Chapter 11
Spencer
Ipull into Brady’s driveway thirty minutes after leaving work. The long drive ends at his small family ranch that makes hay while the sunshine, literally, has gravel popping under the tires.
He’s sitting on the porch swing, duffel at his feet and hat over his face. There’s no cutting and baling in this season, so I can only assume he’s been up with his small stud herd since early this morning.
A good way to earn a living, if you can manage it, but the early starts are not my thing. Six is my early limit. Before Ivy, the only reason I was awake after midnight was to get laid.
I pull up and kill the engine. Brades doesn’t move. He must actually be asleep. Climbing out, I walk over the gravel driveway to the porch, pluck up his bag, and toss it over my shoulder.
“Come on, old man, before your bones set on that seat,” I say.
A low gravelly groan is muffled by the hat as his arm lifts, sliding the hat down his face.
He looks . . . exhausted.
“Long night, hey?” I offer.
He leans forward and hangs the hat between his knees. “You could say that.”
“What, is it calving time or something, bud?”
“Ah—”
His phone buzzes by the seat, the screen lighting up. He grabs for it and clicks the screen off, shoving it in his chest pocket.
I shift on my feet. “Alright, Brades, take it easy. I’m not the phone police. Christ, someone needs some sleep.”
He huffs a cynical laugh. “You oughta talk. How’s your little addition going?”
“Her name is Ivy. And Riley has her sorted.”
“Stacey’s friend from campus?”
Um, okay . . .
“How—”
Brade’s gaze flickers around the porch like he’s hunting for something no one else can see. “I, ah, ran into Stace in town yesterday. She updated me on your tiny situation.” He rises from the seat and shoves his hat on his head. “Dude, how did that happen?”
“Well, when two people love each other, Brades . . .” It’s all I can do to give him a shit-eating grin to hide the total annihilation I feel every time I think about Ivy. About my future. About the fallout to come when my parents find out.
I cross the driveway and toss his bag into the backseat with my own.
Brady is climbing into the passenger seat as I round the front of the truck and slide into the driver’s seat. I close the door and grip the wheel, staring out the windshield at nothing.
“I don’t know, Brades. I thought I was careful.”
“A broken condom or something, then?”
“Maybe. Or maybe someone fucking lied.”
I fire up the engine. We roll down his drive in silence before I turn onto the highway heading for the next Pbr event. This one, our places on teams are riding on every buck out of the chutes.
It’s never been essential that I make a team. I don’t need the money, not like Brades, Jonesey, and even Knox. But something in my gut is warning me to make sure I get on one of those teams. A man needs a backup plan, after all.
The crowd’s noise splits the frigid night air and sends the sound of chaos over the chutes to where we stand. Stretching one foot on the rail, I squat back. My shiny silver chaps with silver tassels sway and brush over the dirt.
My hamstrings pull, the stretch sending heat all the way down my leg. I hold it for a few breaths before rising and swapping legs.
“Well, hello, gorgeous. Getting all limbered up for after, hey?” A feline voice washes over me, and I look up and out from under the brim of my hat to find not one, but three buckle bunnies.
“Someone’s not where they’re supposed to be,” I reply with a wink, but I’m half serious. Behind the chutes is off-limits for anyone except riders and arena staff. Levi will have a fit if he spots the—
“Lockwood! No groupies behind the chutes!” Levi yells.
Ah . . . shit.
I stand tall and nod to the gates that lead back to the spectator side of the arena. “You heard him, ladies.”
The brunette closest to me only moves in closer. When her breath hits my face, she smiles, tipping her gaze up. “Well, then I guess we will have our meet-cute at the bar later, cowboy.” She taps the brim of my hat.
Usually, by now I have moved in. Lined up that exact thing. I work fast, and buckle bunnies have always been one of the perks of this rough-and-risky circus.
Tonight, her forwardness only serves to annoy me. I can’t place it, and I don’t have time to as Levi peels away from the chute he’s working and stalks for us.
“Out, now. You heard him.” I guide her by the shoulders until she’s mere feet from the exit gate.
“Oh my god. Rude!” She glares over her shoulder as she pushes through the gate, her two friends following. “This is the worst boy zoo we’ve ever been to, Kirsty.”
One of two blondes flips me off. I stand, arms crossed like some kind of cowboy bouncer, as they clear the gate and disappear into the crowd.
What the hell is a boy zoo?
“Lockwood, you’re up. Chute two. Get your mind out of the gutter and into the game, son. We are not sending you home in pieces because the blood sank to your cock.” Levi’s thumb is pointing over his shoulder.
A solid decade older than most of us, he’s a retired bull rider and the best arena manager on the circuit. Also the main arena manager on the circuit, but who’s keeping tabs?
“I’m good. Head’s in the game, bossman, I swear.”
I give him a halfhearted salute with two fingers and cross the dirt to chute two.
My draw, Carnivore, is waiting not so patiently for me. Kicking at the chute, he weaves from side to side, dropping his head with a snort. Oh goodie, someone else who hates me tonight.
