Chapter 3 #2
He headed to the arena floor as soon as the barrel racing was done, the bullfighters setting themselves up.
Pharris was on the dirt, too, in jeans and boots, and Beau was behind the chutes with Andy Baxter and Jason, jabbering like the hot little Cajun he was.
Adam shook his head. Maybe that was why the new kid got under his skin.
He had a fondness for Cajuns. Beau was the one who got away.
It was his own fucking fault, and Beau didn’t seem to be any worse for it. Hell, the son of a bitch loved Sam Bell with a fiery, burning passion.
Adam settled on Shylock, his heels down, hands up. Ready for anything.
The first six bulls went easy as pie, none of the riders making three seconds or looking like they were even trying. The bulls were lazy, spinning slow, if at all. Then Landon came on.
The wee bitty Cajun was… Well, Adam could see why the kid wasn’t riding worth a shit in the big leagues. Those stubby legs spurred, the man’s free arm waved madly, and the kid hooted and called out for the whole eight seconds.
The entire show made Adam grin, though, and God knew the kid could ride.
Landon hit the ground running, throwing his hat as the crowd cheered.
What the kid lacked in technical skill he made up in pure enthusiasm. Adam’s body surprised him by tightening up some, sexual tension riding him.
There was something delicious about that tight ass, the promise of that flat belly. He could tear himself up some bayou boy, yessir. Maybe that was what he ought to do. Just tear the kid up, give them both what they obviously wanted. Then maybe he could get the little fuck out of his mind.
First, he needed to make sure Jason managed this ride without killing himself or anyone else.
He leaned forward, elbow on the saddle horn, watching. Jason was in the chute, set to ride after David Dugan. Dugan did okay, he guessed. Kid was slumping hard, to be riding down here in the mud. Then Jase was up, and Adam held his breath. Please God, let him be all right.
Pharris was watching—Adam could read the tension in the man’s shoulders, in the clench of those fists. Dillon was going to kill something if he got hurt, so Adam had to watch Coke, too.
Damn fool ought to have his vest on, if the man was fixin’ to work the dirt.
Andy Baxter was there, pulling Jason’s rope instead of Coke doing it, talking away. That man had it bad for Jason, which had surprised Adam some. Andy had always danced hard with the ladies.
It sorta pissed him off, because, damn, all these folks were finding their own, and that was thinning out the fucking pool for him. No one his damned age even wanted to play anymore. Shylock danced underneath him, little fuck. The smart bastard knew the second Adam wasn’t paying attention.
He nudged Shylock in a circle, giving the gelding the illusion of something to do. God, he needed a beer.
Jason’s gate swung open, and the bull went to spinning.
The little Mexican fighting bull was just a class three, and the cowboy rode like a pro, free arm steady as could be, easy as you please.
There was no question, not at all, that Jason Scott was the best in the business, blind or not.
The man rode with pure balance, that right foot spurring halfway through the ride.
The buzzer went off, Jason landed on his feet, and Adam heard Coke Pharris shouting directions to him.
Jason managed, running hard and climbing the fence, right in front of Dillon Walsh, damn near smacking heads with the clown. Dillon grabbed Jason’s vest to hold him upright, and Adam saw Dillon talking hard for a moment before Jason took his hat off and waved it at the crowd.
Christ. They might just pull this off. At least today.
Jason headed back, Dillon at his side, the clown jabbering while Chrissy roped the bull. Damn.
Damn. That meant Jason had won the fucking event and had to do the victory lap thing. Shit, did the kid even know how to ride?
Adam set his mouth and reined Shylock in when the gelding wanted to go after Sugarland. Jealous thing. He could do this. Damn Brian and his broken foot anyway.
Jason was talking hard to the event organizer, hat brim down, Dillon and Andy Baxter right there. Finally Jason held up his hat as the announcer gave his name.
Half the audience was leaving anyway, and the other half was waiting for fireworks.
There was a hoot and holler from the crowd and a couple of laps from the flag girls and boom. Time for cool down. Good deal. Time to check his brother over for actual injuries.
Little Landon came over to Chrissy, Sam and Beau with him. “You want a hand walking them out? J’pense that head’s cocain big.”
Was that English?
Beau chuckled, winking at Adam. “Yeah, Chris. I reckon your head has to be killing you. Let the kid earn his beer.”
“Damned Cajuns.”
Sammy hooted like a frickin’ monkey, and Landon started walking the mare out, muttering under his breath. Chrissy stood there, teeth in his mouth, just watching.
“He’s walking my horse. That bitch hates everyone.”
“Well, he must have the touch,” Adam said, pulling at Shylock’s girth strap.
