Chapter 1
Chapter One
Dillon Walsh wiped sweat off his forehead and slid his hat back on, giving the crowd his little trademark hip roll when he did. It was almost time for the short go, which meant it was almost time to get behind the barrel and stay quiet, for the most part.
That was good. He was freaking tired, a little grumpy, and he wanted to kick back and have a beer and let his calf muscles stop cramping. Of course, the short go was when he got to sort of wander and watch Coke Pharris work.
That was always a good thing. Really, really good.
There were bullfighters—then there was Coke Pharris, the Fearless One. Wide shoulders, square jaw, big old hands, calves like… Fuck, did anyone on earth have calves like those men? Coke wasn’t scared of shit, and the man knew those bulls like no one else.
Nate and Fred waved him over to huddle, get pumped up. Dude. Coke touching. Nate Walker clapped one arm over Coke’s shoulders, the other dwarfing Fred’s skinny ones. Nate towered over the other two, but it was Coke giving direction, Coke calling the shots.
Had been that way since long before Dillon’d joined the tour.
Rumor was, it had been that way since before John and Lefty retired.
His mouth watered a little, and someone squawked over his headset, telling him to dance, to get the crowd pumped up again. The first rider was taking too long to set up.
Pasting on a smile, Dillon cued the music, letting his sore legs warm up with a few seconds of bouncing before going into a full-on flailing clown routine.
He had to stop mid-step as the chute popped open, Sam Bell sticking to the bull like a tick to a dog.
There was something about watching one of the veterans, one of the ninety-point club members. They just sat those bulls like the rookies couldn’t imagine, even when they bucked off at six seconds, like Sam did.
Damn it.
Coke grabbed Sam by the collar, hauling him up and out of the way, flinging Sam toward Fred as Nate grabbed one horn, turning Blaze’s attention. Look at those bullfighters work. Look at Coke laugh and slap Sam’s shoulder. It made his stomach hurt, how beautiful that man was.
It didn’t take long—Ronaldo and AJ went down hard, Alan and Rick and Balta stuck. Beau Lafitte, though? Damn.
The whole place went quiet until the 93.5 came up on the screen and the confetti went flying.
Dillon trotted over and patted Beau on the back. The little banty-rooster man was on fire this season, now that Jason Scott was out of the running. No doubt about it.
Beau tipped his hat to the crowd and shook Adam Taggart’s hand as the safety man rode by, grinning at him and Coke and nodding. “Thanks, y’all.”
“Look at you, Cajun!” Coke jogged in place winking at Beau. “This mean you’re buying the beer tonight?”
Beau laughed and nodded, waving at Nate, who tossed over his rope. “You know it, cher. I owe you a couple from last month, yeah?”
“You bet. We’ll all meet at the hotel.” Coke winked at him, at Beau, then slapped Nate on the back. “Come on, Nattie. We’re up. The young’un’s slowing down on us.”
The grin Coke gave Nate was self-deprecating as hell. Fred was covering for Cooper Riley, and the little Australian was almost like a new puppy, trying desperately to get the big dogs to let him in the pack, to play with him.
“Yep. It’s hell so be young and full of energy.” Nate bounced along next to Coke, shaking out his hands and arms, and Dillon couldn’t help but laugh as he made his way back behind the barrel.
God, he loved his job. Even more now that Coke was back from delivering Andy Baxter and Andy Baxter’s busted leg to Texas.
The rest of the rides went easy as pie, Beau taking the round and the event, the crowd milling around and heading down for autographs. Coke and Nate leaned together, forehead to forehead, giving thanks, just like every night. Fred wasn’t in that circle. None of the others were, either.
Dillon always felt a little dirty, watching that and thinking about anything but prayer. Shaking it off, he headed for their locker room, wanting out of his sweaty costume, looking forward to that beer Beau had mentioned.
Coke had mentioned.
Whatever.
The bullfighters came tumbling in—Nate and Fred running and laughing, Coke chasing them, the man soaking wet. “Gonna kick y’all’s butts!”