I drop into a squat stretch, holding the rails, and do my own version of weaving side to side. I need to be limbered up. Not for the buckle bunnies—at least, not this time. I need to make a spot on a team, backup plans and all.
“Alrighty, folks. This bull has been known to send his riders headfirst into the dirt and come ‘round for a second go at ‘em. Give it up for CARN-I-VOOORE!”
The crowd goes stupid.
My heart takes it as a sign to fling against my ribs like it’s scared out of its wits. I tug at my Tiffany glove, adjusting it tighter before scaling the rails. Levi slaps my back as I swing my leg over the rails and stand over Carnivore, boots planted on the rails.
“Spence, hat!” Brades calls from the ground. I toss the hat to him, and my helmet appears in one of the chute cowboy’s hands.
“Thanks, bud.”
This has been my routine since I started. The hat is my comfort piece. It sounds stupid, but standing over a bull in this getup, hat and all, I feel above the bull. Like I have the confidence I’m not going to come out of this worse off than the bull.
I secure the helmet with the chinstrap and drop down onto the bull’s back. Slowly.
He moves but doesn’t get chaotic, so I take to strapping down. My rope is slid around his girth by a chute cowboy, and I take over positioning the handhold where I want it.
When I’ve got it in the exact spot I need, I say, “Pull.”
The rope tightens.
Carnivore kicks up, head butting the front of the chute.
My hold hand rubs up and down the rope, the resin over it warming and creating the stick I want to make sure I last the eight seconds. Sliding my hand into the handhold, I curl my fingers over and slam them down tight with my free hand.
Carefully, I lower my legs on either side of the two-ton beast I am about to send into a rage.
One can only hope.
Making the eight and a clean getaway are next on my wish list tonight. It all counts to a great score.
I take a lung-stretching breath and then, “Alright boys!”
The gate flies open.
Pulling to the right straight off the bat, the bull dips.
Bucking out, his legs are airborne a second later.
Hand high, I lean back.
Grip tight around the hold, I hold my seat to the bull as he lands and spins before shooting up again.
He sets into a pattern.
Too fucking easy.
The arena spins as we move, the crowd’s cheers and hollers whipping past me.
The grill on my helmet has them a blur with set lines as I try to glance at the clock on the next go round.
6.48
So fucking close . . .
Carnivore drops his right shoulder.
My seat leaves his back.
Fuck.
I try to right myself.
Resisting the temptation to stabilize myself with my free hand, I haul my weight back up.
It’s not enough.
Carnivore jerks the other way.
My hand tugs before releasing from the hold.
I’m weightless for a second . . .
My ass hits the dirt, pain spiking up my spine as my vision wobbles.
The dirt in front of me is empty.
My gut sinks.
Fuck!
A heated snort hits my back before a hard skull slams into the small of my back, and I’m lifted off the ground, arms and legs flailing as I grapple with being tossed like a rag doll. Hollers start up behind me and to my left.
Montgomery.
And his crew.
I brace before hitting the ground for the second time.
Tuck and roll, Spencer.
Easier said than done in chaps, but I manage to land without hurting myself. I spin on my seat to find Logan Montgomery, our lead bullfighter, and his crew of three guys coaxing Carnivore away from his latest prey.
Thank fuck.
I push to my wobbly feet.
The crowd cheers for the fact that I got up.
I know how lucky I am to be standing after a ride. Many have fared much, much worse.
I raise both arms into the air and the crowd cheers again. Jogging for the return gate, I tug the chinstrap lose and pull the helmet off.
I’m bummed, sure.
But like I said, the stakes aren’t as high for me as they are for some of the other cowboys. Hadley’s year was probably one of the tightest of any we’ve seen on the circuit. Add in the fact he was fighting to save his ranch . . . Don’t know how he did it. That’s a heavy load for one man to carry.
My thoughts flick back to the two girls I left in my apartment this morning. Ivy sure is something I wasn’t expecting.
A responsibility I didn’t anticipate. Babies are damn hard work. Being out here tonight, the freedom to be in one place, chasing a wild dream, while she’s home and being taken care of—
My chest tightens.
“It was almost a decent ride, Kenny.” Knox smirks at me.
Fucking Cowboy Ken. I’m guessing the new nickname is a derivative of that. I almost get it. Truly. Must be hard being the bad boy of the Pbr circuit. I can see how he would be jealous of the golden boy.
“Yours was nearly as good, Kadey, my lady.”
“The fuck . . .” he mutters, wandering away.
I huff an amused laugh.
Kade Knox can dish it, but he can’t take it.
Pity he’s a damn good bull rider.
One of the best. I stare at his receding back as Brady appears by my side.
“What’s got his goat?” Brades says, looking at Knox’s back along with me.
“Ah, nothing. Just my charming personality.” I give him my best grin, rubbing a hand through my messy hair.
Brady snorts a laugh. “Bud, hate to break it to you, but that personality of yours has landed you in a ton of shit, last time I checked.”
“Way to bring the mood down, Brades. Geez, what, did you wake this morning and think how can I fuck with Spence today?”
He slaps my back and adjusts his hat, not looking at me as he says, “Spence, the last person I was thinking of this morning was you, bud. Promise.”