Used (Unlovable, #1) (Unlovable Series) (23 page)

I just laugh again.

She scrambles down from our perch. “I’m gonna go see about him. You OK here?”

“Yeah, go. I’m good.” I let out a deep sigh. That was terrifying.

I turn back to Ransom and his bull Gladiator. Gladiator hasn’t been ridden all season. Of course, Ransom’s hoping to change all that. Most of me would like to see that happen, but a very tiny part of me loves to see his smug ass get bucked. That’s a rare event, though.

Watching any bull rider prepare to take on the beast thrills me to no end. But I’m captivated as Ransom runs through his routine, which is why I haven’t been watching him prepare these past couple of weeks. I know it’s wrong to lust after someone when I’m “dating” someone else, but I can’t seem to help myself when it comes to him.

As he pulls his red glove on tight and flexes his fingers, I imagine what it would be like to feel those strong, capable hands on me. When he makes his wrap and weaves the rope between his ring finger and the pinkie on his left hand, I gulp as I realize just how hardcore he really is. Not many cowboys use the “suicide wrap.” Sure, it makes it harder for the bull to pull out of his hand, but it also makes it more difficult for the rider to let go when need be. I can’t help but imagine what all that intensity would feel like transferred to me as he worked my body.

I obviously need to get laid. Too bad Greer’s holding out on me.

Ransom nods once and grunts out a “Go,” before the chute gate swings open, and an angry bull charges out. Ransom leans forward, his arm extended into a 90-degree angle, and looks poised to have a great ride. That is, until Gladiator spins hard to the right, away from Ransom’s hand, and doesn’t stop spinning until he kicks high and jerks him off center. Ransom spins like a rag doll until he’s lying flat over the bull’s head and horns. I hear a gasp and realize it’s me. Shit. I secretly wanted him to get bucked off, and now look. I stare down at my boots in shame until I hear the announcer.

“Oh, boy! Ransom’s caught up in his rope, ladies and gentleman. And Gladiator’s taking him for a wild ride.”

I worry my bottom lip with my teeth as Ransom’s body dangles from the bull like a crash test dummy. I barely register the announcer telling the crowd that he’s “Down in the well.” I can’t hear it when it snaps, but I know that something has, when his arm extends at an odd angle. Dislocated and not broken is the hope. His face contorts with pain, but somehow he’s managing to stay on his feet and out from under the bull. Holy shit! How long can he be dragged like that? It must have been three seconds by now.

Finally he comes loose and falls heavily on his side in the fetal position. But the bull isn’t done with him. He turns and drops his hind legs on Ransom’s side, forcing his body to unfurl with the blow. Almost immediately, Ransom is up with the help of a bullfighter while the bull flounces off through the gates, snorting and sputtering.

“Oh, God,” I groan when I spot Ransom’s arm hanging limply from its socket. Dislocated shoulders are commonplace for bull riders, and I’m hoping that’s all this is. The crowd goes nuts for Ransom, chanting his name. The announcer has “Tubthumping” cued just right so that it boasts cowboys may get knocked down, but they get back up again.

“Ladies and gentleman,” the announcer booms, “it’s a rare day to see a bull get the best of Ransom. Everyone give this cowboy a round of applause. You can bet he’ll be back with a vengeance on Sunday, looking for redemption.”

Even though Ransom walks out on his own merit, I can see him wincing with every step. When he gets to the gate, he drops his good arm from the bullfighter’s shoulders and salutes the cheering crowd with this hat before turning and heading back to the locker rooms. That’s two close calls today. I finally sit back down and stiffen my spine for the rest of the rides.

“
Y
EAH,
A
USTIN!”
I holler as loud as I can for his ninety-point ride. He hadn’t been doing too hot lately, so he was due for a good one. As soon as he hears his name, he turns and runs at the fence where I’m standing.

He sticks his head in between the bars and shouts, “Kiss me, Denver, for good luck.”

“You’ve already ridden,” I say with a laugh, as I tip his hat back with my boot.

“Luck for next time,” he persists.

