10. Phoenix
Phoenix
T his can’t be happening.
I barely have a chance to process that he’s here before he’s gone again, sprinting out the door. But I’d know those eyes anywhere, even if the body they’re attached to is much different than the last time I had my hands on him.
Speaking of, they’re still tingling from where they landed on his much-broader, much-taller shoulders, and after all this time, after beating myself up repeatedly, that fucking spark of magnetic energy is still there.
I’m exhausted. Playing the part of the outgoing playboy my friends expect has been taking its toll for a while.
Mostly because at some point, it stopped being a part I played and just became who I am.
But fuck if I want nothing less than to take another nameless woman back to my place only to kick her out two hours later, my dick satisfied, but my heart empty.
“Uh, sorry about that,” the guy two seats down says, apologizing for Walker.
“He must’ve had more to drink than I thought.
” He holds out a hand. “I’m Jonas, his coach.
” Jonas nods his head toward the door. “I was a big fan of yours back in the day. That basket case was Walker DeVille, he’s competing this week.
Helluva rider despite that spastic exit.
Been off his game since I made him sign up for this rodeo. Something’s got him spooked.”
I swallow hard, processing this new information as I shake Jonas’s hand.
“Nerves get the best of everybody at times,” I say in defense of Walker.
His coach rubs me the wrong way with his insult.
He should protect his rider at all costs, not throw him under the bus.
And he definitely shouldn’t be talking about his weaknesses with strangers.
For all this guy knows, I’m going to take that information straight to Jackson White’s team.
“Haven’t seen him choke yet,” I add bitterly.
Except that one time on my cock, my brain supplies unhelpfully.
I swear, that organ is a fucking menace.
“I’m sure he’ll be fine as soon as that shoot opens,” I finish out loud.
Before I can say more, Cassie appears at my side.
“Hey, everything okay? I saw that guy tear out of here.” She looks menacingly back and forth between me and Jonas like she’s ready to throw down if needed.
“Yeah, Cass. All good, but I think I’m gonna head home,” I declare, having lost all interest in the basket of chili cheese fries I was about to add to our order when I came over here.
“Home? We haven’t even gotten our drinks yet,” she argues, eyeing me suspiciously. “And there’s another table of giggling twenty-somethings vying for your attention.”
I remember Knox’s words and I briefly consider trying to take one of the girls home, but it’s too much. It’s all too much. Especially now.
Walker was barely a man when we met…
My brain snags on the word man before I can finish the thought . He’s certainly filled out over the last several years and grown a few inches. But his eyes…they didn’t look any less haunted than the first night we met.
I haven’t been okay in eight years.
His words linger in my mind as my heart gets caught in a vice.
As soon as I get out of the shower, I’m already sweating. Hell, I think I was sweating in the shower. The humidity is ten thousand percent today thanks to the thunderstorm that rolled through overnight, making my pastures a sopping wet mess.
I’ve got to load the last of the animals up and take them over to the arena this morning. It feels weird not being at the fire station on a Wednesday, and I’m trying like hell to blame my heartburn on being out of my routine thanks to Cassie’s visit.
But I’m not fooling myself.
I may not see him, but he’ll be there and that’s enough to kick my reflux into high gear.
His ride is tomorrow, which means today he’ll most likely be walking the route he’ll take tomorrow night, checking his equipment, and waiting on my broncs to show up so he can check them out before he rides.
I call Cassie to see if she wants to tag along since the rodeo was her brilliant idea in the first place. It could be fun to give her a behind-the-scenes tour, not to mention, I could use the buffer in case I do bump into Walker again, since I clearly can’t be trusted around him.
I set the phone on speaker and put it on the bathroom counter so I can shave and get dressed, killing multiple birds with one stone.
“I’d love to go if you can wait a couple hours? Knox and I are running some errands.”
“You’re with Knox ?” I don’t mean for it to sound so accusatory, but it does.
Cassie laughs into the phone. “Yeah, why does that shock you? He’s fun to hang out with.”
My jerk of surprise almost knocks the phone into the toilet.
“Cass, Knoxy is a lot of things. Smart, great at construction, a good boat captain, reliable, responsible, you get the picture. But what Knox is not , is fun .”
“I heard that, you asshole,” Knox grumbles in the background.
“I rest my case,” I deadpan.
Cassie laughs harder. “Well, he’s not fun around you because he’s too busy keeping you out of trouble.”
“And I suppose he’s fun around you because he’s getting you into it?” I reply.
It’s meant to be a joke, but they both grow quiet on the other end of the line and I don’t want to spend too much time thinking about what Knox may or may not be doing with one of our closest friends.
