Free Ride: A Bad Boy Romance by Roxie Noir

just want these cocky, idiotic, amped-up man-children want. Instead I cock my head slightly and frown, like I’m trying to figure out what it’s a picture of.
    “Is that your finger?” I finally say.
    The other guys chuckle. Raylan’s grin broadens, like he’s trying to cover something.
    “Ain’t no finger,” he says.
    I squint.
    “You sure?” I ask, and then extend one pinky, trying to match the angle of the penis in the picture.
    The other guys laugh more, and Raylan starts to frown.
    “You can just admit you like it, you know,” he says. I think he’s trying to sound cocky, but he just sounds sulky.
    Now I laugh.
    “It’s not even that cold in here,” I say, and now everyone’s on my side here, and we’re all laughing at Raylan, who’s flustered and trying not to act it.
    “That wasn’t all the way out,” he says, but no one’s listening anymore.
    I hit the delete button. I’m still nearly shaking with fury, but I feel like I’ve got a handle on the situation. I feel like I’ve won.
    “Raylan, if I wanted pictures of small peckers, I’d photograph birds,” I say. “Leave my camera alone from now on.”
    I turn and walk away, pretending that I’ve got something else pressing to do. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Jackson go up to Raylan, but I step away before I can hear anything.
    I pretend to take more pictures, but I’m barely paying attention. I’m still mad and slowly getting madder: mad that I have to put up with this bullshit, mad that I have to insult someone’s penis in order to get my job done, mad that no one else seems to mind .
    After about fifteen minutes, I give up. I grab my jacket and slip out of Betty’s quietly, hoping that no one’s noticed me leave. It’s only eleven, but the whole rodeo crowd is beyond drunk, so I don’t think anyone’s paying attention.
    I haven’t even crossed the street before I hear someone shout my name. It sounds like Jackson, so I take a deep breath before I turn around, forcing my anger back down.
    “Yes?” I say, all my muscles going stiff.
    “You okay?” he asks.
    He smells like beer and whiskey, and his eyes are a little loose in his head.
    “Just tired,” I say. I keep one hand firmly on my camera.
    He jerks one thumb over his shoulder.
    “Listen,” he says. “I’m real sorry about Raylan, he’s like this when he gets drunk but he don’t mean anything by it. He was just having some fun with you, but I think you put an end to that.”
    I snort.
    “Don’t worry, I’m learning that apparently harassment is just part and parcel of this gig,” I say, sarcasm slicing through my words.
    Jackson looks drunkenly taken aback.
    “Harassment?” he asks.
    “Yeah, that’s the word for when someone shows you their dick against your will,” I say. “You need me to spell it?”
    I take a deep breath, because I don’t want to get into a fight with the guy I’m here to photograph. I know full well that he’ll never think there’s anything wrong with what Raylan did, just like he didn’t think there’s anything wrong with propositioning me for sex an hour after we met.
    “Jackson, I just want to do my job,” I say. “Not look at bad pictures of Raylan’s junk. Not spend my time turning down your advances. Just my job.”
    We look at each other for a long moment, and for a second, I think I might be getting through to him.
    Then he tucks his thumb into his belt and grins that swaggering, sexy grin that he has. For once, it doesn’t work on me.
    “So don’t turn ‘em down,” he says.
    I turn and walk across the street without even waiting for the light to change.
    “Mae!” he shouts. “Mae, come on.”
    I get into the car without even looking back, drive back to the motel, and pretty much fall into bed. Of course Jackson completely missed the point, but what was I expecting? He spends all his time in a world where men are macho caricatures and women are buckle bunnies.
    You could just leave and go back to New