He’s so silly that I can’t resist him. So I slide down from my perch and give him a peck on the cheek.

I have tears in my eyes from laughing at him when I straighten back up. Someone grazes my elbow, so I peer sideways to see what’s up.

“Hey, Coach,” I say.

“Hey, Denver. We need you down by the locker rooms for a quick interview with ESPN.”

“Oh, sure thing.” I turn back to Austin and give him a wink before following Coach through all the cowboys and cowgirls in their various states of getting ready, getting checked out, and interviewing until we get back to locker rooms.

I’m told to wait along the wall opposite the boys’ locker room, and when the door opens, I spot Ransom lying face-down on one of the tables. His shirt is off, his ribs wrapped up. The hand on his good arm clenches and unclenches on the table. The door tries to close, so I move in quick and keep it cracked open so that I can watch him.

“Hey there, Ransom. Heard you had a hard time saying goodbye to your bull today,” Doc jokes.

Ransom grunts a response and sort of laughs. “Don’t make me laugh. It fucking hurts.”

“Yep, we’re gonna get you squared away right quick. How are the ribs?”

“Broken,” Ransom deadpans.

Doc looks at his assistant. “How many?”

“Three,” he answers and turns back to his current patient.

“Whew, no wonder you’ve been a model patient today and haven’t popped your own shoulder back into place. All right, ready?”

“Yep,” Ransom answers clearly.

Doc straightens out the lifeless limb. That simple act is enough to make my toes curl and my own hands clench. When he pulls and rotates, the loud pop it makes causes me to jump and my stomach to pinch. A wave of nausea rolls over me. Ransom doesn’t even flinch. I’m not normally squeamish, but something about him just lying there and taking it like he’s so used to pain and injury doesn’t sit right with me.

“How’s that, cowboy?” Doc asks.

“Ah … much better,” Ransom breathes, sitting up like there’s nothing to it. “I’m all set, right?”

Doc nods.

“All right, thanks, boys. Gotta get to my interview,” he says, as he shrugs on his shirt. I take that as my cue to back myself up against the wall and allow my breathing to return to normal. I run my thumbs over the little half-moons from where I dug my nails into my palms.

After another couple of minutes, Mark, the rodeo correspondent for ESPN, joins me and mikes me up. I look past him, as I see the locker room door open, to watch a grinning Ransom’s face fall as he makes eye contact with me. So he can deal with all that shit with a sense of humor, but just the sight of me puts him in a foul mood. Fantastic. I just don’t get it. I hadn’t done anything to him. We had so many promising conversations, and then nothing. He just quit talking to me. I’d ask him why, but that would do nothing but show him I give a shit. Then a thought hits me. Maybe it wasn’t even about me. Maybe he had other shit going on.

“Ransom, we’re ready for you,” Mark tells him.

He steps over next to me, careful not to touch me as he gets miked up too.

“Great. You guys are both at the top of your game, so we want to do an interview, getting your take on the other’s success. Since you guys are both number one in your event and at the same school, we thought it would be interesting.”

I nod, but inside, I’m dying a slow, painful death. I was going to have to talk about Ransom? And he about me? This sucks. As far as I can tell, he hates me, and I worship him. This interview is going to be a little lopsided.

Mark situates himself between us and talks into his microphone while the camera guy zones in on the three of us. “Mark O’Neal here with ESPN at the Collegiate Rodeo Quarter Finals taking place at Wyoming State. I’m here with the current number one barrel racer, Denver Dempsey, and the current number one bull rider, John Ransom, who both happen to be from Montana State,” Mark finishes and turns to Ransom. “Ransom, we’ll start with you. This is your senior year, your last hurrah as a collegiate performer. You’ve seen lots of rodeoers come and go over the years. What’s your take on Denver Dempsey and her record-setting runs?”

Mark thrusts the question at a thoughtful looking Ransom, who finally makes eye contact with me. His eyes are crystal again, cold and hard. “Uh, Denver’s unlike any other cowgirl out there today, Mark. You think you’re getting one thing with her, but looks are, indeed, deceiving.”

