The Boots My Mother Gave Me (14 page)

“I love you too, honey. Hope to see you soon,” Mom ended, hanging up the phone.

My mind raced between Kat and my father. I hoped she passed her driver’s exam and I hoped she didn’t do anything to sacrifice her future.
Was she really okay at home?
Seemingly, Dad remained improved since I left. Maybe I was the problem. Funny how I leave and things change, for the better. And as far as his paying my tuition, I thought it either the nicest thing he ever did for me or the dumbest thing I ever did in accepting it, that truth yet to unfold.

I
completed my first semester of college, taking a definitive liking to it. I made the Dean’s List. Anything less would prove unacceptable, seeing how my father invested in my first semester. I wanted him to know I appreciated the financial help, doing my best to acknowledge it.

And I guess Nashville may have needed a western wear store after all. I was in my first official something. Maybe you would call it a relationship, with a cowboy no less, an import from Raton, New Mexico. As an athletic training major, I worked with the university sports teams, providing physical and massage therapy to athletes.

Casey Timmons was on the rodeo team. I never heard of such a thing, a rodeo team. As a clown, a rodeo clown, painted face and all, his job was to deter the bull from the bull-rider, after it so graciously bucked the rider from its back. I didn’t pay too much attention to all of that, but he had a killer smile, a visually stimulating hard body, and he truly was a clown, always in a good mood, infectious by proxy. Casey was rowdy, a good time had by all, inherently charming.

Enrolled in my massage therapy class at the time, Casey served as my human anatomy chart in the flesh, every muscle chiseled to perfection. And he loved to dance, which sealed the deal for me.
A cowboy? Must be the two-step,
I figured. He could dance to anything, country, hip-hop, Latin, blues, whatever played, he had a rhythm for it. And I liked his rhythm.

In the training room at college, I set up my massage chair for a few hours every afternoon to catch athletes as their practices took place, a requirement for my certification. I had my back turned to the door when I heard footsteps approaching, jingling with each step. Completely intrigued as it was summer, I wondered,
did Santa have the wrong season?
I turned, facing the door, and there he stood, in his cowboy garb from head to toe. The jingling sound when he walked came from the spurs attached to the heels of his boots. I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to snicker, maybe inform him it was a little too early for Halloween. Cowboy hat, button-down shirt, starched blue jeans, and boots with spurs. The only thing that kept me from giggling, the physique inside the clothing. That was no laughing matter. The boy was fine.

I wondered if I looked as foreign to him in my program required massage therapist uniform, consisting of a rather bland short-sleeved polo shirt, tan khaki’s and sneakers. He approached me quickly, confidently, removing his hat and extending his hand.

“Hi. Casey Timmons, Middle Tennessee State Rodeo Team.” My gaze caught up at his hair, the most peculiar thing, a dirty-blonde Mohawk. I could feel my lips curling into a smile without my permission. “I lost a bet,” he explained, smiling himself, running his fingers over one solitary strip of hair that ran from the center of his forehead to the nape of his neck.

I quickly extended my hand, reigning in my smile. “Harley LeBeau.”

“French?” he asked at my surname.

“Some. A mutt, really,” I said. “Irish, German, Native American.”

“Me too. Irish and German on my dad’s side.” He pointed at his blonde hair and blue eyes. “And my mom is part Navajo.” He gestured at his dark skin. It was quite captivating really, his light features, highlighted against a darker complexion, exotic. “So, how do we do this?”

“You take a seat on this chair, pretty much like you would get on a horse, which I’m assuming you’ve done before,” I joked shyly, demonstrating. “You put your face in this cushion and press your chest against this center piece. Then relax and let me do the rest.”

“I follow directions pretty good,” he said, unbuttoning his shirt.

“You don’t have to take your,” my words faded as he wadded his shirt up on the table next to the door, “shirt off.”
Wow.
I know the abs consist of a group of six muscles, but Casey Timmons must have been born with extra. I swear, he had an eight-pack.

He smiled confidently, maybe a little too confidently, as I pulled my eyes from his torso, returning to his gaze. “I don’t mind, if you don’t,” he said.

