I laugh nervously and shrug. “I’m sorry.”
Barrel racers are kinda ruthless. We don’t let much come between us and our goals. I know a lot of girls who won’t even date, they're so focused on making it to the NFR.
The corners of his eyes crinkle, and he looks a little sad, but he doesn’t push, doesn’t charm his way around it. I wonder if he’s ever faced rejection. It doesn’t seem like it.
“Of course,” he says with a small nod. “I get it completely. Have a good night, Sorrel.”
And just like that, he turns on the heel of his boot and walks off into the dark. I stand there for a second, blinking, a little shocked he didn’t try harder. But then again…why would he?
A guy like Denton Reed can probably get any girl’s number without even asking. Even if he does seem like a nice guy, I’m sure he gets around like the rest of them.
Sighing, I go into my trailer and start getting ready for bed. Charli has my pajamas laid out for me. She picked a brown two-piece set with pink hearts on the shorts and a top that readsheartbreaker.
Yeah, right, I think.
I climb up into my bed that’s at the nose of the trailer and lift Dash in with me. I put a new mattress in recently and it’s still breaking in—a little stiff. Dash curls up under his blanket next to me already fast asleep. But sleep doesn’t come easy for me. I toss and turn, restless and annoyed with myself. Replaying the night repeatedly in my mind. Why can’t I stop thinking about him? It’s not like I care. I didn’t even want to have that drink with him.
Finally, exhaustion wins, and I drift off into a light, uneasy sleep. Saying no to giving Denton my phone number replays in my head all night. It’s like an old DVD player that restarts the movie every time it’s finished. Fall asleep—wake up—and there it is playing again, blaring loud.
At 6:00 a.m. sharp, I’m jolted awake by the sound of a snort and a pair of wide, curious eyes staring at me. A silly side of me thought maybe I would wake to a knock on my trailer door and maybe that person would be a handsome cowboy with a warm baritone. Even better with a coffee in his hand, but that never happens. I need to quit fantasizing about this guy. I think all those romance novels I read over the summer are getting to me. “Let’s head home, Dashywoo,” I say as we get out of bed, ready for the trek back to the ranch. If you don’t have ten different nicknames for your dog do you really even love them?
6
DENTON
Iwake up still thinking about Sorrel Saxxon. She’s all beauty and grit, wrapped up in something I can’t quite put my finger on. It wasn’t just her long white hair or her sweet lips and piercing eyes. I felt drawn to her, and not just because she turned me down. Hell, I hadn’t been turned down by a woman in—I can’t even remember the last time if I’m being honest. While it stung a little, it also felt real. It’s like it brought me back to reality.
Not to sound cocky, but it kind of comes with the lifestyle. Women practically throw themselves at me and my band members. It’s part of the package when you're living life on the road in the music industry.
The thing is, women throwing themselves at me never really interested me. I, of course, appreciate beautiful women, but that’s not why I wanted to become a musician. I struggled with my emotions when I was younger, and music became an outlet for me. It made me feel alive, and it was the best way I could express myself. I started getting serious about it in college.
After high school, I got accepted to Texas A&M. I was studying to get a bachelor of science in architecture and doingcollege rodeo. I would bring my guitar to all the rodeos, and everyone would gather around while I played and sang songs I had written. At some point I realized I was better at singing and playing a guitar than rodeo and schoolwork. I dropped out my junior year and moved to Nashville to see if I could make something out of it all.
Well, lo and behold, I was getting more and more gigs and everything was taking off. I’d been laser-focused on my career for so long, so dating was the last thing on my mind. I’d had a few relationships here and there, but nothing serious.
Most weekends, I was grinding—playing every dive bar and back porch stage in Nashville, hoping someone from a label would notice me. But that’s not how it went. I didn’t get discovered; I built it. I’d post every show we played at on our social media platform. It started with a few hundred views to a few thousand, and from there, it snowballed. Bigger shows. Bigger crowds. Every weekend, another stage. We hired our agent Jake to help us manage it all. Then we got this gig from a buddy of mine at all these rodeos this summer. I thought why the hell not? It’s probably the most fun I’ve had in a while performing, getting the best of both worlds. People online are eating this shit up. They love rodeo and country music.
It fires me up before every show getting to go back behind the chutes and hangout with all the roughies like old times. When I overheard Huck Kenzington talking about a barrel racer named Sorrel Saxxon, I didn't think much of it—other than he should keep his damn mouth shut and quit bragging about being with women. But then during the barrel racing, her picture was up there on the big screen. She had the most beautiful turquoise eyes I’d ever seen, and her smile—God her smile—it stretched so wide you could see most of her perfect top teeth. It was a beautiful smile that really stood out. Try as I might, I just can’t get Sorrel out of my mind.
My daydreaming is interrupted when I hear the door to the bus open. It’s Johnny, our lead guitarist, he’s humming a tune, a smile plastered to his scruffy face. “You up, Denton?”
“Yep, I’m right here,” I say over my shoulder, pouring myself a cup of coffee and trying to shake off the haze from the night before.
Johnny steps into the kitchenette, grinning like he already has a story to tell. “So?” he says. “How’d it go with that gal? You get lucky?”
I shake my head and take a long swig of coffee. It’s strong, hot, and exactly what I need.
“She was a nice girl. We just talked is all.”
“Lame,” he says, grabbing himself a mug. “I’m tellin’ you, man. You gotta get out there. You’re almost thirty. The older you get, the harder it is to find one that doesn't have kids, a divorce, or both.”
He’s not wrong, but those aren't deal-breakers for me.
“I ain't worried ’bout it. When the right one comes along, I’ll know. You don't need to worry about my dating life anyhow.” Between him and the gossip columns on the internet, everyone is way too concerned with my dating life.
“How was that casino? You boys walk away with some cash?”
He looks like a hot mess in a way only a true road dog can pull off. His hair is wild and tangled, like he’d slept in a hayfield, pearl-snap shirt half-open and wrinkled. He still has on his Wranglers from last night, faded and creased, boots scuffed and tucked in sloppy.
