Chapter 55
Chapter fifty-five
Something In The Orange
Maverick
Ipaced and paced and paced, silently cursing myself for not asking Cash where the hell he was going before he left.
With a final ring, his voicemail came on, and I growled, fumbling to turn off my phone.
Doing things with my left hand sucked…but if there was any hope of me using my right for our run, I needed to save what tiny shred of strength I still had in it.
It throbbed and pulsed beneath the makeshift splint; the Norco had done nothing for it. Though, I didn’t suspect it would.
Aunt Violet was right. I needed to get it checked out. But my hand would still be broken tomorrow. My shot at winning wouldn’t.
Black Betty snorted from where she stood tied up to the trailer, her tail raised high in the air, making her look like a damn Arabian. Playboy stood completely unbothered beside her.
“You get a hold of him?” Ryder asked, coming out of the trailer with Playboy’s saddle pad to place on his back. Cason sat quietly watching us in one of the camper chairs by the trailer.
“No.” I stalked for the saddle rack and followed Ryder’s lead, grabbing Black Betty’s gear. “I’ve called him a dozen times.”
Charlie came around from the front of the truck. “He didn’t answer my calls either, and Aunt Violet hasn’t heard from Bad.”
“Well, fuck.” Nothing seemed to be going right today. I blew out a steadying breath, trying to keep a hold on my temper.
Ryder came to stand at my side. “Maybe you should scratch,” he offered, the look in his eyes soft, sincere.
I scowled. “No. I ain’t scratchin’.”
He should understand more than anyone.
I needed this. The thought of—No. No, I wasn't thinking about her. Not right now. After my run, after the rodeo, hell, even on the entire truck-ride home, I could think about her. I could fall apart inside. But not right now.
“Well, you got fifteen minutes ‘til they start callin’ names. If he ain’t here by then, it won’t matter what you want.”
“You could rope in his place.”
Ryder barked out a laugh, genuine mirth gleaming in his gaze for a moment. “You know I’m shit at ropin’.”
“You ain’t that bad. Besides, you can head, I’ll heel. You can at least get the rope around the horns.”
Ryder sighed, placing his hands on his waist. Almost like he was thinking about it. He shook his head before meeting my gaze. “I think you’d be just as likely to win with Charlie as you would with me.”
“Hey!” Charlie frowned beside him. Ryder drew her into his side, kissing her lightly on the forehead. “Sorry, darlin’. I meant no offense to you.”
She offered him a small smile and leaned into the touch.
“So, you really won’t do it?” I asked.
Both of them cast glances my way. Ryder’s mouth popped open to reply but words never came. An odd look came over his face, almost like disbelief.
“Big Daddy’s in the house!” A familiar, cocky voice called from behind me.
Annoyance and relief sprung to life, chasing away the worry. I turned and scowled at my cousin. “What the fuck, Cash? Where the hell were you?”
Bad seemed to materialize out of nowhere, a determined look in his eyes as he clapped me on the shoulder. “Don’t matter. He’s here now. And y’all have a jackpot to win.”
Black Betty twitched and tensed beneath me as I held her back in the box.
Mare was old, but man, put her in a box and she’d run down any steer faster than a yearling.
I forced deep breaths down my lungs as they got a cow ready for our run.
Cash readied himself on Playboy to the left of the chute, flipping his coils and rolling his shoulders.
I took in the familiar sights and sounds of the arena, letting the adrenaline pumping through my veins do its work on my pain.
Even though my hand still pulsed, I could drown it out, ignore it to a point.
The fucking makeshift splint made it impossible to move my wrist, though.
I struggled with flipping my coils for a third time.
“My fuckin’ hand,” I growled.
Cash cast a worried glance my way.
“Y’all ready?” the cowboy working the chute asked.
A wave of frustration went through me as I tried and failed to grip my rope properly. Fuck it. I couldn’t wear the damn thing.
“Hold on,” I bit out as I laid my rope over the horn and pulled out my pocket knife from my back pocket. Betty continued her anxious twitching beneath me as I struggled, pain ricocheting through my bones with each movement. But I couldn’t throw with this fucking shit of a wrap on.
“You got thirty seconds,” the cowboy at the chute called out.
“Got it, Mav?” Cash called from my left.
“I’m fine,” I snapped, ripping the cast free and grabbing for the rope. “Just be ready.” Flexing my fingers, a wave of white-hot agony shot through my knuckles and wrist. But at least I could hold the rope. The scabs and cuts were broken open once more; I didn’t particularly care though.
