Chapter 5
Spencer
Iclose the door to Stacey and Riley’s unit and stride down the hallway. My lunch break is all but up.
Hold up. Did she just call me a blithering eejit?
An idiot?
An unfamiliar sensation tangles with every moment I replay through my head of that one brief interaction. The grin that splits my face is ridiculous.
A woman called me an idiot. A blithering one, for that matter. And all I can do is grin like a goddamn, well . . .
Eejit.
She was cold.
Standoffish.
Nothing like last night at dinner with her polite conversation and warm gestures toward Stacey and Mom.
It’s almost as if she’s not interested in Spencer Lockwood. My gut dips. Well, that’s a new feeling.
And I don’t . . . hate it?
In fact, my thoughts double down on the five-foot, dark-haired, black-cat type with dark eyes that would drown a man if he looked into them too long.
What Riley lacks in height she more than makes up for with her fiery personality.
I laugh at myself. Listen to this eejit, spends three minutes in the same space as a woman and thinks he knows her. Down deep to the bone, mind you.
“Yeah, Spence. Great work. Get your head out of the damn clouds,” I mutter with a sigh.
Like I need any more problems. Or distractions.
Between Mrs. Princeton and my father’s threats to give the old duck what she wants to keep the money flowing in, I’ve all but run out of bandwidth for drama this week.
I cross the parking lot and unlock the truck before sliding into the driver’s seat and firing my precious girl up.
I’m across town and heading out toward the curated suburbs that line the city before the landscape gives way to the open fields and the wide silver gates of Silver Elite Stables minutes later.
Pulling into the parking lot in front of the administration building, I kill the engine.
If I was a praying man, I’d be asking for the strength to get through another day of Mrs. Princeton’s unwanted advances.
Luckily, I only have a half day. I’m leaving for the circuit at twelve.
So, that’s barely four hours of avoiding the stables and Mrs. Princeton.
How hard can it be?
Three and a half hours later, I’m seventeen files deep into the budget and staffing rosters when a knock comes at my door.
The second I glance up, I regret it.
Mrs. Princeton leans on the frame of my office door. “Busy little boy, aren’t you.”
Boy.
Like someone she can boss around. Like someone she can get what she wants out of.
Fuck, I hate it here.
“Mrs. Princeton. What can I do for you?”
Members aren’t supposed to be in the staff areas behind the front counter or in the treatment rooms in the back of the stables. It’s staff only—for good reason.
A smile tugs at her thin lips, accentuating the wrinkles that are caked with makeup and far too much eyeshadow for any human to be carrying on their eyelids. How are her eyes even open?
“There’s something of a sensitive nature I wanted to talk to you about. Not in front of all the other staff or members.”
Fuck my luck sideways.
I glance at the clock.
11:54 a.m.
Six minutes, that’s all I had to make it through to avoid this.
Damn, I was so fucking close.
I stand and fold my arms over my chest. “Have a seat.”
She turns to shut the door.
“No, leave it open.”
She stiffens. “I don’t think so, Spencer.”
She shuts the door, and I lose a sigh.
When she closes in on the desk, I nod at the chair on the opposite side.
Reluctantly, after a long pause and careful inspection of the upholstered chair that probably costs more than my almost-completed college degree, she slowly sits.
I drop into my seat and lean back, arms safely across my chest. If she’s picking up on my posture, that should tell her everything.
“As you know, I am a founding member of this establishment.” She leans over, the ruffles on her shirt drooping to expose her cleavage. My focus remains on her face.
“I am aware.”
“And as a founding member, I expect to be able to come here and get my needs met.”
“If your gelding is no longer a good fit, I can arrange for a trial with a more suitable mount.”
She smiles at me, like I’m the little Boy Scout who just told her the price of the crappy popcorn he’s hawking.
“No, my mount is not the problem, Spencer.”
“That is the only thing I can help you with, Mrs. Princeton.”
She tilts her head, her face softening. “Oh, gorgeous boy, you underestimate yourself.”
She fixes her hair as her gaze travels the parts of my body she can see with the desk occluding the lower half. Thank fuck for that.
“I have no idea what my father has told you,” I say, leaning forward. “But I am unable to meet any other needs you may have. Period.”
Her face twists like she’s tasted something sour.
I can relate.
She clears her throat and fixes her shirt. “I see. In that case, my membership here depends on your decision.”
“What decision, Priscilla? I said no.”
Her face reddens, her neck tenses as the veins roar to the surface. “We will see about that, young man. You have until Tuesday to change your mind, or I will do whatever it takes to ruin this lousy ramshackle backwater dive. And me and my girls will take our business elsewhere.”
I raise a brow.
“You think I’m joking? Son, I have been getting what I want for decades. I’m not about to stop now.”
She rises and flicks her long permed over her shoulder before crossing the threshold. She pays me a heated glance as she disappears.
A low, harried breath escapes my chest.
“Fuck me.”
The clock ticks over to midday.
Real goddamn helpful.
The drive to the event at Lethbridge flies past as I’m caught up in my head, my thoughts oscillating between the looming cougar threat and my interaction with Riley this morning.
I know which one I’d rather focus on. But being the overthinker I am, I’m blessed with the ridiculous ability to hyperfocus on both.
And my luck just keeps getting better. The highway is littered with signs for construction work the closer I get to Lethbridge.
At this rate, I’ll miss the pre-event party with Brady.
