CHAPTER 31
Emmett
TONIGHT I’M SUPPOSED to eliminate another dater.
But first I get to endure the distinct pleasure of meeting all four women’s families, or friends—whoever they opted to introduce to me. Which is a fucking joke, because why would any of them want to introduce their family to me after my disinterest throughout this entire process.
Richard has arranged for all this to occur at the local rodeo this weekend, and I swear it’s to inflict maximum embarrassment. Now that someone has leaked the show, he’ll film anywhere with zero regard for my preferences.
I’ll also be doing a bull-riding demo. It wouldn’t be fair for me to compete at this level now. My days of tossing my hat in the ring on the local circuit are far gone, but it’ll make for good TV, or whatever the fuck Dick Wad always says.
I’m sitting at a picnic table, waiting to meet Catherine’s mom and best friend while the crew looks on. When they approach, I stand politely and shake their hands.
If I had to pick a favorite of the girls, it would be Catherine. She’s quirky, interesting, and kind. She’s not the hair-pulling type, either—for that, she gets extra respect.
We sit at the table with a pitcher of iced tea, a red and white umbrella fluttering lightly above us. The cameras surround us, but after this many weeks I’ve grown used to them.
We mostly chat about Catherine’s favorite topics, murder and kidnapping, along with a little light stalking. All in a day’s work when you’re pretending to date someone who’s obsessed with true crime.
Much like me, her mother and her friend seem charmed by her interests, and I find myself relaxing and enjoying their company. The crew must notice because
Teri shoots me a double thumbs-up and a big grin, like she’s thrilled about whatever footage they’re getting.
I wonder if it ever leaves them feeling empty, that they’re forever producing the perfect scene.
I get a few questions about my intentions with Catherine, and it’s awkward as fuck. I can’t tell them the truth, that I’m just not interested in her that way.
So I settle on explaining how I’m still getting to know Catherine. I tell them I have a huge amount of respect for her and love how her brain works. I say that I admire the way she conducts herself on the show. It’s not overly flowery, and it’s definitely not some sort of declaration of love, but it is true, which is more than I can say for my next few family meetings.
The crew moves me to the next spot where I meet Jada’s family. I disassociate for most of the conversation and resort to saying things like, “It’s been a pleasure getting to know your daughter. And I can’t wait to see where this takes us.”
I keep it vague and distant, which is exactly how I feel about the whole thing.
When I move on to Akira’s family, I feel like a walking, talking zombie that tries to tell them the things they want to hear, that smiles at the right times, and laughs at their lame jokes.
I’m sure her dad picks up on it. His distaste for me is clear in every facial expression, but I don’t have the grit to rally. By this point in the day, my brain has spiraled into thinking about the only person who seems to hold my attention these days—Julia Silva.
She consumes me. It’s not fair to any of these women or their families. But what am I supposed to do?
I’ve tried to get her out of my head, but it never lasts. It’s a constant battle.
While on camera, I try not to search the crew for her, but that’s a challenge.
Time apart combined with the way she stepped in when Carl was reaming me in his typical way has only intensified my attachment to her. His explosions are short-lived if you just grin and bear them, but no one has ever been there to stop them.
Until her. And she did it so effortlessly.
For a minute there, I bought her act. Until she locked the door and hugged me.
She squeezed me hard enough that every other thought fled my brain—save for
the ones about how good it felt to be held by her.
It made me want to take her back to my cottage and show her how consumed I am with her. Hell, I’d have settled for following her around for the rest of the day.
But I couldn’t.
When we separated, she didn’t prod me about my dad. She didn’t even address the incident, save for jokingly offering to kill him. Instead, we had a quick discussion about which rodeo would be best to set up a demo at and parted ways like true professionals.
We’ve kept our distance since then. Just like we promised over diner omelets and black coffee. Sure, we slipped that afternoon in the tack room.
But we course corrected.
Neither of us is oblivious to what’s at stake.
Now, with three of the four meet and greets out of the way, I prepare myself for the riding demo. Richard has left Evelyn’s family for the end of the night. He said something about saving the best for last, but I’ve begun tuning him out and didn’t care enough to hear the rest.
The barrel racers have gone. The steer wrestlers have gone. Hell, even the kids riding sheep have gone. And now, as soon as the competing bull riders have wrapped up, I’ll do one ride for show.
Through the speakers, the announcer explains bull riding. The way it’s scored and what it entails, because this rodeo always brings out spectators who don’t really know what they’re watching.
I walk toward the holding pens, and I can see the crew, the women, and their family members scattered throughout the stands. Behind the scenes, everyone knows me by name, but I barely recognize anyone. It’s been too long, and I’ve avoided these events like the plague just to keep my distance from Carl.
Darkness falls over the rodeo grounds, and the rodeo workers light the arena with large overhead floodlights. I watch a few of the younger riders go, offering them tips and encouraging words before I get myself dressed and warmed up. I strap on my chaps, my vest, my helmet, my gloves—everything I have is littered with sponsorship logos.
Most of the guys riding here can only dream of competing at the same level as me. And hell, one or two of them might make it. Mostly, what they’re going to get
are head injuries and bad knees.
Who knows, maybe if they’d had Carl on their ass every step of the way, they’d make it further. Fucked-up as it sounds, enduring Carl has been worth the success it’s brought me. I’m a fierce competitor, unapologetic, focused, and willing to tolerate an abusive parent all because I love winning.
It’s damn near impossible to make it to the top of the sport, but even without an asshole for a dad, I’ve had unmatched natural talent on my side. Balance, inherent coordination, strength and stamina from days on the farm, mental toughness that doesn’t allow me to overthink. It’s all served me well. Some people might say admitting that makes me cocky—I say it makes me realistic.
