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“It’s New York City, Chase. There’s not a chance in hell that you’ll find her.”
Comforting words, as always. I have a real strong desire to lasso my friend to his chair and leave him there, but I can’t. That’d mean that I would have to drive the truck and horse trailer in this godawful traffic, and fuck that. I’m not doing that.
How do people live in New York? There’s just so many people, and I only want to be around one of them. Her blonde hair, her adorable feet in those cute ballet flats …
I’m back to staring morosely into my whiskey glass. God, I have it bad. Back in Texas, all the guys would laugh their asses off at me and my lovesick whining. I kinda feel like I deserve it right now, but it doesn’t mean I can do a thing about it.
“C’mon, we need to go down to the arena,” Jason says, pushing his bar stool away from the gleaming countertop and hopping down. “We have to go over the paperwork and plans with the lawyer and event planner today, remember? Fuck, who has the title of ‘event planner’? What does that even mean? That sounds a bit too much like wedding planner to me. When are they going to figure out that all we want to do is show up and wrestle a few steers to the ground?”
“I know. It’s like they think we care about where posters are hung up and ads are run. All I want is to ride my horse, catch some cows, and win some money.” With a heavy sigh, I toss back the rest of my whiskey. People who meet me often mistake me for a regular ol’ cowpoke – just someone who likes to wrestle rough stock around. And I do like it, and I do prefer it, but what they don’t see is that I have a small fortune amassed. I don’t like to brag or nothing, but my oil fields back in Texas will keep my pockets lined until the day I die.
I don’t need to do a damn thing for the rest of my life.
Which sounds as boring as shit.
So, I do rodeos and travel around the country ‘cause it’s damn fun. The adrenaline rush, the screaming crowds, pitting myself against competitors to see who’s the best – it’s what I love.
But planning meetings? Oh hell no. They’re what I abhor, and if I could clone myself and force my clone to attend them, I would. With one last longing look at the polished bar, Jason and I head out into the bright sunlight. It’s time to face my doom.
Or at least a committee full of people who don’t know the first thing about the difference between a steer and a calf.
Which is just about the same thing.
93
Carla
“Beeeeeccccccaaaaaa,” I whine.
God, I hate my whiny voice. I bet you Becca hates it even more. But I can’t help myself.
“I fucked it up. I fucked it all up. Me and my mace. Why do I think I need to carry mace, anyway?”
I prop my chin on my hand, staring off into the distance, remembering his dark brown hair, the way it curled over his forehead, and his gorgeous blue eyes.
A cowboy. A real life cowboy! Here, in New York City!
But it’s been three days, and I haven’t seen him since. It seems like I should’ve been able to run into him – surely a guy riding up the street on a horse would catch someone’s attention, right? – but all the videos on YouTube just show what happened on the street that day, when he’d saved me and more importantly, my Louis Vuitton purse. Nobody seems to know his name anymore than I do.
So, have I watched and re-watched those videos on YouTube? You betcha.
God, now I’m even starting to sound like a cowgirl! Pretty soon, I’m going to be chewing on straw and wearing overalls to work.
The thought makes me smile. At least something is making me smile.
“Well, he shouldn’t be hard to find, Carla. I mean, how many cowboys could there possibly be in New York City?”
“It isn’t that there’s so many to look through, it’s that I don’t know where to start looking!” I wail.
“Did someone say they’re looking for a cowboy?” Biff, our Rodeo Manager, asks, walking through the door to the conference room. In behind him, trails two cowboys.
Very handsome cowboys.
And one of them, I already know.
I stare in shock at his face, something I’d already memorized from hours of watching YouTube videos – the square chin, the cleft, the dark hair, the scruffy beard.
It’s him! Oh god, oh god, oh god, it’s him!