One of my favorite parts of this whole scene is the socializing. And I do it well. Sometimes too well, earning a side-eye from Brades when buckle bunnies flock my way. What can I say? I’ve never been modest or humble. Traits that have been causing me pause of late.
An hour later, I find a parking spot in the event grounds and weave my way to the bar, dropping onto a stool like it’s a goddamn lifesaver.
“Spence! Buddy, you couldn’t save your best man a seat?” Brady calls out as he moves through the crowd of folks milling about.
“Hey Brades.”
He sits on the stool next to me and raises a hand to signal the barkeep before turning to me.
A shit-eating grin spreads over his face.
His brown eyes sparkle, and his messy brown hair sticks out from under his brown hat.
A few days scruff lines his jaw, and I’d bet he was too busy trying to keep his ranch afloat to look in the mirror.
Between him and Jonesey, I don’t know who works harder for his lot.
Those brown eyes flicker with delight now as he says, “How was your week? Survive another close encounter with that cougar chasing you?”
Why do I tell this asshole anything? I shake my head and sip the whiskey in my glass.
“Barely.” I smile around the glass as I toss the rest of the amber liquid back. It burns its way down my throat. The thought of meeting Riley, the highlight of my week, is almost enough to erase the cougar advances.
Almost.
Brady winks at me. “You ride with me next weekend, and we’ll talk evasive maneuvers.”
“Fuck off, Brades.”
“Turn her in to HR. Surely that fancy place of your old man’s has HR.”
I tamp back my internal groan. HR, my ass.
If my father has anything to do with it, my virtue is up for fucking grabs to the highest damn bidder.
Luckily, for me, my virtue and I parted ways many years ago.
Pbr circuit and its fans turned my weekends into a myriad of opportunities.
The higher my score, the more buckle bunnies to pick from.
The thought sits uneasy in my gut.
Okay . . . that’s fucking new.
“Speaking of getting whatever you want. Let a guy make an impression this weekend? I need to make the draft,” Brades says, his hand rubbing the back of his neck.
“Sure thing, bud.”
Making the draft means being selected for a Pbr team. A paid position. A rodeo athlete who scores points for a team and chases up the leaderboard every event. Last season I was on the Bravos with Jones and Knox. This year, it’s anyone’s guess if I make a team.
I mean, it’s not like I need the money. But making a team is like the tick of approval. A sign you made the cut.
Brady raises an eyebrow at me. “Yeah, right. May the best man win, Spence.”
We shoot down another round before calling it a night. Nobody wants to mount a raging two-ton animal with a hangover. That’s not smart.
So I guess I have two rules.
No buckle bunnies until after I’ve ridden.
And no hangovers on a bull. Period.
The arena spins and I grip the rope tighter, moving with the bull’s erratic movement the best I can. He dips his head, diving for the dirt, and I arch backward, hand held high.
Give me your worst, motherfucker.
His hind legs fly up into the air and my back meets his.
I spur his shoulders and hone all my weight into my seat.
Stirring up the manic beast in time to hit the dirt and be at my most vulnerable.
On my damn feet.
The one time I forget my helmet, I get a nutcracker like this guy. My white Stetson is shoved down hard on my head. It will be useless if I end up in the dirt under a bull.
The rows of seats whizz by as we duck and spin to the left.
Fuck.
I readjust, strong-arming my ass back onto the back of the bull.
The buzzer screams overhead.
My gut flips.
With a quick glance at our position to the rails and the bullfighters, I release my grip, letting the bull cycle through another buck before I slide off the left side.
My boots hit the ground.
The bull bucks at my back. Dirt flies up with his next kick out. He tosses his head, and snot flings from his muzzle.
Warmth runs down my cheek and neck, but I let it slide—literally—as I make a beeline for the rails. Hot puffs hit my back, and I push my legs faster, jumping up onto the rails as a horn scrapes up the back of my right hamstring.
Scrambling higher on the rails, I glance back to find the bull’s attention now on Logan and his crew.
Thank fuck for that.
The second the bull is secured in the return gate, I jump down and turn for the score screen.
87.75
Hell. Yes!
I toss my hat into the crowd and wave my arms up as the crowd cheers at my new score. When I turn back to the crowd, a blonde is walking slowly toward the rails, pressing my hat onto her head as she holds my gaze.
And just like that, every one of those eight seconds was worth it.
As I reach the reel, she dips my own hat at me.
“Hey, cowboy. Nice ride,” she purrs.
I chuckle, rubbing my jaw like I’m contemplating the ride, not whether the buckle bunny in front of me is what I want.
“Next up, ladies and gents, is one of our Alberta favorites, Brady FAWK-NERRRRRR!” The announcer hollers.
That’s my cue.
I’ve never missed watching one of Brady’s rides, nor he mine.
I make to leave and the woman steps forward. “Need this hat back, cowboy?”
“Nah, you keep it. Looks better on you, anyway.”
What’s another Stetson?
I hit her with a wide smile, my signature move, and she blushes, her gaze dipping to the ground. I take that tiny moment as a chance to jog my way over to the chute Brades is strapping down in.
Tossing my ropes at the back rails, I scale the chute and give him a hand.
“You got this, bud. Give him hell, and not an inch less.”
Brady tightens his helmet on his head.
He nods. “Okay, boys!”
The gate flies open.
My last breath stalls in my throat.