Nate hooted. “Didn’t know that cooler dealie was full, Hoss, honest.”
“Liar.” Coke pounced, tackling Nate to the ground.
Oh. Oh, good God in Heaven. That was kind of like watching porn, and Dillon turned his back, not joining in like he usually would. He was a little too stiff for that. In certain places.
A noogie later, Nate rolled out from under Coke, leaving the man a little like a turtle on his back. Coke’d been broke so many times there wasn’t much bending to speak of. “Dillon, son, gimme a hand.”
“Sure.” Pasting on the same smile he had for the crowd, Dillon turned and gave Coke his hand, hauling the man to his feet.
“Thanks, son.” Coke patted his arm, eyes warm and shining. “You coming to have a beer with us?”
“I’d love to.” His grin stretched into something real, Coke always making him feel good. “I was just out there thinking how I needed one.”
“Yep, I hear you.” Coke’s shoulders rolled, the outer shirt coming off, then the vest, exposing a scarred, solid chest covered in a mass of curls.
Dillon nodded, but he wasn’t really sure what Coke had even said. He was too busy staring at the little brown nipples. Good God, what on earth was wrong with him tonight? Usually he could be cool if he needed to.
There was this little scar, curling down from Coke’s ribcage down into the tighty-whities. Yum.
“How’s Jason and Andy, mate?” Fred still sounded more like Australia than anyone on tour but Packer. Even Adrian said ‘y’all’ sometimes.
Nate and Coke shared a quick, weird glance, then Coke shrugged. “They’re both in rehab. Messy business, huh?”
Something about the little exchange had Dillon forgetting all about the shirtless thing, making his nose twitch like a hound on a trail. He was Jason Scott’s biggest fan, and the man had been hit damned hard.
“Real messy,” Dillon agreed, giving Coke a look.
Coke’s cheeks went pink, and Nate stepped in between them, puffing up a bit. Oh. Oh, man. Something was up. Something big.
Everyone knew everyone told Coke everything.
Everything.
Dillon backed off, though, pulling his own shirt off and heading for the shower, wiggling and dancing to show he’d forgotten all about it. Nate wouldn’t let him in that charmed circle for nothing. Nate defended Coke like a pit bull defending a bone. He’d have to get Coke alone.
Coke and Nate had been working together for years—way longer than he’d been with the tour—and while he was higher up the rungs than anyone else for the boys, those two were locked tight. Hell, Nate’s Tracy had named their first baby Coke.
Most of the time Dillon didn’t even mind it. Sometimes, though? Sometimes he wished he and Coke were a little closer.
A lot closer. Like, rubbing and bouncing and sweating together closer.
Speak of the devil, in walked Mr. Coke, solid as a stone, heading for the hot water. From the back he could see the effects of a back surgery, a dozen or more hookings, an arched scar from a hoof, and a tattoo. Hell, even now there was a big-assed bruise, right over one kidney.
“No Tylenol for you tonight, buddy,” Dillon said, handing over the big bottle of shampoo they could all agree on. Just made it easier to have one locker room ditty bag for all of them.
“Huh?” Coke turned instinctively, even though the man’s neck didn’t swivel a bit, trying to see.
“You got a big old bruised kidney.” His fingers trailed right over Coke’s skin, his brain not even processing it. “Right there.”
“Mmm.” Oh, fuck him. That was a fine sound, pure male appreciation. “Good to know, son. I’ll have to drink it away.”
“Oh, yeah, that will help.” He laughed, too, letting himself enjoy all that tanned skin. All of it. Coke’s ass wasn’t blinding anymore. “You got some sun out at Jason’s, huh?”
“Yeah. Yeah, we went swimming in the pond.” There was a little hint of something there, just a bit. Sort of like the little cow skull tattoo on Coke’s shoulder that nobody ever saw, with a feather for every finals he’d worked. Just a hint that things weren’t exactly like they seemed.
“Well, I know how you love to swim.” Every hotel, every pool and hot tub, even if it was too damned cold to go out there. Of course, he knew from the polar bear club more than Coke did.
