14. Cole
COLE
As I stand in the lineup in the center of the arena, hat held against my chest while some perky blonde dressed in a sparkly rhinestone onesie murders “The Star-Spangled Banner”, I ain’t even pretending to sing.
I ain’t even thinking about Broiler, the biggest goddamn bull on tonight’s schedule that I was unlucky enough to pick.
I ain’t worrying about falling wrong. Nope. My mind is on nothing but Clara.
The way she cried against my chest last night. It wasn’t the first time, but just like the last time, I didn’t know what the hell to do so I held onto her and I let her cry, all while anger festered on the inside.
Once Clara had cried all her tears out, we sat for a long, silent moment, my arm still around her, holding her close.
I could feel the way her body felt lighter, less tense, like she’d just let something go.
And if I can be the one to ease away the pain that’s taken up residence in her body over the years of surviving that monster, then she can cry on my shoulder any goddamn time she needs.
When I left Clara last night, I didn’t go straight back to the ranch like I should’ve.
I made a detour, and a deal with the proverbial devil himself.
And I know Austin might kick my ass if he finds out, but I meant what I said to Clara last night.
As long as she’s here, she’s safe. I’ll do all I can to make fuckin’ sure of it.
“C’mon, Dawson.” I’m slapped on my back, pulled from my thoughts by Stanley Watson, the biggest dick on the semi-pro circuit. “You ready to get your ass handed to you by a bull?”
I tip my chin, offering a sarcastic laugh. “We’ll see who’s leavin’ tonight five-grand richer, huh, Watson?”
He clicks his tongue and offers me a cocky wink, tipping his hat at me as he struts off like god’s fuckin’ gift.
I cast a sneer in his wake, storming out of the arena ready to fight.
Me and Broiler. And sure, I’m dog tired, and my mind is somewhere it shouldn’t be, but the purse is substantial, and the Childress crowd are wild, so the least I can do is put on a good show and take the points from the likes of Stanley fuckin’ Watson.
The chute rattles beneath me like it’s warning me that I’m not in the right mind to be here tonight.
I can feel Broiler breathing under me—thick, hot, angry snarls. Coiled muscle. My glove is tight on the rope, but my head is all over the goddamn place. It’s loud up in there. Too loud.
Eight seconds. That’s all. I’ve done it a hundred times.
But, tonight, I can’t seem to shut it off.
The crowd is a blur of noise, but it’s not them I hear.
It’s everything else. It’s Clara telling me her ex not only beat her, but tried to fuckin’ rape her, right there in front of her innocent baby girl.
It’s the doctor telling me I need to hang up my rope, that my riding days are all but over.
It’s the constant voice inside my head telling me I’m slipping, I’m losing it, I’m not as sharp as I used to be, and my jaw clenches tight.
When the gate slams open, Broiler launches like a damn rocket, hind legs kicking for the sky, front hooves hammering the dirt.
My free arm snaps back, trying to find balance, but my timing is off—half a beat late.
I feel it immediately. That clean rhythm I rely on?
Gone. Replaced by static and uncertainty.
I need to focus but my brain won’t listen. It’s still chirping. Still draggin’ me somewhere I shouldn’t be while fifteen-hundred pounds of fury tries to tear me apart.
The bull twists a hard left. I overcorrect. My hips slide out of position. My hand is still locked, but everything else is chaos.
Three seconds—maybe.
Another kick. Higher this time. I lose my center altogether. I’m thinking instead of reacting. That’s the mistake. That’s the end. The world snaps sideways and I’m airborne before I even realize I’ve lost him.
Then—impact. The ground slams into me, knocks the breath straight out of my lungs. Dust fills my mouth. My vision flickers. For a split second, I just lie here, staring at nothing.
Move.
I don’t. My head is still spinning, still stuck everywhere else but right here, right now.
Move, goddammit!
Too late. The bull wheels back, hooves tearing into the dirt, coming straight for me. I hear the crowd change—sharp, panicked—but it sounds far away, like I’m underwater or outside, looking in.
What the hell are you doing?