Unsure if I aimed to convince him or me, I replied, “No. I don’t mind.” Backing up away from him, I tripped over the leg of the massage chair. He moved in my direction. I put my arm out in front of me, holding him at bay, regaining my balance. “I’m okay,” I said, gathering myself. Hastily wiping my hand against my forehead, I pushed my hair out of my eyes from my near up close and personal encounter with the floor. He looked at me pleased, cocky, with a self-assured grin. Even then, in his arrogance, he had a boyish charm.

I tapped authoritatively on the chair, beckoning him to take a seat. Maybe he was used to
taking the reins,
or some other horse metaphor I didn’t know, but this was my element, my horse, he was only along for the ride.

Some twenty minutes later, Casey Timmons pulled his head from the face cradle, casually stretching his arms overhead and yawning. “Wow. I almost fell asleep. I never had a massage like that. That was incredible,” he said, rising from the chair. “How much do I owe you?”

“It’s required for my curriculum. Just need you to sign in.” I handed him a clipboard with a list of signatures.

He signed, exchanging the clipboard for his shirt, while I busied myself wiping down the massage chair, preparing for my next client. “Do you like to dance, Harley?” he asked, buttoning his shirt.

“Love to dance.”

“I thought maybe you’d let me pay you back for the massage?”

“I’m not licensed yet. It’s against the rules for me to take tips, payments...or bribes.” I smiled playfully.

“All right, then.” He grinned affectively. “I’m asking, no payback, can I take you dancing?”

“That’s against the rules too. It’s unprofessional. I can’t date clients.” I continued with our repartee.

“One massage hardly makes me a
client.
Who said anything about dating? I just want to dance with ya.”

“I gave you a massage in pursuit of a professional license. That makes you a client.” Picking up my clipboard from the table, I couldn’t help but to look down at his boots, the silver spurs hanging off the heel, very peculiar. “Do you dance with your spurs on, too?”

“I just came from cutting,” he said. “Come with me and you’ll find out.”

“Cutting?”
What the heck is that?

“You know cutting cattle, on horseback, separating cattle from the herd. The horse gets his cues from my legs, my feet. They’re dull. The spurs. It doesn’t hurt the horse. It’s just more effective than the boot heel.” I enjoyed watching him explain himself. He wasn’t entirely cocky, self-assured. “A few of us are headed out to College Depot tonight. It’s a bunch of dance clubs all in one building, hip-hop, country, rock, whatever you’re into. Maybe I’ll see you there.” He pushed his cowboy hat down over his Mohawk, and walked out of the training room.

Ten o’clock that night, I arrived at the famously infamous College Depot. I told myself I would not go, but apparently I lied because that’s exactly where I ended up, in a crowd of shoulder-to-shoulder college students on a bustling Thursday night, ladies night. Ladies got in free, the perfect draw for testosterone-driven, sex-charged, horny college guys by the truck full.
Longnecks,
affectionately termed, the special until midnight, a quarter a bottle.

I made my way slowly through the crowd in search of a cowboy hat with Casey Timmons’ face peeking out from under it, averting my eyes often so as not to mistakenly lock-up with
Salivating Sam.
He always stands right in the walkway, his eyes ogling, his chin dripping with drool, his hands way too
feely
for their own good, as unsuspecting women pass by in search of their destination. To make matters worse, I was a lone female, his primary target.

I felt a warm body behind me, as an arm slipped around my waist. I spun around, my hands prepped and ready for the big shove off, certain it was
Salivating Sam.

“You came!” I heard the words escape a familiar face as I turned into Casey, minus the cowboy hat.

“I was looking for the cowboy hat,” I yelled over the music.

“Took me a while to find you, too, without the khaki’s and the massage chair.” He kept his hand around my waist, settling in behind me as the line of people moved forward. Leaning his head over my shoulder he continued, “What are you drinking?”

“You might as well stop planning how you’re going to get me drunk and get in my pants,” I teased, holding both of my hands up with the mark of the minor, two black X’s, one on each hand. Bold art, to which bartenders roll their eyes, letting you know how much you inconvenience them as they hand you your six ounce glass of water.

“I guess I’m just going to have to settle for dancing.” At a hurried pace, he led me to the Latin club.

