Wild Horses (Sexy as Sin)

1. Laramie

CHAPTER ONE

laramie

Waco, Texas

October

Expectation and excitement pebble across my skin as I breathe in. Leather. Saddle oil. Dust. Horsehair. The roar of the crowd. There’s nothing in the world like the high of a rodeo.

A looped video of me tipping my hat and winking at the camera plays on the oversized screen while my name, ranking, and prior round times flash beneath my face. The packed arena hums with the buzz of the final-day crowd. Applause rains down, feeding the little goblin inside me who hungers for greatness, praise, and thrills.

“Laramie.” The warm timbre of my dad’s voice draws my attention. Squeezing my foot where it rests in the stirrup, he says, “You’re up, kiddo. Run it clean,” before disappearing into the crowd of rodeo hands.

Kit Larson is a man of few words, but he’s never let me down. He can’t make it to all my races now that I travel close to two-thirds of the year, but if I’m within a few hours, he’s here. I don’t have to see him to know he’s going to his seat so he can film my ride. It’s the same thing he’s done at every race he’s been to since I was nine and decided being on the back of the fastest horse I could find was how I wanted to spend my life.

Comforted by the idea of him watching me, I shake out my shoulders, uncoiling the taut muscles. Despite almost two decades in the saddle, my nerves still flutter, and my stomach rolls. But I’ve learned to keep my hands steady and a smile on my face.

Like she owns the place, Xpresso struts into the alley. We wait near the gate handler, and I inhale once more. The familiar scents saturate my system. I count to five; then I exhale.

The chaos around me fades to black. No more knot in my gut. No more pulse ringing in my ears. No more applause. It’s just me and the thousand pounds of animal between my thighs.

X is by far the best horse I’ve ever owned or ridden. She’s been mine since she was a foal, and we’ve spent the last six years working toward this. Putting our time in, eating dirt, racing at rinky-dink local rodeos with no purse. Working circuit after circuit. Clawing our way up the rankings. Grinding as she grew into her talent, and I learned to read her like a book. Last year we were so close, seventeenth overall. Two spots away from the big show.

We were both disappointed. People are skeptical about what horses perceive, but X knew. She knew how close we came and how devastated I was when we were mere points from the top.

But that’s okay. I pat her long neck as though she might read my thoughts and think I doubt her. I don’t. This is our year. The season has been a dream. And winning tonight will clinch it—the proverbial feather in my ten-gallon hat.

X’s ears flick, and she lets out a whinny. Anticipation burns through us both, so I lean forward, my voice calm. “I’m itching to go, too, but easy, girl. It’s almost time.” Tightening my grip on the saddle horn and the reins, X waits on my cue, her body—and mine—primed and ready to explode into motion.

Five .

My mind sharpens to a razor’s edge.

Four .

The cloverleaf pattern is a brand in my brain. Three barrels stand between me and everything I’ve ever wanted.

Three .

I envision every turn, every stride X and I have to make to shave precious fractions of a second off the clock.

Two .

Sub-sixteen seals the deal.

One .

We can do it.

Go !

As one, we surge forward, bursting from the alley into the arena at a full gallop. Time doesn’t cease to exist—it’s all that matters—and we run on pure instinct. X and I deliver a masterclass in the delicate dance of speed and control. We race toward the first barrel as if our lives depend on it; less than half a minute seals our fate.

Just like my mental run-through, we’re flawless. No stutters, no pauses. X’s hooves thunder over the packed clay and loam, and together, we hug the turns like a Formula One driver let loose on an empty road.

As we round out the last barrel and shoot toward the straightaway, I can taste it. The buckle, the purse, the points. It’s ours.

Rising in the saddle, I urge X on. “We’ve got this girl.” Her mane and my long dark hair tangle together, our hearts beating in tandem, lungs gulping in air. We’re two animals, one mind, Xpresso and I.

And we’re going to win.

The open alley waits for us, the pathway to my dreams. Las Vegas. The national finals. All I have to do is reach out and take it.

My smile is beatific as we race past the finish line. I don’t need to hear the announcer to confirm what I can feel in my bones. We did it.

Despite the adrenaline coursing through my veins, I ease up on the reins, guiding X to one of the designated cool-down lanes and taking her from a full-out gallop to a canter, then to a trot, and finally to a walk until we enter the holding pen. I dismount, and my sassy horse tosses her head, her chestnut mane flaring around her.

“You want me to braid your hair? Reward you for your hard work?” Her ears flick, and she nudges my pocket. “Ah, I see. You want peppermints.” I snake one out and feed it to her as I loosen the cinch on the saddle.

A deep voice sounds behind me. “15.74.”

With a whoop, I whirl around and, like I’m seven, jump into my dad’s arms, bear-hugging the man who’s supported me on each step of this journey. Through broken bones, broken spirits, and broken hearts. Through anxiety and disappointment. He isn’t an emotional man, but I swear I see tears in his brown eyes.

“Proud of you, Mimi.”

I hug him tighter at the use of my childhood nickname. “Love you, Dad.”

