5. Cole
COLE
The chute is tight, hard metal pressing in on both sides, rattling with every violent shift of the beast beneath me.
I can feel the bull’s power through my legs—coiled muscle, heat, anger.
He slams forward, then back, trying to shake me before the gate even opens.
Dust rises in the harsh arena lights, and the noise of the crowd leaks in like a distant storm—cheers, whistles, someone shouting my name.
But I barely hear any of it. All I hear is my own breathing. Slow in. Steady out.
My glove tightens around the rope, fingers locked in. I flex once, twice, feeling the tension bite into my hand. My heart pounds so hard it feels like it’s shaking a few ribs loose.
Chronic Traumatic Encephalopathy.
The doctor’s warning reverberates through every fiber of my being, ringing like an echo through my bruised and battered brain.
He said I should consider retiring, that one more bad fall could be the one to take it all away. I push it out of my head. Eight seconds. That’s all this is. Eight seconds between me and a twenty-five hundred dollar pay day.
The bull surges again, smashing into the front of the chute. The gate clangs. Someone above me nods and I lean forward, chest brushing the bull’s back, feeling the raw, violent energy under me.
“Ready?” someone yells over the constant roar.
I nod once, and the gate swings open causing the world around me to explode.
He launches out like a cannon—straight up, then down so hard my teeth snap together despite my mouthguard. My free arm whips back as I fight to stay centered. His first spin comes fast—left, hard, violent. I shift my weight, hips moving before I can even think, boots digging in for life.
One second.
He bucks high, hind legs kicking up into the air, trying to throw me over his head. My grip holds. My shoulder screams as my arm stretches to keep me balanced.
Two seconds.
He twists the other way now, faster, tighter. The world blurs—lights, dirt, flashes of a hazy crowd. I feel the rhythm beginning to form, the chaos starting to make sense.
Three.
Four.
He slams down and launches again, higher this time. My body snaps forward, then back. I can feel the strain in my neck, the jolt rattling through my skull causing a sharp, tight pinch.
Ignore it.
Five.
I adjust, barely, pulling myself back into position. My thighs clamp tighter. My hand burns, rope cutting deeper.
Six.
He’s furious now—spinning, bucking, giving it everything he’s got. It’s violent and wild and unpredictable, yet somehow I’m still here, still moving with him, still hanging on.
Seven.
Everything tunnels. The noise disappears. Nothing but my own breaths, my thudding pulse. Hard. Fast. Chaotic. Just me and him and a timer I can’t see before a horn slices through it all.
Eight.
I release.
The moment my hand comes free, I’m airborne—thrown off to the side. I hit the ground hard, shoulder first, dirt filling my mouth. Pain flashes, sharp and immediate, but I roll, forcing myself to move.
Get up. Move, dammit.
The bull spins past me, close enough that I feel the wind in its wake. I scramble to my feet and run, boots slipping in the dirt, adrenaline drowning out everything else. The bullfighters rush in, pulling the beast’s attention away, just long enough.
I don’t stop until I’m at the fence. I grab it, hoisting myself up, breathing hard, chest heaving, the world rushing back in all at once as the crowd roars, even louder than before.
Eight seconds.
Job fuckin’ done.
“Fuck, brother that was insane!” Brady and Wyatt crowd me as I walk with my head down through the crowd of officials that surround the main arena, rope thrown over my shoulder, bell slapping against my back with every step.
“Yeah, man. I thought he had ya for a second, coming into the fifth.” Wyatt laughs, grabbing me around my neck.
I grunt, shrugging him off. Not my best ride, but good enough to take the points and claim the W.
A bottle of Bud is thrust into my face by someone we pass but I brush it off, keeping steady focus on my boots pounding the dirt as I navigate my way around the back of the bleachers, to where my trailer is parked alongside all the others.
I’m dizzy as fuck. Squeezing my eyes closed tight with every blink to try and rid the double vision that’s not quite succeeding to make a fool out of me.
I didn’t even hit my head, but the fall knocked something loose.
I need a moment of silence, the quiet alone to collect my composure before someone notices something’s up.
