Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Dawson hemmed and hawed about Seamus going into the practice ring with a real bull, even an old, placid one.
He’d done real well with steers and cows, which they always let folks use to get accustomed to big animals, and Seamus already knew how to ride and groom horses, so that was a plus.
But Dawson felt a tiny bit… protective of the man now.
Just a wee skosh protective. He didn’t want Seamus to get hurt, especially on his watch. The problem was Mr. Coke was starting to figure it out.
He didn’t think he’d get in trouble per se. It was more that he didn’t want Mr. Coke to think he was skanky. He didn’t just jump into bed with anybody, and that was the truth.
In fact, he was pretty sure he could say he didn’t just jump into bed full stop.
But there was no way, no way at all, when Seamus had asked him that he wasn’t going to say yes.
It was what he wanted more than damn near anything.
Of course, he had hoped that once he’d gotten what he wanted, the urge would ease, that he’d find out that Seamus wasn’t amazing, and it wasn’t an incredible turn-on and he wasn’t going to lose his mind over the fine son of a bitch.
But the simple fact was? That wasn’t how it had worked out.
No, sir. The man was open, giving, generous, funny, and—well, he could go on and on because the list was long, but it didn’t make any never mind. He didn’t need to be not doing his job.
In fact, his time had just run short because Coke strode right up to him in the dining room at breakfast a couple days later and raised an eyebrow. “Shouldn’t Mr. Seamus be out there with a practice bull at this point?”
“It’s a little early,” Dawes said. “I’m not sure he’s even out of bed.”
Coke scowled at him. “You know what I mean. We’re going to have to get him out there.
He’s going to have to learn how to do this.
If you don’t think he can do it without getting hurt, all I need is a say so.
We’ll just pull the trigger. But otherwise, we’ve got to get him out there.
We can’t just be sitting around sitting and spinning and spinning. ”
Well, motherfucker. “I’m not. I’m a little nervous having somebody that famous get hurt on my watch.”
“I call bullshit!” And that was Dillon the “Entertainer” singing-songing all the way.
“Be good, now, Cowboy—” Coke started.
Dillon just beamed. “Oh, I am being very good. You are getting it on with Mr. Famous, which is fine and kind of cool, but don’t sit there and tell Coke you’re worried about him.”
“I am worried about him,” he shot back.
“You’re worried about him getting all bent out of shape, or are you worried about him bruising his dick?”
Coke stared at Dillon. Dawson stared at Dillon.
Dillon grinned like a fool. “What? It’s not like neither one of you ever heard the word dick before.”
“Oh, shut up.” Coke rolled his eyes. “I get that you’re into him, son. And I’m glad for you. But you know as well as I do, you can’t coddle the man if he wants to learn this. You have to let him experience it. He’ll never know why we really do it if he cain’t feel it.”
Dawson rolled his eyes but he knew Coke was right. He hated it, but he knew it. “All right, let’s do this thing then.”
And so there they were in the arena with a man who got paid millions of dollars a movie, who he was about to risk murdering, with a bull he wasn’t sure Seamus was ready for.
Everyone was watching, including Little Bean who was up on his horse, rope swinging in a big, lazy circle.
One of the young third-string bullriders who needed some practice was loading up, his buddies pulling rope and giving him shit.
“All right, Nate’s going to pull the gate, and then you and me are gonna do the bullfighting, and Nate’s out here to help. Mister Coke is watching right there, so we should be all good.”
He noted that Coke was not on the arena floor. Apparently Dillon’s dressing down was still stinging a tad.
“I got it. I can do this.” Seamus didn’t show a bit of worry on his face.
Dawson sure as shit hoped so. “I know you do, man. This will be up and down, eight seconds.”
Minty Fresh had been working for years and was happily retired at Mister Coke’s place.
The big bull worked about once a week for eight seconds and, in return, he got all the girls he wanted, all the sweet feed he desired, and periodically a nice long brushing.
Mister Coke said this one really liked brushing.
The cowboy—whose name he’d already forgotten, thank you—nodded his head, and Nate yanked the gate open.
Minty swung out to the right as he normally did, and Dawson rocked back and forth a little, ready to spring into the mix the minute that boy on his back started to slide off.
And he would. Because Minty was kicking up those back feet pretty damn good today. He’d been a rank bull in his day.
Seamus was watching the bull, counting the rhythm of the spins, head bobbing in time with his bucks.
