Roseanne.
Dad: How'd the interviews go?
Roseanne: Good.
Dad: That's all I get? Did she behave herself?
Roseanne: She gave excellent interviews. The picture of professionalism. Unlike the way you talk about her, Mason. she's not a dog, you know.
Dad: Are you scolding your boss?
Roseanne: No. I'm scolding my dad. Unless you still haven't figured out your new employee's name. Then I might scold my boss.
Dad: Poor, poor Geronimo.
This is not a normal level of excitement for a person who is supposed to be doing a job. Watching Lisa ride a bull is a thrill I've never experienced. It's like the ultimate show. Crazy enough to climb up on an animal that wants to kill you. Strong enough to stay on. And accomplished enough to look good doing it.
Pretty sure the throbbing between my legs means I'm a buckle bunny now. I laugh inwardly at the thought as I dart down the stands toward the back staging area, flashing my lanyard pass at security as I go.
Excitement over her ride mixes in my gut with concern that she's making her injury worse by continuing to ride when what she needs is medical attention. But that's not my job.
My job is helping Lisa maintain her image. Taking care of her.
Or at least that's what I keep telling myself, even though I'm pretty sure Mason hasn't taken a road trip with any of the athletes he represents or spent an evening rubbing their muscular shoulders.
"Hey, Doll." Some Ken-Barbie looking cowboy is leaned up against the wall when I round the corner.
He reaches for my arm in a way that I don't appreciate, but I slink past -avoiding her touch-and brush him off with a forced smile and, "The name is Roseanne."
The guy smiles back, but it doesn't touch her eyes. Which is right when a leather glove wraps around my elbow followed by a deep, raspy, "Hey."
Lisa doesn't have to pull me hard. My body moves toward her like butter melts onto hot toast.
I turn my back on the other guy and look up at Lisa's face. Fuck. She really is hot. I've been trying so hard not to admit that to myself. But every now and then, just a glimpse of her hits me in the gut.
Her hair is loose around her shoulders and she's still wearing the vest covered in sponsor logos over a button-down shirt. I swallow, attempting to move my suddenly dry throat.
"I don't even know what your score was," I blurt out stupidly. "But you were amazing."
Her brown eyes go from pinched in the other guy's direction to warm and bright.
At me.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." I take a step back, needing to put a little space between us and the tempting heat of her body. "You . . ." My hands flap around awkwardly as I search for what is the appropriate thing to say to her. "You rode the fuck outta that bull."
Lisa's head tips back as a deep, whole-hearted laugh overtakes her and her fingers give my elbow a familiar squeeze.
"You should get them to put that in an ad about her." Jackson Wang comes up from beside us, grinning. Handsome, but so damn baby-faced next to Lisa.
He holds his hands up and slides them out straight, like he's imagining a newspaper headline. "Old as balls but can still ride the fuck out of a bull."
"You little shit." Lisa's left hand shoots out and playfully punches at Jackson's vest. They laugh.
Until the blond guy adds, "And every buckle bunny on tour," as he saunters away.