“You would start with this club,” I said, stalling against him. “You’ll have to show me. I’ve never done this before.” He pulled me onto the floor where a heavy bass rhythm sounded. I looked around at how everyone moved within their own little space, yet their bodies said so much. It was subtle, but with great intensity.

“It’s all in the hips,” he explained, drawing me close, his hand in the small of my back. He pressed my hips to his as he guided, allowing me to become acquainted with the rhythm. I fell in love with the music. The beats. The sensuality. The freedom. Latin music was proud, yet needy, romantic, but raw, formal, yet so very intimate. And Casey Timmons, he moved like no other. We danced four hours straight with unmatched stamina, until the place closed.

Wet from head to toe, I had sweat through my shirt, my hair matted to my head, and my boots, the ones my mother gave me, loose, the leather expanding with my body heat. We walked outside into a light, warm summer rain.

“Aw, that feels so good,” I said, arms out wide, my head thrown back, welcoming the rain. Casey’s arms slipped familiarly around my waist. He pulled me into him, his mouth finding mine as he kissed me, baring the same intensity with which he danced. Rain trickled down his forehead, over his provocative blue eyes, and onto his lips, drawing my attention to their fullness.

“You feel good,” he said, his voice warm and low. “You hungry? Let me make you breakfast. I make a mean omelet.”

One thing Casey was not, shy. He didn’t beat around the bush about anything. If he wanted something, he asked for it, or went after it with vigor. You never had to wonder what he thought or where he stood. Rest assured he would tell you.

I thought I was carefree and adventurous. After meeting Casey, I realized, I was carefully carefree and adventurous. Casey did everything with intensity, fully committed, no holds barred. He made no excuses for being himself. I don’t think anything scared him, not life, not love, not even death. He put himself out there, openly inviting rejection or acceptance, whatever came his way.

That morning after he made me truly the best omelet I ever ate, he didn’t boast, he laid it all on the line. “He just had to be with me,” he said.

I liked him a lot, who wouldn’t, but I surely didn’t feel like I
just had to be with him.
Armed with a serious lack of commitment to everything, really, I never felt like I had to have or do much of any one particular thing. I did find his honesty refreshing. No games, no bullshit. He was who he was, take it or leave it. I decided to take it.

I loved the yin and yang of my job juxtaposed to Casey Timmons. With the clothing company, everything was pristine and feminine. The fashion shows were regimented, everything had a time and place. Casey was real, organic, and masculine. A little rough around the edges, he was perfectly imperfect.

For the next year, everything we did, we did hard and with zest. We laughed, lived and fought hard, and, dare I say, loved hard. I never told him I loved him, because I didn’t know if I did or not. What is love? I knew how to define lust and I was definitely in lust with him. Hands down, I had an appetite for Casey. I felt like I loved him, such strong words. Those three little words carry so much weight, maybe even burdensome in their heaviness, can change things and complicate things to a point where they become unrecognizable.

I liked things just the way they were. We were having a good time. We were young, too young to profess our eternal love. Focused on working, paying bills, getting an education, we were busy living. Independent of one another in our own pursuits, my life was mine as he owned his, but we openly, freely shared our lives with each other. I had never witnessed
love
that acted as such. I assumed what we had equated to an overly affectionate friendship.

I couldn’t believe it. This thing, relationship, whatever we were in, was so different from my parent’s exchange. I wish they had this.
This
was not suffocating, co-dependent, or abusive. It didn’t hurt. Whatever
this
was, it was great. Life was beautiful. And the sex was outstanding.

I hadn’t been with anybody since my first time with Jeremiah. God, I missed him. I tried not to think about him; it hurt too much. Still quite inexperienced at nineteen going on twenty, Casey, three years my senior, gladly showed me the ropes.
Wow!
This sex thing was revolutionary. I got on the pill, scared out of my mind with the thought of pregnancy.

My only complaint with the pill was I actually got my period. My late bloomer status, coupled with my athleticism, meant I never had to contend with a period. I thought maybe I wasn’t normal. Most of my friends had theirs since age thirteen. Maybe I wasn’t all female. Maybe I brought it on myself as a tomboy, always complaining about my femininity. My boobs got in the way of playing basketball, and as my hips widened I found it added seconds to my best running time. All of my feminine attributes only seemed to annoy me, holding me back. Did I curse my own evolution?