“I wish your mom was here to see you now. She always was your biggest fan.” He chuffs. “Well, second biggest.”

Clearing his throat, my dad drops me to the ground. “Alright, enough of the mushy stuff.” He tosses me my phone. “ I sent you the video of your run for you to review. Plus, you’ve got a horse to take care of.” He studies me. “I’m heading to the trailer. You celebrating?”

Grinning, I shrug. He knows me well. The Barbie pink trailer I call home when on the road is comfy but confining, and I’m way too restless after a race—after a win—to bunk down for the night.

“Maybe a little.” I pinch my thumb and index finger together and squint at him.

He kisses the top of my head. “Be safe. Be smart.”

Be safe. Be smart. It’s the same advice he’s given me since he caught me at a party—in his stolen truck. He drove the tractor into town hunting for me, which, to my fourteen-year-old self, was the most embarrassing thing he could have done. He also grounded me for a month, but after that, I told him my plans. And he’d just say, “Be safe. Be smart.”

I wish I could say I always heed his words, but more often than not, I chase sensation over security. Fast over slow. Surprise over steady. Hence, the career riding on a horse racing around barrels. I’ve given him more than a few gray hairs, but he’s my rock.

Dad hugs me once more, then tips his hat and leaves. Snagging the reins, I guide X to the event stables. “Come on, girl, let’s get you rubbed down and settled for the night. You deserve a couple of carrots. I might even have another peppermint for you.”

Looping Xpresso’s lead on a post, I make sure she has fresh straw and water, laughing when she walks in like the regal boss bitch she is. Then I take the saddle and gear off her before running my hands over her back and flanks, checking for any soreness or signs of irritation.

She swishes her tail in protest when my fingers run over a sensitive spot but otherwise stands still. She never shies away from letting me know what’s bothering her, and for that I’m thankful. My well-being comes second to Xpresso’s; she does the heavy lifting, after all. While she munches on a carrot, I inspect her hooves and remove the neoprene boots wrapped around her legs. Happy with everything, I brush her down, working her muscles, praising her. I fish a peppermint from my pocket and rest my forehead on her muzzle. “You kicked ass tonight.”

Satisfied that Xpresso is good, I shut the stall door and take a deep breath. We fucking did it. They won’t post official results for a while yet, but it’s mine, ours—the National Finals Rodeo.

Letting out a loud cheer, I ignore the stares of the other riders around me. Not even the few annoyed glares coming my way can dampen this moment. Grinning like a fool, I straighten my hat, wash my hands, dust off my jeans, and make my way across the grounds. I wave to familiar faces and accept the congratulations tossed my way. A couple of the other racers I came up with from Juniors gather me in a big group hug, and I soak it in. Their support buoys my mood even more, and while we are competitive—we wouldn’t be at this level if we weren’t—their excitement for me is real.

Eventually, we split, the other ladies searching for their own ways to come down from the post-ride high. After a rodeo, there are all kinds of ways to let off steam. Sponsor parties, willing bed buddies, getting just this side of tipsy. My sponsors aren’t the host-a-party type—being a mid-size tack company and my dad’s stud farm—and I’m not in the mood for a quickie with any of the cowboys here. So tipsy it is.

I stop at a tent with a full cooler and a large spread of food. Snagging a beer, I let the hoppy flavor coat my tongue and wet my throat. It’s exactly what I need. I finish the drink in minutes and snag three more. I load up a plate and do an internal happy dance when I find a table with room to spread out. Not that I need a lot; I’m pretty compact at five-four, but I like my space.

Music plays around me; someone’s got a speaker hooked up, blaring stereotypical bro-country. Despite that, it’s a perfect October night in Texas. The temp’s on the right side of seventy, and a smattering of stars twinkle overhead. Nothing can spoil this day.

The second and third beers go down even smoother than the first. My muscles relax with each drink, and the hearty BBQ sandwich eases the annoyance of not eating all day. I nod and wave to another barrel racer sitting at the far end of the table. She smiles before her eyes widen, and she gathers her stuff, all but running away.

Seconds later, I understand why. The weight of the table shifts as two large bodies press in, one on my left and one on my right, just as Cyrus McClain plops down across from me. Ah, not me she was running from then…

“Nice ride tonight—for a dash dolly.”

My shoulders rise to my ears at the dismissive term. Some cowboys on the circuit have a rage on for barrel racers. To them, we’re spoiled, pampered princesses, relying on our daddies or boyfriends to finance a way to play dress up on a pony. Or worse, buckle chasers looking to snag the next PRCA champion. It’s bullshit.

But it’s also expected, so Cyrus’ ugly words don’t surprise me.

Taking a long draw from beer number four, I swallow. As flat as possible, I ask, “Need something?”

“Can’t a friend offer congratulations?”

“A friend, yes. You? No. What do you really want?” The words come out harsh, but Cyrus McClain is not a friend. He’s a misogynistic asshole. A creep. A loud drunk. A bully. A decent bronc buster. But a friend? No.

“Don’t be like that.” He clinks the lip of his bottle to mine. “Congrats on making it to Vegas, Lucky.”