I channel that arrogance as I make my way toward the pens, not feeling the least bit nervous.
Until I catch sight of Julia. Curly hair, baggy jeans, a cropped T-shirt, and a pair of sneakers.
I feel like in her mind she’s dressing not to impress, flying under the radar. But it doesn’t work on me.
She could wear this outfit, the denim minidress, or that red dress. She could wear a paper bag or a barf-covered sarong, and I’d pick her out of a crowd.
Either way, her presence here sets me on edge in a way I’ve never felt before.
I push away the nerves as I hop up onto the metal fencing bordering the chute.
People are talking to me, giving me instructions, directing me, but I tune most of it out. This is all second nature to me.
I drop onto the bull in the narrow pen, and it jostles me, eager for the gate to flip open and set him free. I’m not worried, though. This isn’t a WBRF bull, and that’s where all the best bulls end up.
I wrap my hand, heating the resin on the rope. The motion lulls me into a certain sense of peace and familiarity. As I zone out, I enter a headspace where everything else falls away.
This always happens. Years of practice coming together in a perfect symphony.
The moment flows from there. I secure my gloved hand and feel slaps on my shoulders.
The announcer’s voice crackles on the speaker. I hear my name. Bush, not Brandt. For a moment, I’m transported back to my teenage years. Being hauled
from rodeo to rodeo. As much as I hated spending time with Carl, I fucking loved
riding bulls.
I still do.
It’s one of the few things that no one can take away from me. I’m good at this.
Hell, I might be the best.
I glance down at one of the rodeo cowboys surrounding me and give a quick nod, signaling for him to pull the gate open. And he does.
The bull shoots out. But it doesn’t turn hard or try to get rid of me in any overly dramatic way. It’s easy fun, and I smile as the bull bucks beneath me, mostly in a straight line. It’s just like the bulls of my childhood. It’s where I came from. And I enjoy the hell out of the moment.
Hand in the air, heels kicking back to see if I can make it buck just a little harder, the eight seconds come easily. When I jump from its back, I land on my feet in the center of the ring, and one of the clowns pulls the black bull away from me.
The crowd cheers, and people shout my name. I ignore all of them, because it’s Julia, standing at the outgate and grinning at me, that draws me out of the ring. I swear she bounces on her feet as I toss her a wink.
God, I can’t help it. I’m like a moth to a flame where she’s concerned. I make a beeline toward the exit—in her direction—but I’m intercepted.
By Evelyn and her family.
She squeals, jogging straight into the ring and wrapping me in a hug like we’re actually an item. Her parents stand by the fence line, watching placidly.
I wonder if they know she’s certifiable.
“Oh my god, you were amazing!” she shouts, buzzing with excitement.
I pull back, giving her a simple “thank you” while my eyes dart over her head, to where Julia stands.
She looks substantially more subdued than she did mere seconds ago. No smile. No bounce.
My brows drop in concern, and Evelyn must notice because she pulls me away.
Her hands grip the sides of my head, and she tries to pull me down into a kiss.
I shoot back, pushing her away harder than is necessary. But I’m startled by her audacity. I just hopped off a bull, and this woman I barely know is trying to kiss me, right here, right now, in front of everyone.
Including Julia.
I’ve kissed her once already while looking at Julia. While wishing she was Julia.
Something that will never happen again.
“What the hell?” she says, looking offended.
But I don’t care. I step back even farther.
“What’s wrong?”
I bark out a disbelieving laugh and throw caution to the wind. I blurt out what’s been on my mind for weeks. “What’s wrong? What’s wrong is that you have zero respect for my boundaries. What’s wrong is you’re all over me at every turn. Read the fucking room, Evelyn! You’re only here because—”
I’m on the verge of telling her that she’s only here because Richard wants her to be.
But like I thought him into existence, Richard storms into the sand ring, his dress shoes slipping as he struggles to gain purchase. I blink, startled by his presence. I was so in the zone with my ride that it’s as though I forgot about him and the cameras entirely. Riding bulls is natural for me. So is finding Julia in a crowd. But putting on a show for the cameras is as unnatural as it gets.
“Emmett,” he practically shrieks. “Get back out there and redo this take, right fucking now!”
I glare back at him, offering a simple, flat, “Over my dead body.”
Then I check beyond him, wanting to make sure that Julia hears this part… but she’s gone.
My stomach plummets. I feel fucking sick. I feel out of control and undone.
My chest hurts. My head hurts. My stomach hurts. And all I can think about is her.
Where Julia is now and how upset she must be.
I spin on Richard. “New rule, Dick Wad. No physical contact unless both parties are into it. You’re going to stop telling these girls to put their hands in my pockets or kiss me or rub my back. It’s fucking weird. It’s fucking uncomfortable.
I fucking hate it. So, stop. Game over.”
Richard steps in close, dropping his voice to a venomous hiss. “This game is only over when I say so. You signed a contract. This is the job, boy. Suck it up.
You’ve got beautiful women vying for your attention. All desperate for your dick.
And here you are, acting all virtuous and shit. Pull it together. Go cry somewhere else. I chose you for a reason. And it wasn’t so you could fall in love with the help and turn into a total fucking prude.”
My molars grind. I fucking hate when he calls Julia the help. It makes me want to flatten his stupid, orange-tanned face.
“Redo the take. Now.” He spits the word out hard enough that his saliva hits me in the face. Carl used to get spitting mad, too.
But I’m not a kid anymore. I’m not scared of Richard Wadsworth.
I am scared of losing Julia, though.
Which is why I look down my nose at him and wipe the back of my hand over my mouth, clearing the wetness from my skin.
And then glare back and spear him with a simple, unaffected “No.”
