Cowboy villain damsel du.., p.1
Cowboy Villain Damsel Duel, page 1
Cowboy Villain Damsel Duel
Ginger Scott
Contents
Prologue
1. Cowboy
2. Damsel
3. Villain
4. Cowboy
5. Villain
6. Damsel
7. Cowboy
8. Villain
9. Cowboy
10. Damsel
11. Villain
12. Cowboy
13. Damsel
14. Villain
15. Cowboy
16. Damsel
17. Damsel
18. Villain
19. Cowboy
20. Damsel
21. Villain
22. Villain
23. Cowboy
24. Damsel
25. Villain
26. Cowboy
27. Damsel
28. Villain
29. Cowboy
30. Damsel
31. Villain
32. Cowboy
33. Damsel
34. Villain
35. Cowboy
36. Damsel
37. Cowboy
38. Villain
39. Damsel
40. Cowboy
41. Villain
Acknowledgments
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Also By Ginger Scott
About the Author
Copyright 2020
Ginger Scott, Little Miss Write LLC
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events is entirely coincidental.
Cover Design by Ginger Scott, Little Miss Write LLC
For my family and friends,
who just knew I could pull this twisty little tale off.
I dare say I think I’ve done it.
Thanks for believing all along.
Prologue
The gun was real.
This was all supposed to be for play—a way to work out our emotions and earn some money for college. Then I pointed the barrel right at Cowboy’s face and pulled the trigger. He nearly said my name before I silenced him. Not my real name, but my now name—Damsel.
The gun was real.
What have I done?
1
Cowboy
Walking through this hallway is fucking suffocating.
“So pumped for Friday, man!” The slap to my back is hard and swift. I don’t even know the beefy guy who’s hand that was. I pretend I do, though.
“Hell, yeah!” There’s a smile on my face. My voice booms. It’s all fake. The tie around my neck is too tight. My arms want to bust through the sleeves of the pressed cotton. I want to break through these buttons.
Friday. Game day. Pep rally.
Lockland High cuts classes short every Friday for these things. I’m failing trig, but I get to leave it early to yell about how awesome it is to throw a ball forty yards. I need to be there to let other people yell about it.
Nobody yells about how awesome they are at trig.
The burnouts are leaving campus. They like Fridays because the gates are open and there’s nobody around to hold them hostage. It’s acceptable ditching. The tool in my trig class is right next to me, but in five more steps, he’ll veer left while I go right. The dude’s probably the only person with a worse grade than me. He rarely shows up, and when he does, he’s always nodding off, probably from whatever shit he popped before school. I work my ass off to learn this stuff, but our grades are basically the same. That says something about fruitless effort.
The crowd is getting thick. The gym doors are narrow, which doesn’t leave much room for dozens of fidgety teenagers with backpacks and egos to funnel through. It’s a goddamn fire hazard.
The burnout to my left bumps into me. This is when I’m supposed to react, tell him to watch it or call him something like douchebag or loser. It’s not his fault—it’s crowded in here. I call him a loser anyway. His head turns toward me while his feet turn the other way, to the left . . . out of the building. I’m hit with a brief scowl, but that’s all he has. In these hallways, I’m a god, and he’s a nobody—a ghost who slips through walls and falls down cracks in systems.
The band is blaring through the second pass of our fight song. I’m right on time.
Time to pretend. Time to be the man.
“Let’s go, Matadors! On to victory!”
Our class president is this tiny girl with long black hair that she always wears pulled back into this perfect ponytail with a black and yellow bow wrapped around it. School spirit. The bow is bigger than her head. Her voice is shrill.
“Let’s go, Matadors!”
Piercing.
I wonder if this is really her, or if she’s pretending too.
The team waits at the far end of the gym. The bleachers are full, booming with energy, the right side filled with freshmen and sophomores trying to prove they have more spirit than the left side where the upperclassmen only participate in the shouting fest because they want to make the younger ones feel small. It’s a cycle. When I was a freshman, the juniors and seniors did it to our class. It’s tradition. An excuse for bullying.
It's lame as hell.
I throw my fist up and pump it once. The smirk creeps onto my mouth. I fucking hate that I still feel the adrenaline from this. It’s selfish. I eat up the accolades. It feels good, though . . . like a drug. I’m so dependent on this feeling. It’s literally all I have.
Sugar is ten steps away. He’s my bro, the one guy who really knows how I feel. He pretends just like I do, though. He’s been catching my passes since we were six and playing flag football in the neighborhood park. Coach says I make him look good, but really, he’s the one with the talent. In a way, he’s made me lazy. I don’t have to think about where I lay that ball in the air because I know he’ll get it, even if his body is mangled by the effort.
Ball first, body later.
