51. Colt
Chapter 51
Colt
I roll my bad shoulder, and it gives a dull throb in return, like a warning shot, reminding me that every time I told Callie I’m fine, it’s been a lie.
The wood-paneled wall is hard against my back as I work my palm into that constant ache. “Come on, man. Get it together,” I mutter, not that there’s anyone around to hear it.
The back hallway echoes with the noise of the arena. Everyone’s out front, either riding, getting ready to ride, or watching. The excitement is fucking palpable on every single one of them.
That should be me. I should be out there, running scenarios through my head, meticulously going through each step of my process. I definitely shouldn’t be back here hiding, but every time I try to walk up, a weight compresses my chest, growing heavier with each step I take.
This isn’t something I’m used to. I’ve always run headfirst into challenges, not giving a damn about the consequences, just craving the high of the win.
I was born with that “I can do anything” attitude. The type that encourages irrational confidence, but hell, it hasn’t let me down yet… at least, it hadn’t.
I rake grooves through my hair, fisting the ends. That confidence broke somewhere under those stomping hooves, and I’m reminded every time my leg aches or my shoulder throbs just how close I came to not making it out of there.
This shit has never been a problem before. I’ve ridden through plenty of injuries—just a part of the job—but this is something different, something dug into the back of my brain that’s hard to shake off.
I need to get myself together before I blow it all. I’ve already fallen behind in the ranks taking the last two rides off. I’m lucky I still have a shot at winning at all.
Making the finals practically a winner-takes-all was a special type of genius. Who doesn’t love a good underdog story, taking the top spot in the final showdown. As far as entertainment value, nothing has this beat.
It’s one bad ride vs. one great ride. Winner takes the buckle.
So fucking this up is not an option.
No championship. No comeback. Just another almost.
The thought is a stone in my stomach, doing nothing but weighing me down.
Riding through pressure has always been half the fun. Nothing like a good comeback to get your adrenaline going. So why does it feel like a stone has lodged itself deep in my gut? Where’s that all-encompassing need to win that’s always burning white-hot, driving me toward the win?
No matter how deep I search, there’s something missing, something different that’s holding me back in this hallway.
I’m one ride from my dream. This is my shot.
Footsteps come up from behind me, and I dip my hat low so whoever it is can’t see my face. The brim blocks out my vision so completely that I don’t notice the man in front of me until he’s gripping my shoulders.
I snap up, ready to shove whoever it is off me, and freeze.
Maverick. Steady. Confident. Wearing a look that strips me bare. His eyes darken as he searches mine, reading every one of my thoughts and doubts like an open book
“Come here,” he commands, voice low, as he drags me into an empty tack room. The air is stale, the dim casting Maverick’s face in sharp shadows, and it’s so hot my clothes instantly stick to my skin.
“What the hell are you doing—” I don’t get the whole question out before Mav pins me against the wall.
His mouth crashes down on mine, taking it like he owns it. Teeth sink into my lower lip until I open for him. No warm-up, no hesitation. Just hunger and devotion.
Maverick’s touch burns through every thought until I’m all needy hands and sweat-slick skin.
I moan deep in my throat when he shoves his thigh between my legs, and I buck against him, his low hum of satisfaction vibrating against my neck.
It’s my undoing.
“Want you.” I rip the hem of his shirt out of his pants, greedy, until I can press my palm to his abs, dragging a sharp inhale from his chest.
I explore every hill and valley, tracing along the lines until I’ve memorized every inch of him, not stopping until his grip trembles where it’s still holding me in place.
It’s a heated, messy kiss, none of his normal smooth control. We’ve devolved into pushed-up clothes and roaming hands, urgently covering every inch of each other, but it’s not enough, never enough.
I lift my chin and run my teeth along his jaw, nipping at the hard line as I dip my fingers beneath the edge of his jeans. His groan is deep and guttural. Heat floods through me, so fast and sharp it feels like a match striking bone.
“Fuck.” I hiss through my teeth, patience evaporating, needing to hold the weight of his cock in my hand, needing the high of knowing I’m the one making him this way.
I’ve got his button undone, zipper halfway down, when a voice calls out from the hall.
“Hey, anybody see Lawson? He’s up in three.”
There’s no answer, because of course there isn’t. The only two people here are Maverick and me, and we’re not saying shit.
Maverick’s lips curl in a slow, wicked grin, giving me a glimpse of his tongue tracing the edge of his top teeth. Just fucking ravenous.
I crush my mouth to his, devouring that smile, relishing the fact that it’s all for me.
One hand curls around my hip, the other on my chest until I’m flattened against the wall, and I search for Maverick’s mouth when he pulls back, needing just one more taste.
He chuckles low in his throat, pressing his forehead to mine. Both of us are panting, our stifling breaths mixing between us.
It’s brutally hot. Dust kicks off the floor, filtering the air, but I don’t push him off. Instead, I close the distance as much as his grip allows and brush my lips over his.
All those things that used to drive me to win are screaming at me to stay right here.
Black pupils take over brown eyes as he says through gritted teeth, “You better win this.”
I’m still dazed from the kiss, brain not firing on all cylinders. “Huh?”
His fingers grip my jaw, locking me in place. “I said, you better fucking win this.”
I huff out a laugh. Nothing about that makes sense. “You know that means you’ll lose, right?”
That wicked grin is back. The one he reserves just for Callie and me. The one that has my dick hardening just by looking at it.
“That’s right. Fucking perfect,” he says, still not making any sense. He doesn’t speak again until the fog clears from my mind.
“Ride like hell for me, Princess.” Maverick’s voice starts as a caress then morphs into that low command he uses while he fucks us. “Show me how good you are.”
I twitch as shivers run down my spine all the way to my toes.
“Okay.” I nod, stunned dumb.
He pushes off me, gaze focused on where his thumb traces the edge of my mouth. “Go. Win this fucking thing. Then get your ass back to me. I’ve got plans for you.”
My limbs tremble as I make my way to the chute, but it has nothing to do with nerves. That was the best goddamn pep talk I’ve ever heard.
I close my eyes as they get ready to open the gate and hear his voice again.
Ride like hell for me.
The gate slams open, and everything goes quiet. No noise. No fear. Just instinct. My grip holds, legs locked, body moving with every violent twist beneath me. I ride like I’ve got something to prove, like I’ve got something to lose. Eight seconds of muscle and grit and the sharp, electric certainty that I was made for this.
They shout my name over the speakers. The words “perfect ride” and “best score of the decade” ripple through the air as people rush toward me, clapping me on the back.
Photographers, staff, other riders, all trying to grab a piece of my attention, but all I want, all I’ve wanted this whole damn time, is to find them.
My vision tunnels in on Maverick and Callie in the stands. Both of them are beaming, eyes bright, smiles wide. The next thing I know, I’m running, jumping until I catch the railing and pull myself toward them. Maverick hooks an arm under my good one, steadying me, as Callie wraps around me. Her mouth is open slightly, and I don’t hesitate to take it.
There are whistles, hoots, and hollers, but I don’t let go of her mouth, even as Maverick guides me over the rail so I can stand between them. His chest presses into my back, pulling us into a hug that lasts long enough to spark questions I’m more than fine answering.
Hell, give me a mic and I’ll scream it at the top of my lungs. The stress, the pressure, that overwhelming feeling of conflict I felt before my ride drains from me, and I just lean into them, soaking in this moment like it’ll last a lifetime.
The thing lighting me up inside has nothing to do with that gold buckle and everything to do with them. The world starts to clear as I realize who I’ve actually been chasing all along.