Chapter 2
Chapter Two
“You ready, Hoss?” Nate looked like three-day moldy shit.
“Yeah, Nattie. Lafitte here yet?” Coke couldn’t warm up, much—he was so fucking stiff.
He’d gotten a little crazy last night. Hell, Mac was still puking, and Coop… Well, he’d woke up to Coop banging on the hotel room door, the man’s lady having ousted him.
“He’s in the locker room, yeah. Looks… Well.” Nate’s mouth went flat line.
“Okay. Gonna go see him. Gonna chat.” He met Nattie’s eyes. “Twelve rides. That’s it. Please, God, no re-rides today, huh?”
“Yeah. Yeah, not today.” Nattie’s lips kept moving for a moment, praying.
He leaned in, took Nate’s hand, and they prayed together, then he headed back to the locker room, needing to see that familiar hat. “Cajun? You here?”
“Yeah.” Beau was sitting there on one of the benches in splendid solitude, hands hanging between his knees. “Hey, cher.”
“You holdin’ up?” He went to sit close. If the man didn’t want him, Beau’d say.
“I don’t know.” Beau raised his head, eyes hollow under the brim of the hat. “I just got to ride.”
“You will. I’ll be there. We been praying for him.” He wanted to just get on his knees and beg Beau to forgive him.
“I know.” Beau’s hands unclenched, and one of them landed on his shoulder. “It ain’t your fault, cher. It ain’t.”
“He’s gonna pull through and come back to you.” Coke had to believe that. Had to.
“That’s what Doc says. Says he can tell after the surgery if a bull rider is gonna give up or come back.” Those blue eyes glittered at him. “Who’s gonna pull my rope, Coke?”
“Balta is. He loves Sam. He’ll take care of you.”
“He’s a good guy.” They sat like that, just quiet, until a couple of the older cowboys came in. Biscuit. Hank.
Biscuit stared at Beau. “You look like shit, Lafitte. Want a smoke?”
“Yeah. I think I do.” Beau squeezed his shoulder. “Be back in a few.”
Hank took Beau’s place, long old legs completely different from Beau’s stubby ones. “Hell of a thing, Coke. Are we gettin’ old?”
“You know it.” He felt about as old as he ever had, right now. “You make the short go?”
“Nope. Guess those days are over, huh? No one went home, though. We’re all staying to see how Sammy is.”
“Yeah. I guess I’ll be here till he wakes up.” Because he would wake up.
“I guess.” Hank nudged him. “You okay? Your hand is damn raw.”
“I sorta lost my shit last night.” His hand had split all along the suture lines from the surgery. “I superglued it shut.”
“Shit, Coke. Jonesy is gonna hunt your ass down.”
“Nattie’ll play hazer.” If Dillon kept quiet. When it came to his hands and neck, the man could be plumb odd.
“Well, be safe. I’ll say a prayer for you.” Hank was a good ‘un. Mostly quiet, but always there.
“Thanks. I’m gonna go do my walk around.” Maybe see his clown.
“Be safe, Coke.” Hank touched his arm before he left, as if to make the words stick.
Coke wasn’t a bit worried about him being safe. He had that. It was all the others. It felt like he had a weight on his back that was at least ten thousand pounds as he levered up off the bench.
He passed Nattie, who looked just as low, and Coop, who was a patchwork of bruises. Man, he needed Dillon. Coke did his rounds—he checked the chutes, checked the dirt, then glanced around the big old arena. One jog around.
He could do it.
Dillon popped up like he’d been conjured out of thin air. “Want to take a lap with me, babe?”
“You know it.” He found a smile for his cowboy, a real one. No matter how bad the world was, this was good.
“Cool.” Dillon paced him, gave him something to keep up with. He hung back enough to see that fine ass, still in the little warm-up shorts.
A man had to take his joy where he could.
He was sweating hard about halfway round, his body reminding him that he’d taken almost four months off, lost fifteen pounds of muscle, and was sweating whiskey.
“You’re almost there, babe. Water and Advil at the end.” Dillon knew him too damned well.
“Yeah.” He nodded, sweat dripping off him, falling into the dirt.
His legs felt like lead by the time he was done, but Jonesy was there with a water bottle and some pills. If one of ’em was an upper, no one said nothin’.
“You gotta come back after, Coke. Please. Or I’ll come to the hotel, but…”
“I’m going to see Bell at the hospital.”
“You won’t be there all night, though. Dillon, please. Talk to him.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” Dillon gave Jonesy a bright smile that was all brittle underneath. They was all hanging by a string.
Jonesy sighed. “We’ll get through Finals, then things will get better, right?”
Coke nodded. “Yes, son. They will.”
“Promise, Gramps?”
“You got my word.”
And if it was a lie, may the good Lord forgive him.