15. Ram
Chapter 15
Ram
I ndie left early, before Tripp went on stage. I don’t know what happened, but I’d seen her storming out of the arena looking angry. I can’t necessarily chase after her like I normally would, and when I get a good look at Tripp, I’m thankful she left anyway.
He can barely stand on his own two feet.
“What the hell did you do?” I growl as I help him get his vest on. “ Hijo de su madre ,” I mutter under my breath as he stumbles again.
“I’m fine. I’m fine,” he says, but his words are slurring a bit and he’s weaving on his feet as he prepares to go into the shoot.
Chingada madre . I know he has his problems, but he usually at least waits until after the event. Now he’s fucking trashed and he’s due on his bull. There’s no getting around this.
Lucky for us, he’s ridden in worse conditions. Pinche Cabrón .
“You gotta get on that fucking bull,” I tell him, pushing him toward the chute. “You’re on in a few minutes.”
He grunts and lets me push him toward the chute, clearly annoyed at being ushered like the cattle back home. He trips over his boots a little and I scowl at the clear evidence of his drinking. I’d thought he’d been slowing down, but clearly, I was wrong.
“You promised this wouldn’t happen anymore,” I hiss at him as I help him climb the fence panel. The bull he’s set to ride today is a mean one with a sixty percent throw rating. If he doesn’t have a good hold, he’ll get thrown and nothing brings attention to someone like getting a terrible score that sticks out. Tripp Savage doesn’t get bad scores. He just gets different ones, and the future of Fairview Acres rests on his goddamned performance. Ain’t no one buying rodeo bulls from an alcoholic cowboy.
“I can do it,” he growls at me, jerking out of my hold and climbing the panel himself. The bull jerks around in the chute, clearly agitated, eager to rush out onto the dirt like any good rodeo bull. I climb up beside him, knowing I’ll have to help him get the proper hold. Beau is out on the dirt, and I catch his eyes when he turns to check on our progress. I make the symbol for hang ten, and anyone would think it’s an innocent gesture, but Beau understands what it means.
Get him off the dirt. Make sure the bull doesn’t get him. If the bull knicks him, we’re at risk of being out the season, and we can’t have that.
Tripp can barely handle being at home for short spurts, let alone a whole season.
“You smell like a brewery,” I hiss as I get him situated and the rope wrapped around his gloved hand. “Try not to puke everywhere.”
He nods and claps me on the shoulder. “I love you, man.”
“Yeah, yeah, te amo, wey . Now go make these eight seconds your bitch.”
I climb down and watch as he wrinkles his brow and tightens his hold. The leather glove creaks with the movement, and I worry all over again. Beau is the daredevil, but at least I know what to expect with him. With Tripp, it’s a new fucking surprise every day.
The bull shoots out and immediately launches into the air. Tripp’s form is off, just enough that I know it’ll effect his score. His eyes are hooded, and I worry he really will be sick, but he keeps it together for the eight seconds. The bell blares and he tries to dismount with his normal graceful landing. Problem is, there’s no grace in a drunk man’s walk.
He catches on the rope and topples over, faceplanting in the dirt. Before the bull can get him, Beau is there, teasing it away, nearly getting gored by the horns himself as he makes sure Tripp has plenty of time to drag himself up and away. To his credit, Tripp just grunts in pain and presses up on his elbows, carefully dragging himself to his feet. The crowd cheers, but it’s lackluster, and I understand why when the score comes up.
Seventy-one. The lowest score of the season so far.
“ Qué chingados ,” I mutter under my breath. His dad’s going to hear about that. He never calls for the good scores, but he always fucking calls for the bad ones if he’s coherent enough. Tripp comes dragging himself back over and I shake my head at him. “Go get cleaned up.” I slap him on the shoulder a little harder than normal.
This. This is what we’re trying to keep Indie from finding out, and he went and did it anyways. He better thank his fucking stars that she left early.
Beau comes running up, his eyes narrowed on Tripp as he walks away. “He promised.”
“Yeah, I know,” I grumble.
A woman appears at Beau’s side, her cleavage bulging from her shirt, her midriff showing. Her cowboy boots are nice and worn in telling me all I need to know. Another buckle bunny.
“Sorry,” Beau tells her before she can even speak. “I only have a hard on for one special lady right now and unfortunately she don’t want anything to do with this cowboy.”
“Pity,” the woman says. “If you change your mind?—”
“I won’t,” he says confidently. “I hear Barrett Cole is single though. Maybe check him out.”
She pauses. “The bull rider?”
“That’s the one,” Beau says with a smile. “Word on the street is he likes blondes who like fishing.”
She fluffs up her hair. “I could like fishing”
“That a girl,” he encourages. “Go get ‘em.”
She prances off in search of the cowboy in question and I level my stare at the rodeo clown.
“What?” he asks with a grin.
“You’re gonna get us all in trouble if you keep going after the periodista ,” I warn.
“See, that’s the problem, Rammie,” he teases, leveling me with those fucking eyes too pretty for the son of a bitch. “Trouble is my middle name.”
I shake my head. “Get back out there so they don’t come looking for Tripp. I’ll work on sobering him up.”
“Aye, aye, captain,” he says, gives a mock salute, and runs back onto the dirt before doing a backflip that makes the crowd scream.
Good. At least he’ll make for a great distraction while I handle this cabrón . I look over at Tripp where he sways on his feet. I bare my teeth at him.
“How much did you drink?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Enough to chase away the demons.”
Fuck. A whole liquor store then. Of course.