Lisa.
Mason: Stop googling yourself. That's my job. You just wear the Wranglers and ride the bulls.
Lisa: This is the worst fatherly advice you've ever given me.
Mason: Just do what Roseanne says, you'll be fine. Don't stress. We got this.
Lisa: Stop being nice to me. It's fucking weird. And your daughter is a pain in my ass.
Mason: Don't be such a pussy, Manoban.
Lisa: Better. Thank you.
"Lisa!" Some girls are gathered right by the exit of the ring where I ditch my helmet and place the brown cowboy hat back on my head. I recognize a few. The rest . . . well, I recognize the type.
"Hell of a ride," one says, biting her lip in a very intentional way.
"Thanks," I say and keep walking. Not in the mood to stop for them. Lame as it sounds, part of what I love about this gig is the attention I get for being good at something. It makes me feel like I have something to offer, like people are invested in me. And not just riding my dick to say they did.
Because as close as I am to my dad and my brothers, none of them have ever taken my job seriously. It's more like they're all waiting for me to outgrow it. To grow up. And I hate that.
I grit my teeth as I walk through the staging area toward one of the locker rooms. The splash of heat burning on my cheeks. One of the best rides of my life, and the crowd gave me a fucking golf clap. I swear I could feel their disdain for me.
Except for Roseanne. That woman surprises me at every turn. I can't figure out what to make of her. I thought I had her pegged as a smug little princess, but I'm second-guessing that assessment more every day.
"Lisa!"
I start at the voice, and wince when pain shoots down from my shoulder. I said I wouldn't stop, but I'll stop for Roseanne.
I stop because there's no avoiding her. She's relentless, and she's really fucking nice. Which makes me feel like a total dick for being growly at her.
Turning stiffly, I see her petite form striding toward me like a splash of color in a sea of concrete, dirt, and brown fence panels. She's paired her dark yellow sweater with a flowing skirt covered in some sort of flower print and a pair of high-heeled boots. Her leather jacket and purse are slung over her arm, and her heels click against the concrete, drawing attention from all sides.
She carries herself like royalty, oblivious to the side-eye she's getting from the people back here. Especially the buckle bunnies hanging around by the gates.
"That was . . ." Her dark eyes go wide, sparkling like stars, and those cherry lips pop open wordlessly. "Just incredible. I think my heart is still racing."
Her excitement over my ride is real-not at all forced. The skin beneath the sprinkling of freckles across her nose and cheeks is a soft pink, and she sounds out of breath.
Her encouragement shouldn't feel this good. I shouldn't like that she's excited. So, I just say, "Welcome to the wild side, Princess."
I turn to walk away, wanting to get the vest off. Just the weight of it against my shoulder is agitating me. I wave her along but suck in a breath as I do. Pain lances up into my neck.
I hear the clicking of her heels behind me, and then her hand slips over my elbow, dainty fingers splayed over the joint as she leans close and whispers, "Did you make it worse?"
I grunt back because I don't want a bunch of people knowing I'm injured. It'll just give them one more thing to talk about, and I'm not feeling terribly trusting right about now.
"Let's just get back to the hotel." I want out of here before a tour doctor gets wind of this or before someone convinces me to come out and party tonight.
