Davis points at me. “I told you if you were lookin’ for a one-night rodeo, don’t do it with Fallon McGraw.” “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talkin’ about,” I snap, irritated he thinks I’ve been playing games all this time. What we did, said, in cheap motel rooms mattered more to me than any fucking medal I could get on the rodeo. Her walls came down in those motel rooms. Whatever it was, the whiskey, the weed, Fallon was an open book. She let me see her. Secrets, confessions, scars. And then it was back to hating my guts in the morning. Hell, I know more about Fallon than anyone.
