Page 6 of Untamed
Bull riders use the term "away from his hand" or "away from my hand" to describe the scenario in which a bull is spinning in the direction opposite a rider's riding hand. Example: A right-handed bull rider on a bull that spins to the left is riding a bull “away from his hand.”
Haylee and I approach the party behind Kade Easton’s place. Trucks line the clearing behind their property, blaring “Third Rock from the Sun” by Joe Diffie. At least they’re playing decent music tonight. A light haze moves in the air, a combination of the smoke from the bonfire and exhaust from the trucks. My eyes drop as I walk to the dry and dusty ground, cracked from the blazing heat of the day.
I look around. I want to roll my eyes. Everything about this place is another indicator I need to leave. It’s on the faces surrounding me, the same guys who graduated years ago but still attend these parties, trying to remember the days when they were the king of the school. Or the girls that know these guys aren’t doing anything with their lives, but still stand by them and give them what they want. I don’t want to end up like them.
Near the barn, there are about ten people already standing around drinking and smoking. It’s what we do here. Sadly, there’s not a lot of options. It’s a college town with a few ranches. If you don’t raise cattle and you’re not in college, you’re shit out of luck. So you drink. And if you don’t like a man in Wranglers and a cowboy hat, there’s always the frat boys, and I’m not entirely sure what’s worse. The “Hey, Darlin’,” thrown your way or a “’Sup, bro,” remain stereotypical and make me cringe.
Sugarland blares through two large black speakers against the wall, shaking the wood floor of the barn and rattling the broken windows loose. Much like everything else in this town, the barn’s seen better days, but it’s a refuge for us. A way to forget that the majority of us will still be in this town twenty, thirty, even fifty years from now, probably doing the same thing as we are doing today. This barn allows us a sanctuary where we can be kids and let loose. Away from the judgmental eyes and voices that always accompany being around our parents and other adults.
Within minutes, Danny finds me. Predictably, he’s drunk and wraps his arms around mine. You remember him, right? He’s the one who fell in love with me in the second grade and thinks he needs to look out for me. “I’m not going to tell anyone what I saw with you and Joel.” His beer breath blows over my face, pulling my cheek to his, Danny locks his arm around my neck. “Just . . . stay away from him. You know he’s only gonna cause problems.”
Problems? Ha. Joel is capable of so much more than causing problems.
I’ll never understand why Danny cares about me so much. He shouldn’t. I’ve done nothing to deserve his friendship, but those seem to be the friends that try the hardest, don’t they?
When I was in kindergarten, there was this girl, Violet Camden. To me, she was the cutest little girl I’d ever seen and I desperately wanted to be friends with her. I mean, she had pink glasses and her mom sent jellybeans in her lunch. Who wouldn’t want to be friends with her?
If anything, I wanted her jellybeans. Over juice boxes and a colorful display of candy, we became friends sorting the purple ones from the white. Now here’s the shitty part about me wanting to be friends with her. Violet is pure and good. Christ, she should have been wearing a halo. And me, well, if someone did something I didn’t like, I was going to let them know it. This included the teacher. I don’t know exactly how it went down, something about me standing up in class and throwing a book at Joel’s head for stealing my grape gum I stashed in my cubby. The result? My friendship with Violet ended. Apparently, violence isn’t Violet’s friend and I’ve hated jellybeans since.
I swore off friends until I met Haylee and she said to me, while in detention for punching our physics teacher’s balls when he tried to cop a feel of my tits one morning, “Find your wild, girl. Passion should never be tamed.”
Probably not all that relatable, but I’ll remember that until the day I die.
Danny’s still standing in front of me, waiting for reassurance.
“Don’t worry.” I wiggle out of Danny’s arm, patting his shoulder. It’s the friendly thing to do. I take the beer he hands me. “It was nothing.”
Danny walked in on me with Joel. And now he’s telling me to stay away from Joel because he’s taken by the preacher’s daughter. Which, until two days ago, I didn’t know. I’m not exactly surprised by the news. It’s not like Joel has ever been honest with me. It’s not like I care. Violet can have his lying, cheating ass. Fuck ’em all is my motto. I’m leaving soon anyway.
