11. Maverick
Chapter 11
Maverick
Colt bursts out of the gate, riding Diablo, the top-ranked bull of the season. Both a lucky and unlucky draw. A make-or-break situation.
He can earn the top score if he sticks the eight, but on that animal, eight seconds might as well be eight hours.
I woke up with his face inches from mine. Like the world had hit pause, I froze, letting myself use the quiet to take him in. The sharp edges of his features had eased in sleep. He looked soft. Like someone I’d want to hold on to. Kind of cute, actually… when he wasn’t busy glaring at me.
My fingers tighten on the cool steel bar, leaning into the fence for a better view.
As much as I hate it, I’ve got to admit Colt’s a beautiful rider. Graceful, pliant, moving with and not against the bull.
His arm swings high into the air, earning more points for style as nearly two tons of muscle twists and bucks beneath him.
My brows pinch together when he leans back a millisecond too late and just like that, he’s tossed off as easily as throwing a baseball.
Colt rips off his helmet, cussing under his breath, and disappears through the gate.
My cheeks puff out on a sigh.
It ended exactly how I thought it would. Time left on the clock, and his ass in the dirt.
Colt doesn’t know, but I haven’t missed a single one of his rides since we started.
I’ve tried not to watch, tried to stay with the other riders.
But without fail, my gut twists, and my heart races until I can see him.
A gnawing sensation that if I’m not there, no one’s looking out for him.
It’s ridiculous. There’s an entire team out here taking care of us.
But I can’t stay away, and I’ve given up trying.
Which is why I can read him like a book.
Just by the way he sat in the chute, I knew he was in for a tough go of it.
It’s his own fault, coming in drunk off his ass the night before an event, stumbling around the dark room loud enough to wake the dead.
Not that I’d been asleep.
How could I be, knowing any second, Colt fucking Lawson was going to swagger through the door and lie beside me?
Every creak from outside had my ears perking up, wondering if it was him.
Goddamn hours of that shit until the sound of sloppy steps approached, followed by the beep of our door.
The sound of his heavy breathing filled the air, blocking out everything else.
It was visceral, having him that close, but I kept my eyes shut, muscles locked tight, the hair on the back of my neck lifting under the weight of his stare.
Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore.
I snapped. Pushed his buttons, made him give in.
Maybe if I had time to think it through, I would’ve wondered why I cared so much about him sleeping on the sofa.
It’s not like it’s my problem if he’s sore. If anything, it’s better for me.
But every second he stalled burrowed deeper under my skin, until I found myself taunting him, until he climbed in beside me.
I wasn’t ready for the heat of his body radiating across the few inches that separated us.
Definitely wasn’t ready for the way it pulled at something low and hungry inside me.
With the last grains of sanity, I turned away from him, faking sleep.
He didn’t need to know my thoughts were racing a million miles a minute and I still don’t know what they mean.
He settled quickly while I stared a hole in the wall, just trying to sort out where the fuck everything went wrong.
“Hey, you’re up next,” a bullfighter hollers at me, voice annoyed enough it’s probably not the first time.
Damn it.
I run my palm down my face and bust my ass to the staging area behind the pens.
I’d been daydreaming so hard I nearly missed my own ride.
Whatever the hell Colt’s doing to my head, it’s gotta stop. And it’s gotta stop now.
Two familiar men wait at the top of the chute, one leg braced on the rail and the other safely on the deck in case they need to bail fast.
“How’s it looking?” I ask, cracking my neck as I prep to mount.
The bullfighter smirks. “You’ve got yourself a live one. He’s ready to kill.”
As if to prove the point, the bull rears in the pen, nearly crushing Colt. He only just manages to dodge it.
The other one lets out a low whistle. “Gonna be a pretty ride.”
These two have helped countless riders, and they make it easy.
Within minutes, the gate opens, and the clock starts ticking.
Muscles flex between my thighs as the devil beneath me bucks, hungry to kick me off and take a piece of me.
He’s wild, but I’ve ridden him before.
I release the tension in my body and move with him on instinct.
Forward when his feet go up. Backward when he rears.
Leaning into his turns instead of away.
Seconds counting down.
I make a rookie mistake and look at the clock.
Just like that, the bull slams his skull into my face.
The bone-shattering crack reverberates through my head.
Thank God the whistle blows, and I manage to dismount with help from the bullfighters.
Blood pours over my mouth, down my chin, soaking through my shirt.
I don’t waste time waving at the crowd instead head straight for the medics.