“I do. There’s nothing like the water. This was just a little pond, but it was nice.”
He’d push a little more later, after beer. “Well, at least you’re not signaling alien beings anymore.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. My ass is gonna get a complex, the way y’all go on about it.”
His mouth opened to tell Coke what a fine ass it was, but Fred came trotting in, so he just laughed it off. “Well, if it glows, the bulls can see it better.”
“Butthead.” A handful of suds slapped against his chest.
“I am not. People would look at me way weirder.” He pushed back, just a little, slapping his chest against Coke’s arm.
Coke got to laughing, buzz cut hair actually seeming brown while it was wet, cloudy hazel eyes sparkling.
Dillon felt a little stirring down below again, and he had to dunk under the water and turn it to cold, just about making him shout.
“Hoss, man. We eating at the hotel?” Nate took the shampoo from Coke.
“Yeah. Beau’s buying beer, and I could use a steak in the worst way. You coming, son?”
“I am. I’m just gonna go get dressed.” He slipped out of the damned showers, feeling like the worst kind of perv. Coke was obviously not interested. Son. Jesus.
Fred followed him, getting dressed quickly, splashing on the smell-good. “There’s some fine Sheila buckle bunnies heading for the after-party. You sure you aren’t interested in that? You don’t have to hang out with Gramps and Nate, you know.”
Chuckling, he rolled on some deodorant and pulled on his soft boxer-briefs. “I’m not that much younger than Coke, you know.”
Besides, it was one of those buckle bunny types who’d finally caught Dillon’s ex, David, and married him, and that put him off after-parties for near a year.
“No way.” The kid seemed truly shocked. “So does he look old, or do you look young?”
“I look good.” That was always his response, but even his mom said he was getting old around the eyes these days.
“Hell, our Dillon looks like a teenager; he has to if he wants to compete with them Wrangler butts.” Coke smiled at him, patted his ass on the way by.
His cheeks heated right up, and Dillon ducked his head. “You know it. Besides, everyone is staring at my legs, not my face.”
“Well, you keep it all covered up in makeup, son.” Coke bent over, tugged on some tighty-whities.
“You know, I’m not your son.” He snapped it out. Didn’t mean to, but all of that talk about Coke being old was depressing.
He got a shocked, wide-eyed glance, then Coke turned red and nodded, tugging on his jeans. “Sure. No offense meant.”
“I’m out of here, guys.” Fred looked between all of them, shrugged. “What time tomorrow, boss?”
“Noon.” Coke nodded over, grabbed a shirt. “Have fun, kid.”
“Always do, Gramps.”
Dillon waited for Fred to close the door, and made sure Nate was still bellowing Waylon in the shower, before he clapped Coke on the back. “Sorry I snarled. You’re not that old, though, you know?”
“No big deal. I get familiar. It’s the Texan in me.” Coke dug out a ball cap, dumped his wallet out of his boots.
Bumping hips with the man, Dillon grabbed his shirt, laughing, trying to lighten the mood. “Well, if you want to get familiar, that’s cool, but I don’t see you as fatherly.”
“I don’t mean nothin’ by it. I’m the old man of the group—well, me and Thicket on the camera crew, we got everybody beat by a year or two.”
“Yeah, yeah. But you make it up in stamina.” Gracious. Listen to him, flirting like an idiot.
“Hell, yeah. I ain’t bendy no more, but I can go the distance.”
“I always thought so.” Clearing his throat, he pulled on his jeans. “So. Do I need to get a cab, or can I ride with you and Nate?”
“Shit, no—man. There’s room for you in the truck. Always.”
“Thanks.” He gave Coke a bright smile, trying to keep things light for a while. “Thanks, Coke. You always make a bad night better.”
Coke patted his back. “It’s my job. I fix shit and keep them bulls from running us into the ground.”
“You do.” Now, if Coke would just buy a clue and see that Dillon wanted to jump his old bones, life would be perfect.
Looked like that one he’d just have to take one day at a time.