23. Maverick
Chapter 23
Maverick
Livestock haulers kick up dust as they approach the venue where we’ll be riding tomorrow night. Being first to see the bulls is a ritual I’ve kept up since I was a kid. Colt and I used to hang out for hours behind buildings, the smell of cow shit seeping into our jeans, just to get a glimpse at what riders would be up against. Callie never understood. She’d spent plenty of time dealing with ornery animals already and teased us mercilessly. She never got it. Not like Colt did.
The first truck pulls in, gravel crunching under its eight tires as the driver fluidly backs it into place. I whistle under my breath, impressed at how it lines up with the venue doors on the first try.
Grunts and kicks echo from inside, less than five feet from me. Not sure what they’re pissed about. The NbrA’s come a long way in making sure the bulls are comfortable. One of these beasts is going to try to kill me tomorrow, and it’s traveling in better conditions than I am.
A small crowd gathers as the crew sets up rails leading from the truck to the stalls. I’m not the only one with this idea. Wranglers keep the crowd at a distance while they get ready to unload.
Sweat runs down my neck, pooling between my shoulder blades. I pull my hat lower and lean against the cool metal of the arena, watching as more trucks pull in like clockwork, lining up in a neat row. Spurs jingle on concrete as riders drift over to scope out the scene. They’re not doing much different from what I’m doing, hanging around, seeing if they can guess the temperament of a bull before it’s out of the chute. Some of them will get it right; some of them will end up in the hospital. Makes no difference to the bulls.
“Mr. Kane!” A high-pitched shout comes from across the parking lot. A boy who can’t be older than ten races toward me at full tilt. His smile is taking over, bright and shining, when he skids to a halt.
A card with my face on it flutters in his hand. “Can I please get your autograph?”
I glance over, double-checking the safety rails are secure and they haven’t started unloading yet.
“Real quick,” I say, taking the card from him. I pull a pen from my back pocket, scrawl my name, and hand it back to him. I’m supposed to say something encouraging, something he’ll remember. But Colt’s the one who’s always been good at that. So I hand the card back and point my chin to the lady with a camera phone standing across the parking lot. “Now, run back to your mom.”
A chill slides up my spine as I hear the clanging of steel hitting the ground.
The safety rails.
A black bull barrels over them like they’re made of air, its head low and turning left to right, hot gusts shooting from its nose. It’s out for blood.
The kid. He’s still standing halfway to his mom, frozen as the bull charges toward him. My body moves before I can even process, boots slamming against asphalt, arms outstretched and waving as I try to close the distance.
“Hey!” I yell, desperate to get the bull’s attention. My voice is a raw scrape, my heart an electric jolt. “Over here!”
I’m too far, and the bull is too fast. My legs burn with each stride, fire igniting in my muscles, spreading through my chest as I push myself harder.
The bull’s massive body looms like a nightmare on steroids, and I’m still ten feet away, still too far, brick wall coming for him. The boy’s screams mingle with the cries of the crowd. White noise, just noise. His eyes are glued to the beast, feet stuck like he’s sunk in quicksand, and I’m sure this is the last moment, the last second Colt comes out of nowhere, shoving the boy out of the way, knocking him to safety, and rolling like hell to avoid the hooves that snap the air where they’ve just been. He comes up, arms wide, hollering at the bull, trying to tempt it away.
Without slowing my momentum, I use the distraction to lift the boy into my arms and bring him to his mother.
Tears stream down her cheeks as she takes him, sobbing into his hair, her arms wrapping around him while he clings to her like a toddler.
Not meeting my gaze, her repeated grateful words blur by as I hear wranglers shout, “We’ve got it, Colt. Head out!”
I turn just in time to see the bull rush toward Colt. He spins desperately, not the first time coming so dangerously close to a steer, though he should have gotten to safety by now.
“Get the hell out of there!” I instantly regret yelling, his eyes meeting mine in a moment of distraction that he can’t afford. The bull seizes its chance, charging in with its head bowed low, horns aimed straight at Colt’s stomach.
Stomped bones and torn shoulders can be healed, but a pierced gut is deadly.
These days, we wear protective equipment under our vests, but there was a time when bulls would impale riders and thrash them, tearing apart their intestines. Colt’s not wearing any kind of protection, leaving him vulnerable.
