Page 92 of Trigger Happy

“Balls!” Arch hoots, clapping him on the back so the rims of their hats knock together.

Lawton slaps him, and then they both yell, “Butterballs!”

Butterballs?

Lawton’s so good at faking it, I half expect him to start finishing Arch’s sentences. I watch them, a frown weighing down my lips. I wish I could wave a magic wand, yell Butterballs!, and become soulmates with the girl buying the same cauliflower gnocchi as me, but I have a feeling I’m one of the only freelance consultants who shops at Trader Joe’s.

“Do you think our husbands shared a womb at some point?” Bobbi says.

I lift my properly attached shoulder. “Must be an inside joke.”

“Must be,” she says, looping her arms through mine. “So, what do you think of your first rodeo?”

I blow an exaggerated sigh. “Disappointing.”

“What? Why?” she says, sounding genuinely offended.

“I was expecting more mechanical bulls.”

She notices my smile and grins. “You have to go to Billion Dollar Cowgirl Bar for that.”

“Next time.”

“So, there will be a next time? Good. I’m glad all the farm animals weren’t too traumatizing for you.”

My head tilts. I don’t remember telling her I hate all things farm animal. Did I?

“How’d you know I’m not a fan of farm animals?”

She waves a hand. “I figured after the horses…”

I look around the dusty grounds, and the rainbow fading in the evening sky. The string lights are flickering on, even though the sun hasn’t fully dipped behind the mountains as people meander around in Wranglers and scuffed boots. It’s quaint, charming even.

“You know,” I say, honestly surprised, “if I ignore the manure smell and steer clear of the horses, I kind of like it.”

Bobbi beams, as if me enjoying a rodeo means something to her. Liar. “This one’s more of a spectacle, so it’s mostly tourists, but you get some excellent stories.”

I angle toward her, trying to tell if that’s her real part line or if she’s wearing a blond wig. “Like what?”

“Like the time I caught eighty-year-old Mrs. Ogletree and Ryder the Bronc Rider—I know—getting naughty by the animal chutes.”

“Eighty?”

“Eighty,” Bobbi confirms. “And Ryder was… a lot younger.”

I laugh-choke. “Are we talking church-ladies-clutching-their-pearls naughty, or oh-shit-we’re-getting-banned-from-rodeos naughty?”

Bobbi tilts her head. “Well. Considering she died mid-orgasm—”

“She did not.”

“She did.”

I stare at her. “You’re lying.”

She playfully gasps. “Me? A liar? I would never.”

“Was Ryder okay?” I ask, way too invested in this story.