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Marty asks her, “You carry around the tour’s calendar in your purse?”
“Yes,” Ginger answers, “and I think we should go to the rodeo tonight. It’s in Kansas City.”
“It’s kinda far,” I whine.
“You don’t even like the rodeo,” Marty tells Ginger. “You only go to drool over the riders.”
“I do not,” Ginger argues.
Marty shoots her a doubtful look. “Okay. How are they scored?” Ginger glances at me for help. I shrug, not wanting to get involved in their argument. “That’s what I thought,” Marty says, rejoicing before giving Ginger another test. “Who’s in first place right now?”
Ginger shrugs. “JT?” she answers like a question, glancing at me again.
“Battle,” I say, deciding to help her out.
“Whatever,” Ginger mumbles as she rolls her eyes. “I like JT. Battle’s crazy.”
“I agree,” Marty says. “He’s not my type, either. He’s not even a real cowboy. How many buckles has he won? Yet, I’ve never seen him in one. He dresses like a skate punk.”
“I think he has more of a James Dean thing goin’ on,” I suggest quietly. “He’s rough and edgy, yet kinda boyish and sweet too, and those eyes ...” I sigh, and realize they’re staring at me.
Marty blows a raspberry through her lips. “If you say so. I’m a buckles and hats kinda girl. And besides, Battle’s dangerous. He’s a head case.”
Marty’s referring to the many articles in the local Rider’s Monthly about Battle fighting and sleeping around. Those are the only articles she reads, ignoring the stories about his many victories and his volunteer work. The Monthly was created by a group of women who graduated a few years ahead of us. As much as I tell Marty the magazine isn’t a reliable news source, she believes every word they print. I consider the Monthly nothing more than The Inquirer of bull riding.
“You don’t know him,” I say, defending a man I’ve never met and probably never will. “All the stories about him could be rumors, or made up for that matter.”
“Maybe.” Marty shrugs, rolling her eyes dramatically. She always has to be right and expects me to agree with her, which more times than not, I do. “It’s strange he stays with the St. Louis circuit when he’s good enough for the pro tour. There has to be a reason for it, and I think it’s his behavior.”
“I personally don’t care about his behavior,” I argue. “I’m not gonna marry him, but I sure enjoy lookin’ at him.”
Marty and Ginger stare at me with wide eyes, giggling. Marty says, “So, she’s human after all. I knew you had an inner man-candy whore in there somewhere.”
“Let’s go see them.” Ginger shows off a giddy smile, waggling her eyebrows. “Kansas City’s not that far.”
“I’m not in the mood to go out,” I grumble, knowing my protests will fall on deaf ears.
Ginger’s red ringlet curls she hates bounce around her freckled cheeks as she claps her hands enthusiastically. “Come on. You’ll have fun.”
“You know you will,” Marty adds jubilantly, batting her long black lashes. “And, a girl I work with says the riders hang out at Dakota’s afterward. Maybe we can meet one of them.”
I crinkle my nose, shuddering. “Dakota’s Tavern’s a dump.”
Marty makes a face. “Who cares if it’s full of hot bull riders, pumped up on adrenaline and downin’ whiskey?”
“Come on, Faye. You know you wanna go.” Ginger bumps her shoulder into mine, nearly knocking me off the stool. “You need to get out of the house, and we haven’t seen a ride live in forever.”
“It’s only been like a month. Let’s stay home and eat chocolate,” I whine, my shoulders slumping in defeat. I’ll cave, and my friends know it.
“No way,” Marty howls, grabbing my arm and pulling me toward my bedroom. “As your friends, it’s our duty to get you out of this house to take your mind off Wyatt.”
I laugh. “I call bullshit. As my friends, you’re using my crappy love-life as an excuse to go out.”
“Whatever works,” Marty says. “Now, let’s find you somethin’ cute to wear.”
Marty spends fifteen minutes playing dress up with me, which results in me looking exactly like her. My makeup is caked on. The skirt she chose is too short, and she sprayed so much perfume that I smell like a French whorehouse. If not exhausted from arguing with Wyatt, I’d protest more. She assures me I look hot as I slip on my favorite cowboy boots. When she leaves me alone, I remove the horrendous shade of purple lipstick from my lips, replacing it with a pale pin
k gloss. I run a brush through my long blonde waves before we’re out the door.