The medic area’s tucked away behind the building.
Most riders consider it bad luck to even glance at it, like getting hurt is contagious.
It’s set up to handle common injuries. Get you stitched up, pop in a separated shoulder… realign your broken nose…
And no bull rider steps foot in a hospital unless absolutely necessary.
I’ve seen guys with sideways ankles swear they just need to walk it off.
That’s where the medical team steps in and forces them.
“You’re making a hell of a mess,” Doc greets me, bushy brows pulled together as he gives me a once-over.
Quick as a whip, he pinches my nose between thumb and finger, and there’s a sickening pop that has bile rising in my throat.
“Jesus Christ.” I hiss, covering my nose with one hand, nails digging into the other.
Bastard didn’t even warn me.
“That fucking hurt, you know.” I glare at him.
“Wouldn’t hurt if you quit breaking it.”
He tosses me a cloth to wipe my face, clearly done dealing with pissed-off cowboys for the day.
It’s stained red by the time I toss it in the trash.
“Thanks, Doc,” I mutter, then head for the locker room, hunting for the extra-strength painkillers I keep stashed.
I stay away from the prescription shit.
Seen too many guys go down that road.
Blood dries, sticking my shirt to my skin, tearing out hair with every step.
Staying up all night has me operating at barely human levels.
One more corner, and then I’ll change, crash, and forget today ever happened.
Ah, fuck.
Colt’s waiting there, arms crossed over his chest, tendons straining at his neck like he’s seconds from snapping.
I groan. “Whatever the hell you’re pissed about, it’ll have to wait. Now’s not the time.”
I move to sidestep him and the bastard blocks me, turning himself into a goddamn wall.
“Fucking reckless out there. Does winning mean that much to you?”
It takes my pain-addled brain a second to catch up to what he’s saying.
Almost seems like… he’s worried.
Nah. Can’t be.
“What’s it to you?” I mutter, because really, I want to know. Normally, he’d be laughing his ass off, not looking like he’s about to deck me.
“Callie saw it. Turned white as a ghost. I thought she was gonna pass out.”
He glares at me, voice rough and cracking.
“You can’t fuck around when she’s here.”
Guilt slashes through me, sharp and ugly.
I tell myself she’s not new to this; she knows injuries are part of the game.
But it doesn’t fucking help.
“At least I finished my ride,” I snap, a bastard move I can’t stop.
Anything to wipe that look off Colt’s face.
His whole body jolts like I slapped him.
Without warning, he throws a punch, nearly missing my already broken nose.
Before I can think, I shove him back, rage boiling over.
He stumbles a step then comes at me.
That’s when Marco charges up the hall, fist cocked back like he’s about to end Colt right there.
Instinct takes over.
I grab Marco’s arm mid-swing, yanking him off-balance before he can land the hit.
“Who the fuck do you think you’re swinging at?” I snarl, voice low and lethal.
Marco’s mouth opens and closes uselessly.
“Fuck, man, I was just trying to help?—”
I shove his arm away, shoving him back a few feet.
“Didn’t fucking ask for your help,” I snap. “Whatever’s between me and Colt stays between us. Touch him again and you’ll wish a bull stomped your goddamn face in.”
Marco backs off fast, hands raised like I’m a live wire.
Colt stares at me, breathless, chest rising and falling.
“You just defended me?” he says, like he can’t believe it.
My pulse hammers in my throat. Shit.
Sanity starts to seep back in, leaving me raw and exposed.
What the hell was that?
I don’t have a good answer. Don’t want one.
I turn away, voice rough.
“Forget it.”
“Fuck you,” Colt snarls, then walks off down the hall, Marco following several few feet behind.
Grateful the locker room’s empty, I strip down, take a lightning-fast shower, and pull on clean clothes.
At least now I’m partially human.
Mind still racing, it turns to Callie.
I hadn’t seen her watching.
Hadn’t seen her face drain of color.
But the thought has me on edge.
And from the way she didn’t check in at the medics, I’d say she’s avoiding me.
I owe her an apology.
She’s not responding to any of my texts.
I almost message Colt but if she wanted him, he’d be with her, not yelling at me.
That leaves the old-fashioned way.
I start checking every room.
No sign of her.
Nobody’s seen her either.
A few offer to help me look, but something tells me Callie wouldn’t want that much attention.
That being said, if I don’t find her in the next five minutes, I’ll have every damn person in here searching.
The longer it takes, the worse the feeling in my gut gets.
Something’s seriously wrong.