Bucked by Cat Johnson

buzzer.
    Thoughts of riding again caused Mustang to sigh. Missing life on the road with the pro circuit, he eyed his cell phone on the dresser. He supposed he could call Slade, though that would only make him miss it more.
    Calling Sage now was probably out of the question too. They’d just seen each other less than an hour before.
    How pitiful was he? Debating on whether to call a girl. Usually he was in and out, literally, but Sage was different. She was a friend as well as a girl who made him stand up and take notice. As his head warred with his dick, he wasn’t sure if that was good or bad. Could a woman be both to a man?
    His brain was too tired to think anymore tonight, even though it was still early. Time to get undressed and hit the hay. What else could he do? Sit on the couch between his mother and father and watch television like when he was a kid? He definitely should have stayed later at Sage’s.
    Too late now.
    Pulling his wallet out of his jeans pocket, Mustang tossed it on top of the bureau. It skidded across the wood, coming to rest against the base of the lamp as a white card slipped out of the fold. He frowned. Whose business card would he have in his wallet?
    Mustang read the name and smiled. Guy the sports photographer. He’d forgotten all about him. What had Chase said that job paid? A couple of hundred an hour or something like that. Hell, that was way better than what he’d get being tortured by his father at the prison. But shit, this guy was in New Jersey.
    He knew he should have stayed on the East Coast. Maybe Mustang could contact him and set up some shoots in a week or two. If the guy promised him a guaranteed income, maybe he wouldn’t have to work with his father at all. He could recuperate for a few weeks then drive back to Jersey.
    Mustang grabbed his phone, vowing never to admit to either Slade or Jenna how dependant he’d become on it.
    It was pretty late in New Jersey for a business to be open, but he could leave a message. The photographer could call him back in the morning. He punched in the numbers and listened to the ring. Mustang jumped when a live voice rather than a machine greeted him.
    “Guy Little.”
    He stumbled over his tongue at having to talk to a person when he was expecting to leave a voicemail. “Hey, um, yeah. I have your card here. About the sports modeling.”
    Modeling. Who would have thought he’d ever willingly do that? But hell, he was a decent-looking man, even with the assorted scars. Why not make some money off it? Desperate times called for desperate measures.
    “Great. Tell me a little about yourself.”
    “Um. Okay. I’m a bull rider. Um, just about six feet tall. A hundred seventy pounds, give or take. Light brown hair. Blue eyes.”
    “How old are you.”
    “Twenty-six.” Was that too old for a sports model? Mustang didn’t know. In fact, he knew shit about this whole deal.
    “Okay. Good. Tell me, do you have a problem with nudity?”
    Mustang stopped dead mid-pace across his room. “Mine, or someone else’s?”
    Maybe they were going to have some scantily clad female in a thong hanging on him while he was dressed in his gear. That would be cool.
    The man laughed. “Yours, but I like how you think.”
    “What? Wait, I’d be naked?”
    “Partially. We do artistic nudes.”
    Whatever the hell that meant.
    He’d said partially. They probably just wanted some pictures with his shirt off. That was fine. His muscles weren’t huge but he was fit. He’d have to figure out how to hide the incision from the operation though.
    “That’s all right, I guess.”
    “I’d want some with you dressed in your bull-riding stuff too. Do you own a pair of chaps?”
    “Sure.” More than one actually, thanks to the new pair he’d won in a bet against Slade last year.
    “And boots and a cowboy hat?”
    “Yeah.” What self-respecting Texan didn’t own boots and a hat? Then again, this guy was in New Jersey so Mustang gave him a pass.
    “Great.