Coach should get busted for drilling that mantra into our heads. He won’t though, not ever. We win, so nobody gives a shit about the cost. Collin Howard was the starting QB when I was a freshman, and now he can’t turn his neck to the left . . . like, at all.
Sugar’s six-foot-two and his body is lean. His parents are from Haiti. I don’t think they would care if he quit the game. It scares them, every time he gets knocked around and crushed on the field by some guy who’s half his height but twice as thick. In his house, family is everything.
I’m jealous of him for it. Glory reigns in our house. All my old man sees are the words engraved on plaques, and he only truly pays attention if words like best or most or first are etched on the surface.
My friend’s eyes lock with mine, and we launch at each other, shoulders bashing together in the air while we shout “Boom!” Sugar’s laugh comes out thick and raspy. The rush from the attention has hit him; he’s on the ride now. I’m still catching up.
My body shakes from the body checks that come at me from every direction. Laughter boils in my gut. I’ll be washed over in the euphoria soon. The chants from the crowd fill me up.
“Cowboy! Cowboy! Cowboy!”
It’s my nickname. It’s what they called my dad back in the day. Some game announcer made it up because he said my dad’s arm “fired out shots like a six-shooter.” It’s stuck with the family, I guess. I like it. I genuinely like it. It’s about the only way me and the great Leland Nash are alike. That and our wavy hair, blue eyes, and broad chest made to support unnaturally long arms. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that my father genetically engineered me with all of his best physical traits.
My arms in the air, I give the crowd what they want. I acknowledge them and their love for me. I spread my arms wide and turn, feeling the stretch of my dress clothes against my muscles as I spin and acknowledge my team, spreading the love. Their big hands thunder with clapping while their faces contort with aggression. We won’t play a game for six more hours, but the fuel seeps into our veins.
By the time we hit the field, we’ll be boiling with it, and our power will explode in our opponents’ faces. That’s how you become undefeated. That’s how you win back-to-back state championships. Sure, yeah . . . you earn it. But you also will it into existence.
We are menaces on the football field because we transform into beasts every Friday night. That high doesn’t leave until the early morning hours, either, until the buzz from alcohol and victory fades and regret for fooling around with Sonny Heaton in her daddy’s barn takes over.
Every Friday. September through Christmas. Three years running. Why the fuck Sonny still opens her window and sneaks out to meet me, drunk off my ass and horny as hell, I’ll never know. We don’t even like each other anymore. It’s just become part of the routine. We’re a cheerleader-football player hook-up trope.
The mic finds its way to my hand and the words leave my mouth on rote.
“I feel ya, Matadors!” My lips brush against the mic; that’s how you get your voice to really echo in this gym. The speaker shrieks from my volume. The purists in the room don’t bother to cover their ears, instead they scream louder and feed the noise.
“A’right, a’right.” My right arm hangs in the a ir in front of me, hand motioning downward, requesting everyone to sit, to quiet. They obey. Goddamn, I’m powerful. My chest fills with the drug, and I feel the divot form over the right side of my mouth. It’s the cocky smile I wear when I become him—Cowboy.
A squiggle of light brown hair falls over my right eye and I blow at it. There’s a group of sophomore girls sitting on the first row of bleachers at my side and they giggle nervously. My body reacts. I glance their way and wink as I tuck my hair back in place. When the blonde with the tight belly shirt grabs the arm of the short brunette sitting next to her, I know she’s mine. She’s too young, but she can give me things. She can bring me beer at the party tonight, and maybe I’ll set her up with one of the sophomores on varsity. She’ll go along with it because hooking up with those guys is like being with me, like a rung in a ladder.
I can’t think about who the lucky guy will be now, though. I’ve got things to do.
“Oak Forest thinks they’ve got a shot tonight, but we know they don’t!” I pause for the shouting to kick in. It’s a collage of fuck yeahs and hell nos. The teachers don’t do shit because they’re in on it, too. When we win, it’s good for everyone. Football is our form of government. High schools in Illinois thrive on it. Ballgames bring in dollars; not directly, but the money funnels in a lot of ways that would never be if the lights didn’t glow on that field every Friday. The more we win, the more we all get. That’s why it’s okay to love us—to put us on pedestals.
Trickle-down economics at its best.
“We’re going to crush them!” That word—crush—it crawls from deep inside my belly. I feel it. I’ve unleashed my beast with that word. Thunderous foot stomping echoes against my bones, fueling my pulse until they match. It’s hard to tell who is leading, my seven hundred classmates all pounding their feet against rickety metal, or me.
I think it’s me.
Coach brushes his arm against mine, calming me as I turn to relinquish the mic—the power. A proud smile turns up the sides of his mouth. I’ve done well. I like his approval almost as much as I like everyone else’s.
