Wyatt licked his lips, clearing his throat. “The one where the cowboy races on horseback with the truck. They ride up to the edge of a cliff and stop. The commercial was a whole production. It aired for the Super Bowl.”
“No shit,” Samuels said incredulously.
“Is it on YouTube?” Steph materialized out of nowhere, her phone out, already searching for the commercial.
Wyatt flushed, and the bartender appeared in time with his shot of whiskey and pitcher of beer for the table.
“Yeah, I think so.” Wyatt slammed back the shot of whiskey, the burning relief filling his mouth and slipping down his throat. He let out a hard breath from his chest and heard the song ‘For Whom the Bell Tolls’ on Steph’s phone as Samuels, Donnelly, and her crowded around the phone.
“You can stream that if you want,” the bartender said and pointed to the TV behind her.
Oh shit.
Steph pushed a couple of buttons, and the large bar screen lit up with a dusty picture of the Arizona desert and a beautiful all-black mustang horse. The horse's muscles rippled in the orange glow of the dying sunlight. The song was slowly building as the camera zoomed in on a cowboy’s hands gripping the leather straps of her reins and straddling the horse. His legs strained against his black jeans as he squeezed his legs around her, securing himself in the saddle beneath the restless beast, while simultaneously a black Ford truck revved to life beside them.
“That’s not you,” Samuels baited, but none of them looked away, except Donnelly, whose eyebrows arched in surprised amazement at him, before quickly returning to look at the screen.
A massive formation of thick gray storm clouds hung over the canyon, lightning flashing and sparkling in the distance, as the camera zoomed in on the truck and the cowboy, the cinematic picture depicting a race to the edge of the cliff. The camera then focused on the cowboy, revealing Wyatt, his black cowboy hat tilted low, sweat already beading on his brow, and dust on his all-black outfit.
“Holy shit,” Samuels whistled.
“Well hell, kid,” Steph murmured.
Donnelly was quiet, and he tried his damnest not to look at him.
The mustang reared back on its hind legs and then galloped at full speed, not once jostling Wyatt on the saddle, who, with practiced ease, managed to hang on and hunker low on the horse, speeding straight toward the cliff. The truck roared to life and chased after them. They were neck-and-neck as the music amped up.
“Jesus, Lawson,” Donnelly breathed low and...
Fuck.
Wyatt’s belly clenched, instantly transported to their night together, feeling the way Donnelly’s ass clenched around him like a fucking fist as he thrusted wildly into him.
Fire ignited in his blood, and his cock twitched to life. Wyatt jerked off his beige cowboy hat, raking his fingers through his hair and steeling himself, trying to focus on the commercial.
The music and cinematography added drama as the truck suddenly skidded to a halt. Dust billowed out beneath the black tires, spraying him and the horse from view. Wyatt emerged from the cloud of brown and orange dust, and at the last minute, he came to a careening halt at the edge of the steep canyon cliffside, the dust from the hooves and the truck spilling around them, the lighting flashing.
Then the famous actor narrator says, “We build them fearless. We buildthem tough. Ford.”
The camera zoomed in on Wyatt as he led the horse back, covered in dust, passing the truck and tipping the brim of his black hat in appreciation for the race. Sweat glistened on his face as he smiled confidently and trotted off frame.
“Did you really do that?” Donnelly asked, stunned.
“The commercial?” he asked, unable to keep the teasing from his tone.
“The race…!” Steph cut in.
“If you’re asking if there was a stunt cowboy on set, no, there wasn’t. Just me.”
“Jesus Christ, kid. Bartender, I need a round of shots. Right now,” Samuels pressed. “That was by far the coolest shit I’ve seen all month. Possibly the best thing all year.”
“I don’t believe it,” Steph said with a dismissive wave. “Movie magic and special effects. That’s all. Besides, real cowboys don’t wear all black in Arizona. Heat strokes would be through the roof.”
Wyatt snorted and agreed with the last half of her statement. It was true, no sane cowboy would wear all black in the dry heat of the desert.
The movie magic part, she was wrong, because that was all his ability on horseback that created that shot. But he decided it was better just to let her believe that, rather than challenge her.
He had discovered over the years that no matter how much evidence he had, or how he said it, people believed what they wanted to believe. He saw it constantly in the ED. Patients stubbornly believe in whatever the internet tells them rather than the living, breathing, skilled experts in the room.