Danny gives a beer to Haylee, who snatches it out of his hand and looks in Tucker’s direction. If I could murder someone and get away with it, it’d totally be that motherfucker. I can totally murder someone too. I watchCSI. Tucker’s standing near an old worn-down tractor that hasn’t run in years, his eyes immediately move to her. I hate that she’s drawn to him.
Tucker has even less business messing around with Haylee than Joel does with me and he knows it. He’s thirty-one and again, married. If I were Haylee, I would have run far away from him, but she can’t seem to help herself. I think she’s convinced that someday, somehow, he might leave his wife for her. I hate to tell her, but that’s never going to happen. That sort of thing doesn’t happen for girls like us.
My eyes drift around the field. Empty faces, drunk ones, and just plain stupid ones stare back at me. Finally, they land on Joel. He’s in the corner of the barn with his girl who’s never seen a dick before. I can’t say that for sure, but you remember Violet from kindergarten, right? Well, Non-violent Violet grew up and is now hanging on Joel’s every word.
Because I told him we were over, or maybe because he’s just a fuck face, he wraps his arms around Violet, gives me a fleeting look and leads her toward the bonfire outside. He’s nervous I’m going to tell her the truth and you know, I still might. I haven’t decided.
Smiling, I take a drink of my beer. A few more of these, and tonight might be the night I let everyone in this town know what I think of them.
Some think guys like Joel go for the sluts. An easy score. And that’s true, they do. Hello, he’s been sneaking into my room for a while now. But only for a night. Or in secret so he can later brag to his friends about it. It’s the girls like the one in Joel’s arms tonight that he’ll never push too far. He’ll respect her, give her what she needs, and eventually marry her.
Violet, she’s beautiful. In a simple yet innocent way. I keep watching for her halo or angel wings to pop out at me, she’s that pure. I bet she’d stay with Joel if she found out about me, and all the other girls he’s been with in this town. She’d smile and take it to heart and give him another chance with the excuse of he’s young and only human. She’d convince herself that if she loves him more, it’ll never happen again. It’ll be a cycle she’ll repeat her entire life. Mark my words.
Girls like me . . . we’re never respected or appreciated. Yet it’s still girls like me who give guys like Joel their pleasure, their wild fantasies they’re never gonna get with that too good, too pretty, too innocent one in their arms ready to meet their mama. I’m never gonna meet his mom. I’m the girl he fucks on Sunday morning when his girl’s in church. The one he only pays attention to when he needs something, wants something. I’m not the “keeper” he’ll tell his friends about. I’m the “she’ll put out” one he’ll brag to his friends to fuck next.
There’s a lot of double standards here when it comes to women sleeping around. Like the simple fact they’re women, they gotta have more self-respect or self-control than a guy would. We’re being held to a standard that’s unfair and unrealistic.
Why?
I’ll never understand it. I’ve been with three people. I wouldn’t exactly call that being slutty but one boy has forever labeled me as one. And to make matters worse, Joel has slept with more girls in our high school than I have boys, yet he never gets the looks I do. He gets high-fives and “give me details, bro.”
I get the dirty stares and “she’s a slut,” whispered behind my back.
Finding residence on a tailgate, I keep my beer in hand, and listen closely to the song playing. I hate it, so I tune it out. Country music nowadays is awful. Give me anything from the eighties and nineties and I’m at ease. This pop shit on the radio now just makes me angry.
With a sigh, I bring the beer in my hand to my lips, and I scan the party searching for someone familiar. My thoughts draw from Joel to a man standing to my left leaning against his truck watching me with a cream cowboy hat on.
Wearing fake smiles and feigning interest in conversation around him, my gaze snags and catches on him. I’m not sure what has my eye first, but he holds it longer than anyone else. It doesn’t hurt he’s watching me with as much curiosity as I’m giving him.
