedtime ritual—when a loud rattling from a certain bull that’d worked its way into one of the chutes changed my plans.

After retrieving my hat from across the arena, I marched toward Bluebell with determination and a steely glare that damn bull returned. I didn’t know who hated the other more, me or Bluebell, but the hate feelings were definitely mutual. I hadn’t made it to the underbelly of life by making good choices. However, I hadn’t made it to the underbelly of life alive by making really bad choices either. What I was about to do might have qualified as a really bad choice, though.

But right then, I didn’t care. All I could think about was me, a bull, and eight seconds.

Someone had left the gate from the holding pen to the chutes open, explaining how Bluebell had made his way into one of them. What I couldn’t explain was why he chose to go into one. All of the bulls needed at least some—or a lot of—encouragement to slide into the chutes. But Bluebell . . . hell, the bull had worked its way into one of its own accord, and he practically had a smile on his frothy, ugly mug. Damn bulls. If they weren’t part of the deal, I’d want nothing to do with a single one of them.

Sliding my hat on, I climbed the gate and managed to work the bull strap back into position. God, I was an idiot. Bull riding might be an individual sport, but it required a team of people to actually carry out. Mainly because it took everything the rider had just to stay on. Forget about throwing open the gate, prodding the bull out if it needed it, distracting it when the cowboy flew off, and coaxing it down into the holding pen. I’d been told more than once that I had the ego of ten men and the stupidity of twenty. Let’s hope the ego was riding that night, not the stupidity.

Bluebell snorted as I crawled on. Once I had a good grip, I grabbed the rope that opened the gate and got ready to pull it. Before I did that, I cleared my head. It took a few seconds, long enough for Bluebell to let out another series of snorts, but finally, my head was empty. No dreams, thoughts, or memories of Josie. I was Josie free. Time to ride. I pulled the gate at the same time I opened my eyes. The first thing I saw when they opened? Josie. The second thing I saw? The floor of the arena.

I hit hard. Harder than the times before, and I’d barely made it out of the gates. I’d gone from bad to being an insult to the sport.

“Holy shit! Please tell me you’re not dead!”

I wasn’t sure which was more comforting: knowing I hadn’t conjured up some imaginary Josie or that I still had use of my legs. “Not dead. Not yet.” I spit out more dirt as I sat up.

“Not paralyzed, mortally wounded, or internally bleeding either?” Josie stood across the arena on the other side of the fence with a look of horror on her face. She’d seen me ride plenty, but riding a bull was a hell of a lot different than cartwheeling off of one.

“Now, Joze, why would you be so concerned about me being paralyzed? Is there something of mine you might be interested in keeping in good working order?” Even giving her a tilted grin hurt. Once I finally managed to stay on that bull for eight seconds, I would eat Bluebell steak for a straight year.