Clearing my throat, I try to end the awkwardness by ending the call. “Okay, well, you guys have fun. I have to get these animals to the arena because the riders are allowed to assess their draw and the late add-ons are already at a disadvantage.”
“I’ll pretend I know what that means,” Cassie says. “You coming to dinner at Dylan and Jake’s tonight?”
Shit. I’d forgotten about dinner. I love Cassie and I’d do anything for her, but I need some time away from her questions and from Dylan and Jake’s sappy love fest. At least until Walker DeVille gets in his truck and gets the hell out of my town.
“I’ll let you know,” I say, trying to set myself up with an out. “It’ll depend on what time I get done at the arena.”
“Phoe, it’s nine in the morning,” Knox points out. “And it’s not like you’ve never made this drop before. It takes two hours, max.”
Christ. Will everyone get off my back for a fucking second?
“Yeah, well, Trisha told me this morning that her mom’s just been diagnosed with cancer and she’s heading to Maine this afternoon indefinitely, so the two-hour job will now take four.
Plus, it means that until I get new help, I’m on my own for the farm upkeep.
So, I’ll keep you guys in the loop, but I’ve gotta go load up. I’ll holler atcha later.”
I disconnect the call, basically hanging up on them, grab my cowboy hat—because when in Rome— and head to load up the last three animals I need to take to the arena.
When I pull up to the holding stalls out back, I notice they’ve made a few changes to the temporary structure.
Ones I don’t like. Especially if they’re going to be housing my thousand pound, fifteen-thousand-dollar broncs.
I don’t like to leave the animals cooped up in the trailer longer than necessary, so I unload them and place them into the paddock in the field next to the parking lot while I go find Tonya, the rodeo manager.
It takes me two phone calls, three texts, and twenty-five minutes, but I finally track her down. She’s running from place to place, answering texts—although, not mine apparently—on her phone while we talk.
“Phoenix, the animals are fine. They’re here for three days max. It’s the same structure a lot of the arenas are using these days,” she argues, trying to brush me off.
“That may be true, but those arenas aren’t responsible for the well-being of my livestock, Tonya. Fix it, or I’m pulling my horses from your competition.”
Finally, she stops walking and huffs a sigh. “You signed a contract.”
“And part of that contract is that you respect my animals and provide safe housing. This isn’t safe. You’ve only got one way in and one way out of there. If this shitty excuse for a building goes up in flames, no one’s getting to these horses in time.”
“Fine. I’ll have maintenance come look at it and see what they can do about it.”
“Maintenance isn’t going to do shit, Tonya. They aren’t fucking builders.”
“Or the fire marshal,” she says under her breath.
“Give me the green light to get it to code. I need something to keep me busy today anyway.”
She narrows her eyes at me like I’m somehow pulling something over on her.
“I’m just going to cut a hole in the siding and install a rail for a barn door. I’ll disassemble it when it’s done and weld the original piece back in place, okay?” I explain.
Before she agrees, a voice I recently heard for the first time reaches my ears.
“…better be fucking amazing. I don’t want your score brought down because some hillbilly’s inbred bronco doesn’t have its shit together.”
Jonas and Walker turn the corner into the barn and stop on a dime when they see me. My eyes flit between the two, but quickly land on Jonas before narrowing as I cross my arms over my chest.
Calmly, I answer, “Seeing as the hillbilly supplying your bronc has actually ridden them instead of just coaching from the sidelines, you can rest assured I provide the highest quality animals. If Walker’s score isn’t perfect, it’ll be due to your shit coaching skills, not my horse.”
Embarrassed, Jonas clenches his jaw. “I didn’t know you were one of the stock contractors for this arena.”
“Well, do your fucking homework next time. You need to be giving Walker all the information you can get your hands on. Knowing which farms these broncs come from allows you to review tape from other rides of the same horses or different horses from the same farms. Give him an idea of what to expect.”
“That’s a waste of time,” Jonas fires back. “Those eight seconds are all about feel.”
“That may be partly true, but there’s a big difference in feeling a bomb or a butterfly between your legs.
If he’s mounting a bronc from Starkiss Farms, he should be ready for a vertical buck every two seconds.
If he draws one from Maplefield, he needs to be prepared for a three-hundred-sixty-degree rotation.
He’ll stand a much better chance of surviving those eight seconds if he anticipates that with his hips instead of reacting to it, not to mention it’ll save his back. ”
Trying like all fuck to rein in my frustration with this asshole who calls himself a coach, I slide my eyes to Walker.
“If you draw forty-two, he’s got a nasty double kick.
You’ll think he’s coming down, but as soon as you relax, his back legs will kick out again.
Stay ready. He’s thrown a lot of good riders with that move.
” And because I’m a fucking masochist, I add a little softer, “Good luck tomorrow, Quick Shooter.”