Lucky. Lucky Laramie Larson. Some announcer called me that years ago, and it stuck. I’ve spent every race since proving to the rodeo community luck has nothing to do with it. With a saccharine sweet smile, I say, “Not luck. Just talent. Something you wouldn’t understand.”

The man to my right chuckles until Cyrus shoots him a withering glare before saying, “Your horse does all the work, and you get all the glory. I’d like to see you stay on a bronc for longer than three seconds.”

“Don’t be mad you didn’t make the leaderboard, McClain.” This time, both men pinning me in cover their mouths to stifle their laughs.

Cyrus narrows his eyes. “You barrel bunnies walk around here like your shit don’t stink. Like you’re too good for guys like us.”

By guys like us, do you mean incels? It takes great restraint, but I manage to swallow that thought.

I elbow the cowboys on either side of me, forcing some space between us as I stack my trash. I’m ready to be the bigger person and leave this conversation and the unwelcome company.

But then Cyrus goes and says four words I can’t ignore. “You don’t belong here.”

The same inner voice that has me chasing thrills also serves as a pair of double devils on my shoulders when pushed too far. They’ve guided me at breakneck speeds down rocky cliffs. Literal and figurative. They were there in first grade when Brett Hoffman pulled my hair, and I knocked out his front tooth. Again, in junior high, when Shelby Johnson told everyone I stuffed my bra, so I flashed the room to prove I didn’t. And for sure when my only long term boyfriend cheated on me, and I left his clothes on his front lawn, along with a not-so-subtle fuck you spray painted on his garage.

And those little devils are lighting a fire in me again. “Is that a challenge?”

“Oh, the bunny’s got teeth.” The swarthy cowboy to my left sneers.

Cyrus chuckles, but there’s no warmth in it. “Naw, no challenge. Because there’s no way you can hang. You’re a typical arena princess. Hauling around that pink trailer in the pickup your daddy paid for. Riding on a ten-k pony, also paid for by your dad.” He sniffs. “You’re nothing but tits, ass, hair, and luck, Larson.”

For the briefest moment, another voice breaks through—a quieter, calmer one.

Be safe. Be smart .

“Sorry, Dad,” I mutter before downing the rest of my long neck and shoving up from the table, not caring when I knee goon two—Cyrus didn’t bother introducing his companions to me, and I didn’t bother to care—in the side. “I paid for X and that truck my own goddamn self. And even if he had paid for them, it wouldn’t stop me from outlasting you. But then I imagine you’re used to being outlasted in multiple areas of your life.”

“How about you put that smart mouth to use, choking on my?—”

I cut him off as he grabs his crotch. “I prefer foot longs to cocktail weenies, asshole. Now, are we doing this or not?”

Anger flashes on Cyrus’ face as his buddies laugh. He shoots them a look that quiets them before raking his eyes over me from head to toe. His lecherous leer makes my Wranglers feel like a negligee. With a cruel smile, he says, “Let’s see how lucky you are.”

Five minutes later, I hoist myself over the gate that looks out onto an empty practice arena. It’s small, with packed dirt rather than the clay and loam mixture of the indoor facility. It’s gonna hurt like a bitch if I fall, but I’m not backing down.

Goon two leads a stallion to the chute. The animal is agitated and annoyed. I don’t blame him. I’d be grumpy if someone snatched me from the stock pen and brought me here.

Goon one tosses a saddle on the horse, who immediately bucks, fighting to toss it off. Shit . I ease closer to the chute, the raw power radiating off the stallion prickling over my skin. Am I really doing this? I’ve been around horses my entire life, but this is nothing like my usual ride.

Fueled by righteous indignation and beer number four, I steel my spine and mount up. The bronc snorts, stomps, and shudders, tossing his head. Doing my damnedest not to put too much tension on the flank strap, I tighten my grip and exhale.

The gate opens, and the horse explodes like a cannonball fired at an enemy ship. He’s pure untamed energy, a frenzy of muscles and hooves. The initial burst jars the bones in my body, and I almost lose it right there. Each twist, kick, and buck requires every ounce of my strength to hang on. The reins are less than worthless even as the leather bites into my palm. My thighs scream as I use them to clench around the horse’s sides.

An eternity passes until Goon One says, “I’ll be damned—that’s three.”

Jubilant in my victory, I throw Cyrus a cocky smirk. And in that split second, that blink of an eye, my trajectory shifts. Something in my shoulder pulls, and a sudden, searing snap bursts in my muscles. My grip falters, the rein slipping as my arm goes numb and useless at my side.

Whatever small modicum of control I have over my body and the horse is gone, and the ground rises up to meet me. From the dirt, I watch the bronc’s dappled hindquarters race away while I struggle to draw air into my screaming lungs. As the world blurs around me, the sound of boots pounding toward me briefly cuts the haze, but then another wave of pain radiates outward from my right shoulder and down my arm. My wrist aches and my fingers tingle. I try to make a fist, try to keep my dream from slipping through my fingers, but I can’t.

What the hell have I done?