Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
Ace
"Giddy up, cowboy!" Jett announces as I enter the training room. He’s always energetic on a Monday.
The barn we converted into a training facility sits at the back of the ranch, far enough from the house that Hunter doesn't have to listen to me swear for three hours straight.
It's nothing fancy. Just a dirt floor, steel-beam ceiling, and a rack of ropes along the back wall.
A weight station Jett built himself. And in the center, bolted to a concrete pad, the drop barrel.
A fifty-five-gallon drum rigged to cables and springs that mimics the spin and kick of a live bull.
It's ugly. It's brutal. It's where champions are made. Paulie took me mutton bustin’ when I was four, and I’m pretty sure it’s my first memory ingrained into my head. I ain’t looked back since.
Jett is just as good a bull rider as I am, better, maybe, on his best day, not that I'd ever say that to his face.
Except two years ago, a bull called Reaper threw him so hard he shattered his left leg in three places and cracked his hip clean through.
He was unconscious before he hit the dirt.
They dragged him out, and I watched from behind the chutes with my heart in my throat, convinced I was watching my cousin die.
He didn't die. But he retired. And now I have the joy of being trained by this lunatic, who coaches the way he rode.
I lost some rankings after Dad died. Couldn't focus. Couldn't sleep. Kept seeing his face every time I wrapped my hand into the rope, and all I could think was, if this bull stomps on my head, who's carrying my coffin next? So I pulled back. Let the standings slip.
But over the last year, I've clawed my way back. Second in the world championship standings currently. One spot away from the title.
I tip my hat and toss down my bag. Jett's hanging off the pull-up bar, shirtless and drenched, knocking out reps as if it’s nothing.
"What's the plan today?" I ask as he drops down onto the dirt.
He shrugs. "Ace, you just gotta keep doing whatever the fuck it is you're doing. You're killin' it."
I chuckle. "So, your expert advice is, hold on for eight seconds?"
"Yeah. Don't change anything. Everyone's talkin' about your comeback. Everyone wants to watch you; you're selling the tickets. Probably your pretty face and the fact you look like a monster riding a beast."
I burst into laughter. "Gee, thanks."
He slaps his hand on the drop barrel. "Up you get. Ride the bull."
I take a step forward.
"Wait," he says. "Hundred push-ups."
I blink at him. "I've already fucking warmed up."
That’s the first thing I do when I get up.
He pulls out his phone and points to the floor.
"Hundred push-ups for the fans. You know that stupid fuckin' routine you do with one hand, then the other? All that fancy shit."
I roll my eyes. I couldn't give a shit about posts and engagement on social media.
But apparently that's part of the gig now.
Sponsors want reach. Promoters want content.
And Jett, who has somehow appointed himself my social media manager despite not knowing how to spell algorithm, wants me to flex for the internet every chance I get.
I grunt and get down into position. Jett's hollering above me, filming while I burn through the set. One-handed switches, clapping push-ups, the whole circus. My muscles scream. The dirt grinds into my palms. A few thousand likes, bought with sweat and ego.
"Ladies! This one is single," he announces to the camera.
I pause. Mid push-up, my arms locked.
What if Harper watches these?
The thought hits me sideways, the way it always does. Does she scroll past my face on her phone while she's lying in bed?
Does she read the comments where women want to climb me like a tree? If I see ‘save a horse’ mentioned one more time, I swear.
Nope. I can't. Not today.
I carry on the set, performing just like he asked. Rep after rep until my chest is on fire and my arms are shaking, and the only thing in my head is the count.
When I'm done, I wipe the dirt off my hands and stand.
"Ain't he got a pretty face?" Jett says to the camera, tapping his hand on my cheek.
I scowl at him.
"He's a mean one."
"I'm about to bury your face in this dirt, Jett," I hiss.
He laughs, pocketing his phone. "Look, we're promoting you and might find you a new girl."
I shake my head. "Not interested."
I rip off my shirt and throw it on the fence rail. The drop barrel waits in the center of the room, scarred and dented from years of abuse, the cables taut and ready.
I wrap my riding hand, left, always left, with the resin-coated rope, pulling it tight between my fingers until the grip is second nature. Feel the familiar burn across my palm. I swing my leg over the barrel and settle in. Feet up. Knees locked against the sides. Free hand raised.
Jett hits the release.
The barrel drops and spins, wrenching left, and my body responds before my brain catches up.
Hips forward. Shoulders back. Core tight enough to crack a walnut.
The cables jerk and snap, simulating the violent, arrhythmic chaos of two thousand pounds of pissed-off Brahma trying to fling me into the dirt.
This is where the world narrows to nothing. No Harper. No heartbreak. No missing cattle or cut fences or drunk texts at one in the morning. Just physics and instinct and the primal, animal refusal to let go.
The barrel kicks right really fuckin’ hard, and I counter with my hips, shifting my weight, riding the momentum instead of fighting it. My free arm whips for balance. Dust rises around me. Jett's shouting something I can't hear over the blood pounding in my ears.