“That’s why we call him Cowboy!” His hand clasps against mine and our fingers wrap around each other’s palms, muscles flexed. “Nobody better, son. Nobody better.”
My soul coos and my breath steadies. I flash the same smile to Coach and back away to take my seat in the center chair that sits directly under the basketball hoop. Everyone hears him, but they’re all still looking at me. I feed off their stares.
There’s an art to sitting just right in this chair, much as there’s an art to being me. My legs jut out, one a little farther than the other, to take up space. My back slumps just enough to rest my bicep on the seatback, my body tilted to the side to make me look cool. I reach up to my collar and pull a little to loosen the grip my tie has around my neck. I’ve gotten bigger in the last few minutes. I need room to breathe.
My eyes roam the expanse of the gym and the words I’ve heard before drone in my ears. I don’t even listen to the speech anymore. It’s just words. Respect and team and leadership and how you make us men, blah . . . blah . . . blah. I long ago learned there are things people need to say and things they want to say. I pay attention to the latter. It gets to the truth.
Our class president sits with her knees together, ankles crossed, and a stack of papers in her lap. She’d be cute if it weren’t for the uptight expression she wears like permanent skin.
I bet she’s not failing trig. Maybe I should ask her to tutor me. I wonder if she could handle it.
I laugh silently at my thought. The challenge of it, of getting her to help me and then watching her fall in love, is super tempting. The beast side of me likes shit like that—toying with girls. I’m too gone right now to acknowledge how sexist it is, though maybe not because I did just think it. I simply don’t care.
Her eyes are so sexy. Thick, black lashes bat while she reads whatever lame shit is written on the notepad in her lap. Some spirit week list, I’m sure. I wonder if she has a boyfriend. I’ve never really paid attention to her other than the last thirty seconds. The most I’ve seen of her is when she’s marching around the hallways with her goody-two-shoes followers from student council. It’s possible she’s got a boyfriend, but something tells me she’s never even been kissed. That’s probably how she’s so successful. Focused and driven—her sights are on school while mine are on touchdowns and Daddy’s praise. And Sonny Heaton’s tits.
As she bends down, her hair slides along her neck and shoulder, spilling down her bare skin like an oil spill. I bet it’s soft and silky like those hair commercials brag on TV. The urge to walk over there and rip out that bow that holds it back is strong. That would be much too animalistic, though. There’s a line, and I’ve learned people like you to walk right up to it but never cross. Instead, I settle into my chair at a broader slant and steady my gaze on her until those lashes flit a few times and her vivid golden eyes meet mine. My mouth ticks up higher.
“Hi,” I mouth.
She blinks once.
I’ve made her nervous. It’s cute. I’m about to pucker my lips and really get her going with an air kiss when her stare falls back to her lap. Her legs shift as she flips over the page on top and clicks her pen so she can scribble some notes. I guess it’s possible she didn’t even see me.
My eyes trail down to the floor, to her bag stuffed with books and folders, a tan scarf tied around the loop of her backpack so she doesn’t lose it. I glance back up when her toes start to tap, and I’m surprised to find her gaze waiting for me. I blow her a kiss without looking fully. I should have waited, should have taken in my surroundings. I got sloppy. On the field, this would cost me. Here, it’s a blow to my ego.
The bright pink polish on her nail flashes with the tap of her finger along the front of the notepad she is now holding up for me to read. The black ink is just thick enough to see.
ASSHOLE
My eyes slant while my mind registers her dig at me. I’ve been called that word plenty of times, but for some reason this one feels super personal. It’s surprising. She’s breaking the rules by stepping outside her perfectly composed character. I puff out a laugh and shift in my chair, drawing my feet in and leaning forward with my elbows on my knees and hands cupped together, ready to break apart and clap.
The end of coach’s speech is coming, so I start to applaud early, letting the thunder of my followers build behind me. My eyes remain on the back of my coach’s knees, on the crooked line creased in his gray dress pants. My thoughts, however, race around the goody-two-shoes prude-ass bitch who just called me out on a yellow legal pad.
Who the fuck does she think she is?
2
Damsel
Four thousand chocolate bars.
That’s what a trip to DC is going to take. No other senior class has been able to pull it off, but no other senior class had me. Fundraising sales is my superpower. When I joined the Pumpkin Patch Girls group at our church when I was four, I took the crown for most candle sales in a single year. First grade coupon books? No problem. I won my family a new television set for beating everyone else in our district. Junior high was baseball tickets for the town’s minor league team, an impossible sell for most because our team is consistently in last place and fields the players least likely to ever see time in the majors. I sold out the outfield bleachers and won myself a new bike.
All of that, yet these chocolate bars legit keep me awake at night like a soul haunting me. It’s because of people like him.