When I reach my trailer, I pull open the door, stopping and holding a hand up to Wyatt and Brady. “Can y’all go get me a real beer? None of that Bud bullshit.”
“Sure thing, brother.” Brady nods, and hurries off.
Wyatt lingers, his eyebrows knitting together as he looks me up and down. “You good?”
I nod. “Yeah, just… gotta clean up.” I hold my bloodied hand up in the air as if to prove I ain’t lyin’, the rope cutting deep even through my glove. “Then we can head on out.”
Wyatt nods, but the look in his eye tells me he doesn’t buy my excuse for one second. After a moment’s hesitation, he turns and jogs on after Brady. I slam the door shut and sag against it, closing my eyes and taking a few steady breaths.
“Get it together, dammit,” I warn myself, hands balling into fists so tight they tremble with the need to kick my own ass.
Tossing the rope onto the table, I release the buckle to remove my chaps and head for the tiny bathroom at the back when I notice my phone lighting up with a call from where it’s laying on the table.
I reach for it, but when I see six missed calls within the last five minutes, the call ID flashing up on the illuminated screen, I’m rendered more than a little confused. Sleepy Nites Motel.
“The fuck?” I mutter under my breath sliding the answer call button. “Hello?”
Now, I’m not sure what I was expecting. Maybe some buckle bunny I’ve fucked once before, passing through Summer, holed up at the motel, hoping I’m free for the night.
But when I hear the uncharacteristically high voice of a child ring through the phone, I feel a shiver run through me, the hairs on my arms standing on end.
It’s been more than a week since that day at the Stop and Shop.
I’d hoped for the best—that they’d gotten out of here and were on the road to wherever the hell they were going—but deep down I’ve been fearing the worst.
“Um, is this—” The kid clears his throat. “Are you the man from the grocery store?”
Fuck. “Yeah, it’s me. Cole. Where’s your mama, little guy?”
I hear crying in the background and my hackles are up and ready for a fight.
“Um… she’s-she’s not here. I can’t get her on the phone.”
My throbbing head makes way for a panic that surges through every vein in my body.
I huff, looking around for what, I don’t even know. “Are—is everythin’ okay?”
“There’s… a man,” the kid says on a loud whisper, his voice trembling through every word. “He’s trying to get in here.”
“Okay, just—” Fuck’s sake. I shrug out of my vest and grab my wallet and keys, pushing out of my trailer like my damn ass is on fire. “I’m gonna need you to stay right where you are. I’m comin’ there, y’hear me?”
I spot Wyatt and Brady up ahead, both of them looking at me about as confused as can be. They glance at one another before running directly toward me, pushing their way through the crowd, Pabst cans in hand.
“Can you please hurry?” His small voice breaks a touch as he adds, “M-my sister’s really scared.”
“I’ma be a little while, buddy,” I tell him honestly. Guthrie to Summer is a thirty-minute drive when it ain’t pitch black out. “But I’m gonna call a friend—a-a policeman—and he’s gonna be there in just a few minutes. I promise you.”
“Okay…”
“I’ll be there soon, yeah?”
“Yeah.”
I end the call and frantically scroll through my phone, hitting Cruz’s contact.
“What’s up, brother?” Brady asks, breathless by the time he reaches me.
Ignoring him, I turn to Wyatt, offering him my keys. “I need your truck.”
Wyatt looks from me to the keys and back again.
“I’m parked in and I—” I snap my mouth shut. I can’t tell these guys why I need to get out of here so damn quick—hell, I don’t even understand it myself—but thankfully Cruz chooses this moment to pick up the call.
“Whaddya want?” he asks in lieu of an actual greeting, his tone gruff and rushed.
With an eyeroll, Wyatt pulls his keys from his pocket, trading them for mine. I slap him on his shoulder, throwing a salute to the fellas before turning and sprinting as fast as my tired thighs can carry me.
“I need you to get over to the Sleepy Nites Motel and don’t ask me no fuckin’ questions.”
“What’s up?”
“Some asshole tryin’ to break into one of the motel rooms, scaring the daylights out of a couple kids.”
“Kids? Chrissake, Dawson,” Cruz mutters with a snort, but I hear the telltale jangle of a set of keys in the background. “You owe me.”