My body finally catches up. I roll just as a hoof smashes into the ground where my ribs were a heartbeat ago. Dirt sprays across my face. Another step—too close—too damn close.
Hands grab my vest, yanking me backward. A bullfighter flashes past in a blur of color, pulling the beast’s attention away just long enough.
I scramble, boots slipping, legs barely working. Adrenaline slams into me all at once, hot and violent, all-consuming. I’m clear. But my chest is heaving, and not just from the hit.
Four seconds. Not even.
I rip off my glove and slam it into the dirt. Anger surges, sharp and immediate, cutting through everything that was clogging my head a moment ago.
“Damn it!” My voice is raw, lost to the arena noise, but I feel it burn through me anyway.
Too slow. Too distracted. Too damn inside my own head.
I drag a hand down my face, pacing hard, boots kicking up dust. My heart is thundering like I’m still on the bull, but now it’s just me—me and the truth.
I didn’t get thrown. I checked out. And in the arena on the top of a raging bull, that’s as good as asking to be trampled to death.
“The hell happened out there, brother?” Wyatt reaches me, snaking his arm around my shoulders as I navigate my way through the trucks parked up outside.
I fucked up, that’s what happened. My head wasn’t in it, and I paid the price.
Barely made it four fuckin’ seconds before I went over the ass end, slamming hard onto the dirt and rattling my senses loose to the point where the goddamn beast almost trampled me before I could gather my wits to get out the fuckin’ way. Of course, I don’t say that.
“Bull was too damn strong,” is what I say instead.
“You’ve ridden bigger and meaner than him,” Brady says with a scoff, coming up on my other side. And he’s right. I have.
“Not my night, I guess,” I say with a dismissive shrug, hoping they fuckin’ leave it at that.
“See ya in Amarillo, Dawson.”
I snap my head to the side, finding Stanley Watson grinning at me all smug from the side of his trailer, celebratory beer in one hand, buckle bunny’s ass in the other.
I should teach that fucker a lesson, swoop in, put on the charm and steal his girl right out from underneath his cocaine-crusted nose.
The way she’s looking at me all wanton and pouty, while her tits are pressed up against him, it wouldn’t be hard.
But I don’t. Frankly, I can’t think of anything I’d rather not do. Which ain’t like me at all.
“Ignore him,” Brady mutters under his breath.
I throw Stanley a salute and turn away, continuing to my trailer, because I know no reaction will only piss him off even more. I’ll see him in Amarillo, that’s for damn sure.
“If we haul ass we might still make Webber’s birthday drinks.” Brady looks at both me and Wyatt.
“Might as well drown my sorrows,” I mutter.
“They at The Saddlery?” Wyatt asks.
“Nah.” Brady snorts a laugh. “Those fuckin’ perverts are at Meow’s.”
I stop in my tracks, almost tumbling over my own goddamn boots.
Brady and Wyatt pause, looking back at me like I done lost my mind.
“Who’s at fuckin’ Meow’s?” I gruff, looking between the two of them.
Brady’s brow furrows as he counts names on his fingers like it matters. “Webber, Boss, Levi, and probably a couple of the other drifters, I don’t know.”
I grit my teeth as something unfamiliar tightens around my chest.
“You good, brother?” Wyatt asks, looking me up and down.
I nod once, shouldering my way between the two and unbuckling my chaps as I head for my truck with a newfound sense of urgency. “Let’s fuckin’ go,” I throw over my shoulder, my heart racing in a way I haven’t ever felt it race before.
Meow’s is a fuckin’ cesspit of the biggest degenerates the panhandle has to offer.
Dark and dingy, like most strip clubs, I’m sure.
Wall to wall of fuckin’ creeps, most of who wouldn’t be here if their wives or girlfriends had anything to do with it.
It’s fuckin’ disgusting. And as I follow Brady and Wyatt through the maze of tables full of perverts and fuckin’ predators, my boots sticking to god knows what on the floor, I chomp hard on my nicotine gum as I scan the shithole with utter disdain, keeping my hat dipped low so no one can catch me searching. For her.