“He and horses walk and make doctors.” Sam drawled the words out, dragging them like they were stuck.
Adam stared. Okay, first the Cajun, and now the tortuous mixed-up Sam-isms. He hoped to God Beau could translate that, too. It was Dillon who did it, popping up next to him like a Jack-in-the-Box. “He’s a horse whisperer, huh?”
“A horse whisperer. Huh.” Adam needed some alone time in the fucking trailer so that Chrissy’s headache could wear off. Hell, when Brian had broken his foot, Adam and Chris both had limped for two days.
Beau gave him a knowing smile. “I’ll rub Shy down, man. Sam can feed and water, too. Go sit. You promised Coke a beer later, and he’ll collect.”
He nodded, regretting once again that him and his stupid pride had let the man go. “Thanks, Bo-Bo. I appreciate it.”
“Go on, now.”
Adam nodded, grabbing Chris by the arm. Jason was past the point of no return, and their friends were willing to help them out.
It was time for a fucking nap.
Landon sat on a lawn chair outside Mr. Beau and Mr. Sam’s trailer, drinking a beer.
He had a pallet in his truck, so it didn’t mean nothing to have a few.
Beau was fiddling, and the sound was like home, warm and happy, the zing of the strings enough to make him smile.
Sam was laughing, singing along, the words right as rain.
“Hey, Nutbutter.” Gramps Pharris wandered over and clapped him on the shoulder.
“Gramps.” He grinned over. “How goes it with you?”
“Good. Good. You did good today.”
“Merci b’coo.” He’d made himself some money, which was always good. Laurel would be proud.
“Hey, y’all.” Adam Taggart strolled over, a six-pack in his hand.
Oh, damn, that man was fine as frog’s hair. Landon was far enough from the lights that he felt free to watch.
“Tag.” Gramps Pharris grinned over. “How’s the baby brother?”
“Sleeping off his migraine, thank God.” Tag handed Landon a beer. “Here, kid. Have at.”
“Thanks.” His mouth was a little dry, having that long, firm body just right there.
Adam was damned fine on horseback, but Landon thought the man looked better just sitting in faded Wranglers and a soft T-shirt.
With legs so long that they actually led the rest of Adam’s body when he walked, the oldest Taggart triplet was like a cold drink of water on an August day.
Landon couldn’t help but stare, and Adam caught his eyes, smiling at him just so.
His grin couldn’t be fought, no way. Hell, he wanted little more than to launch himself over and get to rubbing, seeing if they could make fire. He thought they maybe could.
Adam’s gaze sharpened, those eye lines deepening. Oh. Oh, look at that man look at him. Heat rose in Landon’s cheeks.
His dick filled, pushing against his fly, the teeth of the zipper pressing into his skin.
“You gonna drink that?” Dillon Walsh plopped down next to him, waving at his beer.
“Yes, sir.” He took a swig, the cold beer hitting his belly. Mmm. Better.
“You did great today. I mean on the bulls, too, but when Chris got hurt.”
“I know horses, and folks needed help.” Maw-Maw always said that was what all them had been born to, helping folks.
“Well, thanks.” Dillon seemed like a right nice man, for a clown. Everyone always said Dillon freaked them out a little, but he was okay.
“Yeah. You saved Chrissy’s bacon.” Adam’s words were slow, lazy, pouring over him like Tupelo honey. The feeling of it made him shiver.
Coke laughed. “Chrissy eats a lot of bacon.”
Everybody started laughing, even Sammy with his hooty owl sounds. Landon liked how that hadn’t changed. He guessed that came from a different part of the brain than talking. Good to know.
“What do I do?” Adam’s brother came up, sleepy as all get out, and grabbed a beer. His face was all swelled and bruised. Damn. Poor guy probably needed the beer as pain relief.
They talked and sang, and somehow he had a plate of barbecue. By the time Gramps and the clown left, and Mr. Beau put the fiddle away, he was flying some, his belly full and his eyelids heavy.
Adam was sitting there, gimme cap shading his eyes, hands cupped in his lap.
They kept drawing Landon’s gaze to the bulge there at Adam’s crotch.
It wasn’t fair, not one bit, how well shaped Adam’s thighs were.
Or how nice that bulge was behind the zipper.
He could ride that man straight up the highway to Heaven and be left as happy as a bug in a rug.
Abruptly, Adam stood and jerked his head at Landon. “Walk with me, kid.”
“Sure.” Like a puppy tied to a leash, he was up. Up and after the man like there was no one else on earth he’d rather be near.
Adam led him to the big trailer the Taggarts carried their horses in. It had one of them fancy tack room compartments, and that was where they ended up, Adam staring at him in the light reflecting in from the parking lot.