Time freezes, each second as heavy as a broken hourglass, as all I can do is watch.
The horn grazes his stomach as he twists away at the very last second, his ass slamming against the dirt with a dull thud. He scrambles, his hands retreating as he puts enough distance for the bullfighters to take over.
They quickly corral the one-ton beast. I don’t breathe until it disappears into the building.
Then, Colt’s laugh bursts from him, loud and untethered echoing as he tilts his head back, a smile taking up his entire face as he looks up at the sky.
He’s grinning when he gets up, dusting the dirt off his pants, as if he didn’t just brush against death.
He’s smiling and joking around, casual as ever, whereas I’m still not in control of myself, my hands shaking from the residual adrenaline, and he’s out here fucking laughing?
He waves off the guys, saying something I can’t make out through the static filling my ears as he disappears into the venue.
My feet move on their own, eating the distance between us. He’s in the locker room by the time I catch up to him, and the smirk he gives me has my teeth grinding into each other.
“What the hell were you thinking?” I grit out, my hands fisted at my sides, the only thing stopping me from sending my fist through his face. Somewhere inside, I know that this has nothing to do with me, that I shouldn’t be reacting this way, but there’s nothing rational about me now.
“What was I going to do, let the kid get crushed?” Colt shrugs, so fucking casual.
Something snaps inside me, breaking the only thing holding me back. I slowly stalk toward him, each step deliberate, the distance between us shrinking.
“You know damn well that’s not what I’m talking about.” The conflicting surge inside me, a twisting knot of frustration, exasperation, and the remaining anxiety from watching him nearly die, propels my words.
Colt’s hands are up between us, the same as he’d done with the bull, his eyes wide on mine as he takes a step back with every one of mine.
His throat bobs as he defends himself. “Like you’d just walk away from that.”
I snap back, “You’re sure as hell right I would. I’m not a fucking idiot out here risking my life for no reason. The second that kid was safe, you should have backed down. Do you want to get knocked out of the circuit? Because that’s what will happen if you get a major injury right now.”
“It was fine. I had it,” he says, his confidence less steady now, hesitation hollowing the words.
“You did not fucking have it.” Seizing his shirt, I slam him back into the locker, the metal rattling with the force.
He curls his fingers into my shirt and yanks me forward, the toes of our boots touching. I can make out the lighter streaks in his blue eyes. The world grows small, crackling electricity sparking between us as our ragged breaths mix together.
Years of fighting accumulating into this moment has the hair on the back of my neck standing. Agitation prickles under my skin, a rawness in my chest that shouldn’t be there as I stare him down.
Colt’s bitter laugh brushes my lips as he stares into me, accusation and betrayal written in his eyes. “I don’t know why you care now when you sure as hell didn’t back then.”
His words punch through my ribs, stealing my breath.
“Didn’t care? I didn’t fucking care? Is that what you think?” My voice rises until I’m nearly screaming. Flames lick up my skin as fire boils inside me. How could he be so fucking wrong about everything? I clench my trembling hands into fists.
I want to yell. Scream. Rage at him. I want to slam him into the locker until I knock some sense into him.
“I fucking cared,” I growl.
“Not more than you wanted that rookie title.” His voice cracks, and everything boiling inside me bursts out.
“Fuck you.” I crash my mouth into his. I’ve lost my fucking mind, and I don’t intend to find it.
Palms press into my chest, attempting to push me back, and I bite his bottom lip in response. The world explodes when he opens for me, his tongue thrusting between my teeth, rubbing mine. He tastes like mint.
I groan deep in my chest when he grabs my hair and kisses me harder, our teeth clanging together. Desperate, needy sounds escape him, and I grip his waist, pulling his hips forward until he’s lined against my hard cock.
His head jerks back, breaking the kiss, and he stares at me with eyes so wide the whites are visible on all sides. It takes a second, but once I recognize the emotion playing out in his expression, my hands snap away like they’ve been burned.
Mortified. He’s fucking mortified.
The second I release him, he’s gone, the door slamming behind him in his wake, leaving me heaving. My forehead presses into my arm, braced against the locker. A million thoughts swirl in my mind, each overtaking the other, but one stands out more than the rest.
I liked kissing Colt Lawson.
I wanted him.
I want him.