The cowboy did pretty good holding on for six seconds, maybe six-point-two, but Minty changed directions—those heels snapping up—and there he went. Boom. Right down into the well.
Seamus was on the close side, and he ran in just like he was supposed to. Nate was standing there, bouncing on his toes, Coke eyes like an eagle’s, watching every single thing that happened from right there on top of the fence.
It was funny. In bullfighting, at least in his experience—and from what he talked to Sterling about in Sterling’s too—there was a second when you knew everything was going to shit. Time would slow down. You’d stop breathing and you could see it.
Sometimes, if a guy was lucky and good at what he did, and the weather was right, and the bull’s temperament was as it should be, it all worked out for the best.
Then there were all the rest of the times.
Those times the definition of best and worst was different, but best was when a man lived.
Really, that was plenty.
Just let him be alive.
Time snapped back into motion, and that rider came right off, feet flailing up next to his ears.
Minty Fresh took a bit of an interest in that, knowing he had a loose one.
Dawson slapped him on the butt and yelled, “Hey, hey, hey!” to try and get him to turn and look somewhere else.
He sure didn’t want that bull deciding to look at Seamus.
It didn’t work, of course.
Why would it work?
Minty Fresh gave Seamus the evil eye, and Seamus gave him one right back before he tossed that cowboy like he was Nate himself. Then when Minty tried to hook him with a horn, Seamus hopped out of the way and sprinted for the fence.
That was right. Once a cowboy was safe, get the fuck out of the way.
“Good job, man, good job!” Coke was clapping, Little Bean was roping, and Dawson thought he’d just pass right out.
That seemed to be the most logical answer, at least right now.
He had to admit, though, Seamus had done it. He’d gotten the memo, he knew the assignment, and he’d done a damn fine job
As soon as Minty Fresh was out of the arena, Dawson went right over to Seamus and clapped him on the back, helping him down off the rail. “That was a fine job, man. Good going.”
“Oi! That was brilliant.” Seamus hit him on the arm, grinning ear to ear. “Did you see that?”
“I did. Took ten years off my life.” He winked because what else could he do? “But you did it, and it was great.”
The bullrider, whose name was Avery—it popped right into his head as soon as he saw the kid’s face again—walked up and held out a hand to Seamus. “That was a good save, sir. Thank you very much.”
“You’re welcome. I’m glad to help.” Seamus glanced at him. “Good ride?”
Dawson nodded. That was it
Coke beamed at them when he crawled down off the fence as soon as Little Bean had the bull put in. “Good job. You did it just like you were meant to.”
“You so did. Excellent. I mean, you—”
An ear-splitting clang sounded, the noise metal screeching on metal.
Dawson knew that like he knew his own voice.
Minty had somehow come loose and was slamming against the gate to get back out into the arena.
Nate somehow muscled Seamus and Coke up to the fence immediately, and Dawson set himself to do something—turn the bull’s horn, tug hard enough to get attention, buy them all some time to either get to the gate or for Little Bean to get back out and rope this fucker.
“What do I do?” Seamus asked, and Coke growled.
“Get your ass up there. Stay out of the way.”
He didn’t worry about Seamus anymore.
Partly because he had a bull looking right at him, pissed off, but mainly because he saw Christopher moving, the big man hauling Seamus up and out of the arena as if he weighed nothing.
Dawes grabbed the bull’s tail, then chuckled as Minty put his head down and pawed the ground.
Huh. Somebody was aggravated. He knew better than to up and run. Certain things a guy couldn’t outrun, and one of them was a bull that was pissed off and wanted to peg his ass.
He was going to have to wait until right before they made contact and then jump out of the way. Pray it worked.
Dawson could hear Coke yelling instructions at him, but he had to ignore it. If he listened, he wouldn’t be able to think, and he had to react, not intellectualize. He never did listen to anybody when they screamed at him, unless it was to get a knife and cut the rope when someone got hung up.
He sucked in his stomach when Minty Fresh went by behind him, and damn that horn came close to hitting his back. The fool bull was kicking and snorting and slinging snot every which way. What the hell was wrong with him?
He heard a sharp whistle and the sound of a rope cutting through the air in quick succession as Lil Bean circled it, and he ducked, knowing he needed to get the hell out of the way so that rope didn’t take him out too.
He popped back up when Minty Fresh turned, just to check and make sure the rope was wrapped around the bull’s neck or horns or something, and sure enough Little Bean had gotten him.