Page 7 of Eight Seconds

JONESBORO, ARKANSAS — APRIL

“You’re not going to stop calling me ‘Charlie,’ are you?”

The flaring green of her eyes matches the annoyance in her voice, ensnaring me as her fingers continue to play with my hair. I don’t think she realizes she’s still doing it, but it feels so good that I have to bite back a moan. Everything about Charlotte feels good. The softness of her curves against me; the perkiness of her tits brushing against my chest is like the worst kind of tease. The heat of her body radiates into my palms, where I have them resting just above her ass and the curve of her hip. The hint of peach hits me when her black braids sway as she yells at me. I inhale deeper. The scent smells like her: strong at first, almost overpowering, but there’s a softness underneath the delicate floral undertones.

“Probably not,” I admit, shrugging. Her lips part in protest, but I push at her hip, my arm trailing under the length of hers before catching her hand to spin her out and back to me. She lands against my chest ungracefully, her feet wobbling for a moment before I hold her tighter, righting her and keeping her closer than she was before. I like her here, especially when she glides her hands up my chest to loop around my neck once more. The soft, tender way she moves contradicts the look she gives, eyes narrowed just slightly and plush lips pressed into a thin line. The tail of a braid sits atop the swell of her right breast. I lift the black strands tied together with the fiery-colored ribbon, toying with the bow as I drape it back behind her shoulder, letting my hand drag down her back before resting it on her hips again.

“I’ll stop if you really want me to,” I tell her. “I can’t promise it won’t be replaced by a different—potentially more awful nickname—but if you hate Charlie, consider it gone.”

Charlotte’s breath is sweet as she huffs an exhale, eyes rolling before she sucks her lower lip between her teeth. I flex my fingers to keep from pulling it free.

“It’s fine,” she relents after another moment. I watch closely to see if she’s lying, but her fingers have started in the ends of my hair again. A smirk spreads, and the green of her eyes lights with laughter. “Given the events of tonight, you don’t strike me as someone who makes the best decisions. I’d hate to see what would happen if you had to come up with something else to call me.”

“It wouldn’t be that bad,” I say. The couples around us have shifted apart, the song switching to something faster with a stronger bass. But I don’t let Charlotte go, and she doesn’t step away. Maybe she doesn’t notice the new melody. Maybe she likes being in my arms. Maybe I like having her here, too. “We could make a game of it until we find something just right.”

“That would mean subjecting myself to being around you even more.”

“Song’s over, Charlie. Nothing’s keeping you with me now—except you.” I’m not sure why I say it because I want her here.

It’s an unfamiliar feeling for me. Normally, I don’t have to chase after a woman; they tend to be here when I show up. Wearing denim so tight I have a preview of what will be wrapped around me after a couple of drinks and some sweet talk. It’s fun and easy. The routine is almost a comfort because it means I don’t spend my night alone, and my ego stays perpetually fed. Big & Rich saved mea lotof time by convincing women to “Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy,” and when the band strikes up that song near the end of the night, whichever woman I’m talking to is more than happy to make it a reality.

But with Charlotte, she’s been the complete opposite of what I’m used to. She cuts me down with a look, reminding me that I’m not special in her world. I’m not a novelty she’ll giggle her way through telling her girlfriends about later. I’m a man who isn’t offering her much beyond a smile and a fuck. Neither of which she seems particularly interested in at the moment. She’s a challenge. An enigma I want to unravel.

Awareness comes to her slowly, a blink before a little shake of her head. Then, she’s looking around at the way the dance floor has changed, the way the buckle bunnies at the edge are not-too-subtly watching us, and she stiffens. Her hands fall away from me, when she steps back, and I immediately miss her touch. Her eyes flick to the opening in the tent, her intention clear as she swipes her hands up and down her thighs.She’s leaving.

“Well,” she starts, licking her lips, bringing my attention there for a moment, before she clears her throat to continue, “try not to get yourself killed, Cowboy.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” I spin as she brushes past my shoulder. Charlotte glances once over her shoulder, her boots slowing for half a step before she gives me another eye-roll and steadily saunters out of the tent. I watch her go, the couples and people on the dance floor slowly filling the path she cut, curious eyes watching me as they bounce past. She doesn’t look back except for the barest twist of her head as she slips out of the exit. It’s enough to give me hope.

When the last of Charlotte’s scent fades, I shoulder my way through the crowd to the table in the corner of the tent beside the stage. It’s overflowing with fellow rodeo cowboys: bronc riders, steer wrestlers, and bull riders. Travis sits at the unofficial head, his dark brown hat sitting on the crown of a buxom and beautiful brunette perched on his lap. A wry smile spreads as I approach, greeting the others. He lifts to whisper in the woman’s ear, her eyes flicking quickly to mine before she gives Travis a pouty smile of understanding. After carefully shifting her off him into the chair, he rounds the group to make his way to me.

“I’m only two shots deep. But either Rayna’s pours have gotten stronger, or I’m seeing things because it looked like you were dancing.” Travis cocks an eyebrow at me.

I spread my hands and shrug, my friend knowing exactly how to call me out. I might come to every single one of these things, but it’s only to numb the pain of a bad ride with a little alcohol or dull the pang of loneliness with an easy hookup. I never dance.

“I owed her something, and a beer wasn’t cutting it.”

“You’re so full of shit, man,” Travis laughs, slapping at my back.

“Yeah, all right,” I acknowledge. Travis is regarding me with his usual perceptiveness, a trait I fucking hate right now. “I think she’s gotten under my skin.”

“That’s an understatement.”

“Thanks.” I level him a look in response, sucking in a breath. “I don’t think she likes me very much.”

“Oh, she definitelydoesn’tlike you.”

“Fuck, Trav, you’re not really helping me out here.” I drop my chin to my chest, my ego taking a bruising tonight. Travis nudges us in the direction of the bar.

“Yet.She doesn’t like you,yet,” he encourages me. We hold our conversation until we cross the short distance. Leaning on the bar top, we watch Rayna sling drinks and wait our turn. “But you’ve spent about ten minutes with her, and if I know you, you’ve let her see your actual personality for about a minute.”

I nod. He’s right. I have no claim on Charlotte or her feelings about me beyond an initial impression because I haven’t tried. I haven’t offered her anything to try and hold onto.

“Yeah,” I tell him. Rayna finally makes eye contact and heads our way, two bottles in hand. “She certainly doesn’t put up with my shit, I know that much. I think I like her a little more for it.”

Travis reaches across to take our drinks as Rayna glances past my shoulder before locking her eyes on me. She cocks a hip, settling a fist on top of it and throwing her towel on the bar.

“Charlotte’s got no time for it, you hear?” It takes a minute to realize she’s talking to me. I point at my chest for confirmation, Rayna gives an unimpressed smile in return. “Yes, you. Don’t think I haven’t seen you waltzing through these tents, a different woman in a different city, for the last few seasons. You haven’t won yourself a riding title yet, but that doesn't mean you’re lacking notoriety, Wilder McCoy. Your reputation follows you like a cloud of dust.”

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