Eight seconds on a bull is an eternity. Your brain wants to panic.
Your muscles want to seize. Every nerve in your body is screaming get off, get off, this thing is going to kill you.
And you have to override all of it. You have to find the calm in the center of the chaos and stay there, balanced on the edge between control and catastrophe, for eight of the longest seconds of your life.
I've done it hundreds of times. I'll do it hundreds more.
Because this is the one thing I'm sure of.
The one place where everything makes sense.
Where I'm not the guy pining after a girl who left, or the little brother trying to fill his father's boots, or the underboss pretending ranch work is his only job.
On a bull, I'm just Ace Sterling. And Ace Sterling don’t fall.
The barrel bucks one last time and settles. I hold my position for a beat, then release my grip and drop to the dirt.
My next rodeo is this weekend, and the bulls they're bringing are fuckin' deadly. Rank stock from a breeder in Oklahoma who's famous for producing animals that end careers. And of course, I'll be picking the meanest one out of them.
Not that I'll be telling my brothers that.
"You look better here than you did on that mechanical one in the bar," Jett says.
I flip him off.
"Fuck you."
After a few more rounds, each one faster, harder, Jett cranking the tension until the barrel's bucking violent enough to rattle my teeth.
I'm done. My arms are dead. My core is screaming.
And when I look up, wiping the sweat from my face with the back of my hand, I find Colten and Hunter standing by the barn door watching.
This can't be good. Especially if Hunter is here to deliver news in person.
I drop down and join Jett over with them.
"Are you here to watch me train?" I ask.
Hunter shakes his head. "Paulie is out tracking the remaining missing calves."
Shit. My stomach drops. I've been trying not to think about those calves since yesterday.
"What do you need me to do?"
A smirk tugs at Colten's lips. "What do you think?"
I rub my hands together. "I'm assuming it involves some kind of retaliation?"
Hunter nods.
"Yeah. Something's going on at Ranch 42. I've got Romeo doing some digging," Colten tells me.
Romeo is one of the best hackers in the world. He's Enzo's second-in-command. And Enzo, he’s the King of our mafia empire, an operation that spans nearly every state, with reach across the world. Nothing gets past him.
We hold up our end here in Arizona. A deal my dad forged years ago to keep our ranch alive and family protected. We run the territory. We manage the product. We handle the problems. And in return, Enzo keeps the wolves from our door.
But turns out, the one place Enzo doesn't have an army is LA. And those motherfucking Greeks are wanting a way in, trying to get through us to get to Enzo.
They put my brother in jail. They hurt my nephew and Lola. And they will pay for it soon.
And we ain't playing their games.
We run differently from most mafia. This is our ranch. Our fuckin' land. And we defend it the way cowboys always have—with grit, loyalty, and the willingness to do whatever needs doing when the sun goes down.
"So how explosive do you want me to be?" I ask.
I can already feel Jett bouncing with excitement next to me. Jett has his own ranch here in Arizona with his brother, Tate. Ranch 42 sits between us. We both fuckin' hate them.
Hunter crosses his arms. "Enough to send a message. Warn them not to fucking come near our land again."
I glance at Jett.
"Couple of outbuildings? And return the favor?" I suggest.
"Colt, you oversee this before Ace burns down their whole ranch." Hunter chuckles.
I would. And I'd make sure they're all in there burning alive. If our missing cattle are hurt, if even one of those calves has a scratch on it, then they fuckin' deserve it.
"I'm taking Wyatt to school. I'll be back after, and I'm going to help Paulie look for our missing ones," Hunter tells us.
I nod.
"I'm taking V for lunch," Jett says. Almost quietly. Which is alarming, because Jett doesn't do anything quietly.
We all spin to face him. Violet is a ball of fire with black hair and a cute smile. She’s becoming part of the family alongside Lola.
"Jett Lawson. Are you fucking Lola's best friend?" Hunter asks.
He shakes his head.
"No. No. We're… friends?" he says, with a small smile that fools absolutely no one.
I blow out a breath. "Yeah. Like Jett 'Tripod' Lawson can be friends with a girl," I joke.
The room erupts into laughter.
Jett is convinced he's got the biggest dick in Arizona and, famously, whilst very drunk at a family barbecue, declared himself a tripod. In front of our grandmother. And the name stuck. Permanently. Tattooed into Sterling family lore. Even our grandmother used to grill him for that.
Hunter claps his hand down on Jett's shoulder. "Don't piss off Violet. Okay?"
He salutes Hunter. "You got it, boss."
"And yes. You can take her for lunch. You and Ace will be doing what needs to be done while it's dark. Let's not have any more of us in jail any time soon. Drago probably wants a break from being our lawyer."
“Now, Ace, get back to training. The Sterlings don’t do second place,” Hunter tells me.
“Trust me, I know,” I say. Trying to pretend that I don’t feel the weight of our family name on my shoulders constantly.
That losing my place in the championships is nothing in comparison to losing the love of my life.