-Candy to Banks
Candy
Once we decided to stay together in the travel trailer, things got a lot less awkward.
He showed me where I could hang my clothes, and also what drawers weren’t already in use—which, might I add, were all but one.
Apparently, all the man needed was one single drawer for his socks and underwear, and that was it.
The rest was all for me.
And I used it.
I unpacked almost all of my stuff while he was busy getting registered for his events.
It only occurred to me when I heard loud, boisterous laughing that this was part of my job description over the next two weeks—going with him.
I stiffened as I heard the women’s laughter right outside the camper, then looked down at my shoeless feet.
I wiggled my toes, staring at my socks that I’d had on with my tennis shoes and jeans earlier, and then back up at my tennis shoes.
My socks were long and wearing the long socks with the shorts I’d changed into shortly after Banks had left wasn’t something I planned on doing.
But then I spotted my boots halfway across the room and grinned.
Hopping to the edge on my butt, then farther off the bed that I had to sit on to utilize the drawers next to the bed, I made a mad dash for my boots.
After shoving my feet into the well-worn beauties, I practically snatched the keys off the table and ran out the door.
Once I ensured that it was locked, I hightailed it to where I could hear the loudest of the women’s laughter.
I kept my eyes peeled for my target, though, eyes scanning the area like a well-trained soldier.
The area itself was huge.
Quite a few RVs had arrived while I’d been inside unpacking, and now it resembled an RV park rather than the large parking lot that it was.
Sidestepping the massive tangle of electrical cords, I made my way onto the dirt that surrounded the arena and came to a stop.
The women’s laughter was coming from a group of ladies crowded around a taco truck.
After ascertaining that my man—errrrm, target—wasn’t in the middle of the group of ladies, I kept walking, finding the main stage where Banks said he was going to register with ease.
“Umm,” I said to the man that was behind the table. “Have you seen Banks Valentine?”
The man rolled his eyes. “You and every other lady on this planet. What, can’t you be original?”
I winced.
Obviously, I wasn’t the only one to ask about him today.
Fuck.
Ignoring the man’s scowling face, I turned around, put my hands on my hips, and tried to guess where he would go.
“Where are the bulls kept?” I asked the man over my shoulder.
The man gestured to a cordoned off section of the fairgrounds, and I said, “Thanks.”
Marching that way, I sidestepped a massive pile of horse shit and kept walking.
It was only as I was rounding the corner to where I could see the bulls were kept—all of them in their own pens—that I found him.
He was easy to find.
He stood almost a half head taller than any man or woman that surrounded him.
He was leaning against the fence, ignoring those around him, and staring at a bull—one that looked like it was foaming at the mouth. The bull also looked like it could bowl right through the erected fencing that was made to contain him.
There were women chatting behind Banks, close but not actually touching, and I half wondered if Banks realized they were even there.
He did.
When one of the women touched his shoulder, he shook her off and kept staring at the bull.
I picked up the pace and hurried in his direction, making my way through the crowd and not stopping until I was right on top of the three women that weren’t touching, but weren’t moving away either.
They turned when they saw me approach, and I could tell that they thought I was lacking the moment they saw me.
I was wearing a black scoop-necked t-shirt that was on just this side of too big, a pair of cut-off jean shorts that used to be my favorite pants. But the pants eventually had holes worn in the inside of my thighs, and I couldn’t stomach throwing them away. Hence the cutting them so short that they might as well of been booty shorts and wearing them while I worked inside.
Then there were my boots.
I was fairly sure that they had actual chicken shit on them, but they were cute and comfy.
Not like the fancy, rhinestone ones almost every girl standing there was wearing.
“Who are you?” the first girl, the one in the smallest miniskirt I’d ever seen, asked.
I ignored her, and both of her friends, and pushed between them.
They parted almost as if they couldn’t believe that I was getting into their space, giving me a direct line to Banks’ back.