“Ten seconds.”
I flipped my coils hurriedly, forcing slow, deep breaths down my lungs to quiet the roar of agony in my mind. But as Cash looked across the way at me, nodding to ask if I was ready, a blessed wave of adrenaline crashed into me, drowning out the pain.
Sound and sight peeled away, leaving the world quiet. So wonderfully quiet. Another slow, centering breath as I braced myself for the surge of power coiling tighter and tighter in Black Betty. She had a knack for hurling herself out of the box, like a tidal wave tearing for the shore.
I nodded…and the chute shot open.
The steer darted out, and I drew my hand up and back to lift the lasso. Pain, so dizzying and intense it made me nauseous, jolted through my limb. My vision blurred and blackened, my nerves growing white hot and tingly.
I—I couldn’t.
My fingers wouldn’t loosen up enough to toss the rope. It was already almost too much trying to stay upright as wave after wave of pure agony pummeled into me.
The steer was already halfway down the arena and my fingers were locked around the rope. A crushing weight of failure joined the pain—I never missed, let alone missed a damn throw. But my fucking hand.
I couldn’t even focus on whatever the hell Cash was saying to me as I slowed Black Betty and turned her toward the exit.
It’s like he was speaking another language.
I just rode past him out of the arena and hopped off Betty so I could walk her back to the trailer.
I didn’t need to die trying to cool her down when she was amped up like this.
The walk back to the truck would be fine enough.
And as I stalked toward the trailer, as I did everything in my power not to pass out from the pain, I thought of Cheyenne kissing my knuckles, cleaning my wounds.
Fuck, I missed her. I missed her laugh. Her smile.
I missed the way she almost always held a look of mischief on her face, in her eyes.
I missed how she had concerts in our—my—bathroom almost every night, singing into her brush to Brandy like she was belting into a microphone.
I missed how most nights she would read her books aloud to me, while I laid my head against her stomach, feeling our ba—
My vision blurred, and I didn’t know if it was from the pain or my tears at this point.
Fuck. I just missed her.
But she wasn’t coming back.
A slow, lazy clap pierced through the haze of my thoughts. I frowned as I paused in unsaddling Betty and glanced over my shoulder. Bad walked over, his lips curving upward into the barest hint of a smirk. Though his hazel eyes hid behind his sunglasses’ stare, I had no doubt they swam with mirth.
“Well, feel good about yourself?” he asked, coming to stand a few feet behind me and crossing his arms over his chest.
I chewed on my lower lip, frustration mingling with the pain radiating from my hand. I didn’t realize how much having it wrapped had helped manage the pain, but, fuck, it hurt now. “Oh, don’t act so high and mighty. I know you’ve done shit just as dumb, if not dumber.”
He snorted, a huff of laughter falling from those lips drawn up into a smirk. “Yeah, well, you’re smarter than me.”
And I don’t know why—maybe it was because of everything I’d gone through in the last day—but the anger brewing in my chest spewed forth like a geyser.
“That ain’t fair. Why am I always held to this higher standard?
If Cash had done somethin’ like that, no one woulda batted an eye.
But I do somethin’ stupid once and everyone’s got somethin’ to say.
” My fists curled at my sides, and I instantly regretted it as another answering shot of pain lanced through my knuckles and hand.
“Fuck,” I growled, before letting out a whole string of curses.
I knew it was an overreaction. I knew on any other day, any other time I wouldn’t have reacted the way I did. But today was not that day.
Bad’s hand on my shoulder was warm, heavy, just the same as the look on his face. “You ain’t Cash, boy… Thank God. I don’t know what the hell I’d do with two of ya.”
A reluctant huff of laughter escaped me, and just like that my anger vanished, leaving me hollow and empty once more.
I looked down at my swollen, broken hand, at the cuts and bruises.
“I thought the physical pain would help, you know?” I asked, unable to meet his stare.
“Like somethin’ to distract me now that she’s gone. ”
“Did it?” There was no judgement, no condescension in his tone.
I shook my head. “Not even a bit,” I choked out, finally forcing myself to look at him.
He nodded slowly, a sad, knowing look on his face. He blew out a breath and nodded at one of the camping chairs set up by the trailer. “Sit your ass down and start bandaging up that hand of yours. I’ll untack her.”
“She might kill you,” I said, quirking an eyebrow. For Bad to offer to do anything with Betty meant that the situation was dire. He’d always hated her, and she’d hated him. She hated everyone but me… and Chey—mostly.
“Not if that nag knows what’s good for her,” Bad answered with a grumble.