The amusement twinkling in my father’s eyes is apparently contagious, as it flits over to my mom’s features too. “That wouldn’t be the samefriendwho was sneaking out of the barn early this morning, would it?”
Jesus.Clenching my jaw, I mentally berate myself for not being more careful. I’m an adult, and my parents know I’m gay, but it’s a little awkward rubbing my hookup in their face.
“Nobody was sneaking,” I reply. “But yes, same guy.”
They share a look.
Love this for me.
“Shooter Graham, huh?” my dad murmurs.
“How do you know it’s him?”
My mom looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. “Honey, we are old, not blind.”
I can’t help but laugh at that, and at me, for finding myself in this situation to begin with.
“Okay, yes. It’s Shooter, but can you keep it down. We aren’t exactly advertising it.”
The smile on my mom’s face grows, as does the sinking lead in my gut. “Are you guys, like… dating?”
I shake my head, wishing the ground would swallow me whole. “No, it’s not like that. It’s—you know what? I’m not having this conversation with you guys.”
They both laugh, but thankfully, drop it.
After we finish eating, I pay the bill, and we head back to the ranch. Conrad’s got a fire going by the time we get there, and we sit around it, have a couple of drinks, before they call it a night. By the time I get up to the loft, it’s almost ten, and there’s still no response from Shooter. To say I’m disappointed would be an understatement. It’s silly of me to want to be his comfort. Just because he came here one night doesn’t mean it’s going to be an occurring thing.
He has friends. Tons of them. And people who are probably throwing themselves at him. He doesn’t need some inexperienced, barely non-virgin to keep his bed warm. Shooter Graham, three-time world champ, has options. Even if he had a bad night—hell, maybeespeciallybecause he had a bad night. I’m probably the last thing on his mind.
30
Shooter Graham
I’m on beer number who fucking knows. It’s a lot, though. That’s for damn sure. Cope’s hosting a BBQ and bonfire at his place. It’s something he does every year after Stampede Days before we hit the road again. Tomorrow is our last full day in town before heading back onto the circuit. Monroe, CO. is our next stop, a two-day rodeo there. I wish I was more excited about it. Wish the enthusiasm that is usually present with me when it comes to competing was there. But it’s not.
The sun’s set, splashing the sky with burnt oranges and crisp reds, and everyone around me seems to be having the time of their life. And then there’s me; way more than tipsy, not quite wasted, wallowing in my issues and hating myself.
Hating myself for feeling like such a fucking letdown.
Hating myself for caring what my father thinks in the first place.
But mostly, hating myself for being such a fucking coward. It’s been four days since Sterling sent me that text, inviting me to come over again. Four days since I ignored that message andnever responded. I’ve done my very best to avoid him at all costs ever since. I’m not sure if it’s more because I’m embarrassed that I let him see me break down like I did that night at the ranch, or if my pride is wounded, knowing he saw me ride so horribly, and knowing he knew my dad was there watching the entire thing.
There’s a reason I haven’t told people about this issue between me and my dad. There’s a reason I don’t let people in. It’s embarrassing, even though I know it shouldn’t be. Logically speaking, I know I’m good. I know I’m talented. I know, deep down, that everything he says is bullshit, and he’s being too hard on me, setting his expectations to an unattainable level. But logical has no place inside my mind when his harsh words echo, wrapping around the part of my brain that houses the ability to be logical.
Whatever the reason may be, I haven’t been able to face Sterling. It’s not fair to him. I’m the one who went to him when I needed someone to talk to you. It was his bed I crashed in when I didn’t feel like being alone. He didn’t ask me to open up to him, didn’t force his way into my business, yet the minute he tries to be there when he clearly knew I needed someone, I pushed him away.
He'll be here tonight, I’m sure of it. I haven’t asked Cope to confirm, but I know he’ll eventually show up. Probably with Daisy, because she isn’t here yet either. For that reason alone, I should’ve stayed home. I’m not sure I’m ready to face him, but at the same time, I feel like deep, deep down, I want to see him. I need to. Being near him gives me a sense of comfort I haven’t had in who knows how long. He listens without judgement. Hehearsme. He offers his opinions in a way that doesn’t feel pushy, and he knows when I need him to be quiet. It’s like he gets me on a level that nobody else does, and I don’t understand it.
There’s a bonfire going about a couple of yards in front of me, the bed of my truck down, and I’m sitting in the back of it allby myself, drinking this beer and watching everyone else have a good time. A figure moves in my periphery, and when I glance over, I watch Cope amble over, a beer of his own in his hand, and a smile on his face that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. I know he’s worried about me, and I know he wishes I’d open up to him.Join the club.
He hops up, sitting right beside me. Looking straight ahead, he takes a pull off the can, watching everyone else, similar to how I am. It’s silent between us two for a moment, but it won’t last. I know he wants to talk. I wait him out, because I sure as shit aren’t going to be the one starting this conversation.
Finally, after several minutes of a tense silence, he asks, “What’s going on with you lately, man?”
I toss the question around in my mind while I take another swallow of my beer. It’s nearly empty; I’ll need to get a new one soon. I can’t—or I guess I should say I don’t want to—tell him one of the reasons I’m so in my own head, but I need to tell him something. He deserves that much. I can’t keep pushing away everybody in my life; otherwise, before I know it, I’ll be alone and even more miserable.
So, swiping my thumb along the corner of my lip, still unable to look at him, I go with what seems to be the easiest confession. “I think I have feelings for Sterling.”