What the fuck is that supposed to mean?

Mark gives a fake laugh and tries to clear up Ransom’s comment, “You mean Denver’s small but mighty, right?”

“Yeah, she’s small and may look fragile and all girly. But that’s not the case. I’ve never met anyone as cold and as willing to put herself out there for everyone as she is.”

Cold? Willing to put myself out there? What the hell?

Mark ignores the cold comment. “What do you mean by ‘put herself out there’?”

Ransom doesn’t miss a beat. “You know, with her fans. She’s always giving pointers, signing autographs, and she’s just really put herself out there as a tool to be used by anyone and everyone.” He smirks at me.

Oh. My. God.
Why is he being such an asshole?

“Well, all that aside,” Mark starts, “what do you think her reason for success is inside the arena?”

Ransom’s smirk gets even bigger as he declares, “She’s the fastest girl I’ve ever seen. Deceptively so.”

“It takes more than just speed, doesn’t it?”

“Absolutely. She’s seductive too.” My mouth drops open on that one. So far all his comments had been filled with double meaning. No way could that little comment be interpreted any other way.

“Umm … seductive in the arena, how so?” The more clarity he asks for, the worse it gets. Someone please put me out of my misery.

“You’ve watched her. She seduces you into enjoying her, making you forget she’s the enemy. Makes it seem effortless. She gets in there, glides around those barrels, barely looks like she’s hanging, not even breaking a sweat. Then bam! She just whooped your ass. Never saw her coming. Seductive.” When his eyes meet mine this time, they’re filled with something other than the mocking look he’s been giving me throughout his entire interview, and I’m not sure I can place it before it evaporates. If I didn’t know better, I’d call it hurt. I haven’t hurt him though.

“Ah … I see,” Mark says. I don’t think he does.

Mark turns to me. “Denver, you’ve been rodeoing with the best of the best in John Ransom. What have you learned about competing from him?”

My blood burns so bright I can only see red. Just give him a couple of quotes and then you can get to the bottom of this once and for all. “Basically that you have to make snap judgments and never doubt yourself. You have to really commit to decisions and believe in them. See them through. Even if it’s not the right one.”

“Umm …”

I show mercy on Mark. I want to end this and put us all out of our misery. “Ransom’s the best out there. He may have had an off day today, but he’s standing before you just moments after breaking three ribs and dislocating his shoulder. He’s as tough as they come. Stupid or not, he’s not backing down. I really admire that level of commitment. And he’s already taught me a great deal. In … and out of the arena.” I chance a glance at Ransom. He looks like he wants to strangle me.
Bring it on, cowboy.

Mark does his wrap-up while Ransom and I stand there smiling at the camera like a couple of paid buffoons. As soon as I hear “cut,” Ransom and I snap the mikes off and thrust them at the camera guy. Mark mutters, “Hope you two get your lovers’ spat worked out quickly enough,” before they traipse off to their next interview.

“God, you’re an ass,” I seethe as I move in close. It’s everything I can do not to knock the smug look right off his face.

“Right back atcha, babe,” he smirks.

“Don’t
babe
me. You haven’t spoken to me in weeks.” My finger is in his face, but he doesn’t even acknowledge it, which pisses me off more, so I go up on my tippy-toes. “You send me dirty looks left and right. And then you discuss me like … like I’m some joke on national television. Are you proud of yourself? Showing everyone the many nuances of your asshole behavior?”

“Nuances?” he questions with a quirked brow.

I throw my hands out to the side in frustration before resting them on my hips. “Yeah, nuances. Now everyone knows you’re a jerk of a thousand shades.”

He has the nerve to laugh at me. “I did no such thing. I praised your ability to be attainable by everyone, your deceptively smooth side that allows you to blindside the competition, and the speed with which you get those things done. Sounds like you can do no wrong in my book,” he reasons innocently.

“There you go again. All those backhanded compliments can be taken out of context and be misinterpreted, and you know it. What I don’t know is why. I haven’t done a thing to you.”