“Don’t make me remind you who you work for, motherfucker,” is all I say, the warning in my tone obvious and maybe a little out of line considering who it is I’m talking to. But when I reach Wyatt’s Dodge, I end the call before the sheriff’s deputy can say anything back.
I make it back to Summer in record time, all things considered. The tires skid as I pull into the parking lot of the Sleepy Nites Motel, and I jump out of the truck.
Cruz sits on one of the metal chairs outside the door to room number eight, one hand tucked into his utility belt, the other plucking a cigarette from his lips, all stretched out like he’s on fuckin’ vacation or something.
I look from him to the door and back again, scanning the strangely calm surroundings, my brows tugging together with confusion.
“It was just some drunk asshole, confused which room was his,” Cruz utters, answering my unspoken question as he heaves himself up from the chair and tosses his smoke out onto the gravel.
“By the time I got here he was passed out right on that there doormat.” He snorts, pointing to the worn, prickly mat that lies in front of the door.
I remove my hat, smoothing my hair back. “Kids okay?”
Cruz lifts a shoulder. “Wouldn’t let me in. Even after I showed ’em my damn badge through the window.” He tips his head in the direction of the big window, which is when I notice the curtain move an inch and, honestly, I think I feel a touch of pride swell in my chest.
“Thanks, man,” I mutter, grabbing my wallet and plucking out a fifty, handing it to him.
Cruz snatches the money and tucks into the chest pocket of his shirt, lifting his chin and looking down his nose at me long and hard.
“You ever talk to me like that again—” He points a thick finger in my face, his voice low and steely, but he doesn’t finish his sentence, not that he needs to, his warning loud and clear.
Stepping around me, Cruz pauses to open the door to his old Bronco, hocking back a loogie and spitting it onto the ground. “I work for Rattlesnake, and I answer to Shaw, not you. Don’t you go forgettin’ that, motherfucker.”
He pulls out of the parking lot, kicking up dirt and gravel as he goes, and I watch him leave before turning and looking at the motel door, the curtain shifting in the window once more.
I tap a knuckle softly against the timber, waiting before finally I hear a click followed by a metal slide, and another click, the door opening a touch and a somewhat familiar pair of blue eyes peering out at me.
“Hey, buddy,” I say softly, resting a hand against the door jam. “It’s just me, now. Cole.”
“Hi…” is all he says.
“Y’all okay?” I lift my chin, trying to see inside the room, but it’s dark.
“Yeah.”
“Where’s your little sister?”
“She… fell asleep.”
The tension in my shoulders eases a sliver, and I bow my head on a breath.
“Where’s your mama?” I ask after stretch of silence.
“She—” He hesitates and I don’t like that one bit.
“It’s okay, bud,” I assure him. “You can tell me.”
“She’s at work.”
I close my eyes then, gritting my teeth to the point my jaw aches because in Summer there’s only two places a woman can work at this time of night, and hell I know for a fact she ain’t working at The Saddlery.
“Alright, well, I ain’t going nowhere, okay?” I sigh, scrubbing a hand over my face, glancing to the metal chair Cruz was just sitting in. “I’m gonna sit right out here and wait until she comes back.”
“You can come in… if you w-want.”
I shake my head. “Don’t you go invitin’ strangers inside, little buddy. It ain’t safe.”
“You’re not a stranger.”
“I don’t even know your name, kid.”
“I’m Tommy.” He holds his small hand out through the crack in the door.
I can’t help but chuckle, shaking it. “Well, it’s nice to officially meet you, Tommy. You go on to bed now,” I tell him. “Get some sleep, y’hear?”
And, after a couple of seconds, the door clicks closed followed once more by the sound of metal sliding, and another click.
I wait a few moments before I take my ass on over to the metal chair and sit down, tugging the blister pack of gum out of my pocket and popping a piece into my mouth.
Chewing hard, the nicotine does little to quell the anger that festers low in my belly the longer I wait for the woman who left her poor defenseless kids alone at night in a motel frequented by goddamn junkies and hookers.
Sure, I felt sorry for her. And I still do. But right now, I’m fuckin’ pissed.