Webber and Austin and a few of the travelling cowboys are seated at a circular booth right up in front of the main stage, table covered with half-empty glasses of liquor, and beer bottles, and what looks like more money than any of us ranch hands make in a week.
“Here they are!” Webber shouts, standing and greeting us with handshakes.
Webber’s been with Rattlesnake longer than Austin’s been alive.
He was Phil’s foreman, but now that he’s pushing seventy, and Austin took on the ranch after Phil’s passing, Webber’s Austin’s right-hand man until Boss pulls his head out his ass and hires a new head.
He’s that old fella on a ranch who’ll be there ’til the day his weathered bones give up and he eventually dies.
One of the real deal cowboys who gives his life to his rancher.
“Sorry for the loss, Cole,” Webber says solemnly, tipping his hat at me. And, Christ, anyone’d think someone died.
“It happens.” I tip my chin, slapping Webber on his shoulder before moving around and taking a seat on the far side of the table, not because I don’t want to party with the boys, but because it offers the best vantage point of the club.
As I take my seat, I find myself craning my neck to see over the heads of those seated around us, which is when I’m stopped by Austin’s eyes on me from across the table, his stare hard.
He arches one brow, jaw set tight, the grip he has of his beer bottle white-knuckled, like at any moment he’s about to crush the glass in his fist. Fuck.
I mean, Austin’s a permanently pissed off guy, but why do I feel like he knows something?
I swallow hard, pretending not to pick up on his vibe, instead averting my gaze and focusing on the two big-breasted women on stage, watching them dance like I give a shit, when in actual fact, I’d rather watch fuckin’ paint dry.
“Here we are gentlemen.” A sweet voice sounds over the loud, thundering rock music causing my ears to prick, and as if on instinct alone, I turn my head, doing a double take when I find Clara standing right there at our table, carrying a tray full of drinks.
Fuck. Me.
The tiny shorts that are pretty much panties.
The tank top that shows off the swell of her tits, and the flash of her belly button.
I mean, sure, I’ve already seen her in the sorry excuse for a uniform.
But here, beneath the flashing colorful lights and the eyes of my colleagues and every other asshole in this joint, while fucking “Cherry Pie” by Warrant plays throughout, I’m forced to scrub a hand across my mouth to stop myself from saying something I know will only get my ass into trouble.
“Compliments of Bruce,” Clara says with an obviously forced cheerfulness, placing each drink onto the table.
“For the birthday boy,” she adds, smiling at Webber and sliding a shot of something in front of him which is when her eyes glance my way causing her to stumble a touch, the remainder of the drinks left on her tray falling right off and onto the tabletop, drenching Austin in the process.
“Oh no… ohmigod,” Clara gasps, slapping a hand over her mouth before scrambling to mop up what she can.
And it’d almost be funny—it should be funny because it’s literally just spilt fuckin’ beer—but then I see it as it happens, right in front of me, before I can do anything to try and stop it, and it’s so not fuckin’ funny.
“Fuck’s sake!” Austin shouts, his voice practically a roar as he jumps out from his seat so fast, brushing ice and glass off his damp jeans while the guys all laugh.
“No, please, I-I’m sorry!” Clara cries out, holding her hands up to protect herself while crouching down to cower away from him.
Everything seems to go quiet, still, the laughter around the table halting suddenly. Austin balks, gaping down at Clara before turning back to us with a what the fuck look on his face.
He holds his hands up in surrender. “I didn’t—”
I jump up, shoving Austin out of the way.
“Clara?” I whisper, wrapping an arm around her. “It’s okay.”
She peers up at me through her hands, her eyes wide and full of fear and tears. Fuck, it just about cracks my heart in two.
“You’re okay, darlin’,” I assure her, helping her up. “I got you.”
Her trembling hands grip the front of my shirt as I help her away, not without hearing the telltale murmurs from the guys behind me.
I glance back over my shoulder, making eye contact with Austin, then Wyatt and Brady, all three of them looking at me with matching expressions that ask me what the fuck I’m even doing, and hell, I don’t fuckin’ know.
All I know is that this woman needs help right now, and I wanna be the one to help her.