12. Danger
CHAPTER TWELVE
danger
Bodies hitting dirt, medics running, bulls trying to commit homicide—this is the part of the night that usually relaxes me.
Not tonight.
Tonight, I’ve got a family issue I need to take care of.
Rogue and Charming fall into step beside me as we head toward the chutes, boots grinding through dirt.
Charming bumps my shoulder with his. “You look more pissed than usual.”
“Had a long night.”
Rogue snorts. “Yeah. We figured.”
I glance between them. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Charming lifts one shoulder. “Saw you leave with Winnie Hawthorne, that’s all.”
I don’t break stride. “My lack of sleep had nothin’ to do with her.”
Rogue huffs a laugh. “Didn’t know we were recyclin’ each other’s bad decisions now.”
I stop walking. He gets about half a second to realize before I step into his space.
“I know you got a death wish,” I say evenly, “but do you always gotta go lookin’ for the fucking cliff?”
Charming steps between us like he’s done it a hundred times. “Easy. He’s just tryin’ to figure out if you talked to Trouble about it. If he’s cool with it.” He looks at me. “We don’t usually cross streams like that.”
My jaw tightens. I hold Rogue’s stare a second longer, then step back.
“You two done?”
They don’t answer.
I scan the pens and spot Trouble by the fence, adjusting his glove. I jerk my chin at him.
“Trouble!” I call.
He looks over.
“Get over here. You two, come.” I start walking again and don’t wait to see who follows. I push past the chutes and stop behind the pens where it’s loud enough nobody else will overhear, and I wait. “We need to talk.”
Now their expressions change—because I don’t say that unless it matters.
Trouble makes his way over, wiping sweat off his brow. Rogue’s waiting against the fence, arms crossed and ready. Charming’s got a helmet tucked under his arm.
“We need to go?—”
I cut in. “Why do the Kennedys think one of us was on their land?”
It’s silence—except for a bull slamming a gate hard enough to rattle the ground.
Rogue exhales, bored. “Who cares?”
“I do,” I snap. “Because when you idiots pick a fight, I'm usually the one who has to finish it. I’d appreciate a warning before I have to put someone in the ground.”
Charming lifts both hands, wide-eyed. “You know I had nothin’ to do with that. I want that shit over.”
“I know,” I say, chin tipping at the arena. “Go get strapped in. You’re up next.”
He takes off immediately, relieved as hell that he’s done with this.
That leaves just Trouble and Rogue.
Trouble shakes his head. “Wasn’t me. Got too much shit going on.”
I know it wasn’t him this time so I fix Rogue with a look. He’s tryna hide something, I can tell.
“You wanna tell me what’s up?”
He shrugs. Can’t look me in the eye. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’m only saying this once. Stay the fuck away from the Kennedy’s. You don't wanna see what happens when it becomes my problem.”
He waves me off. “I won’t get caught.”
“Smart,” I say, and it’s not a compliment. “We good?”
He nods.
I don’t know what he’s up to, but I’ll figure it out.
They announce Charming’s name as we line up to ride. He pushes off the rail ahead of us, rolling his shoulders like he’s walking into a fistfight.
He points at us. “Don’t eat shit out there, boys.”
He jogs toward the chute, disappearing behind the pens just as the crowd starts to stir. A gate slams. The arena explodes with dust and noise.
Trouble and I stand there listening when Rogue goes next—the seconds always feel longer when it’s your blood out there. Then the buzzer screams, the crowd roars, and eventually Charming strolls back through the gate, helmet swinging from two fingers.
He flashes a grin. “Eighty-nine.”
I grin. “Showoff.”
I climb the rail. The bull I drew is a mean bastard called Red, two tons of muscle and attitude as bad as they come. Someone slaps my back. “Lock in, Danger!”
I swing into the chute. All I see is the space between my knees and the bull’s back, the shape of the rope in my hand. The gate swings. Everything after that is a blur.
Red bucks straight up, ass over end, tries to launch me. I hold on, white-knuckled, focused. The world tilts and resets, tilts and resets—the only rhythm I know—until the buzzer blares when the ground hits me like a wall of cement.
I’m up before the dust settles. The crowd loves it, and all I feel is the pain in my ribs, the rest is adrenaline. I look up at the scoreboard, and there’s my number, and it’s higher than I thought. A ninety-two.
Charming finds me first. “You fucking psycho, that was insane.”
Rogue and Trouble are behind him, both smirking.
“You still got teeth?” Rogue asks, dusting me off.
“Most of ‘em.”
“Always gotta show us up,” Trouble adds.
I roll my shoulders and suck in a careful breath. My ribs are still stinging, but nothing feels broken. My neck works. Legs work. Good enough.
Dusting dirt from my jeans, I head for the fence, grab my phone from where I'd left it on the rail, and text Mama.
Danger
Fisher still up?
Mama
No he’s out
Don’t bother him either
Let him sleep
Another second, and there’s a photo—Fisher covered in three blankets, an army of stuffed animals lined up next to him.
Charming elbows me. “You coming to celebrate?”
“No.”
Rogue snorts. “Man, you gotta celebrate a score like that. Mama and Fisher are fine.”
“Last time I went out with you idiots, I broke a man's knee cap.”
Trouble shrugs. “And?”
I sigh. “One drink.”
Three drinks later and I’m staring at Honey behind the bar, pulling bottles with one hand and texting with the other. She doesn’t bother with eye contact unless you’re tipping.
I reach into my pocket for my phone, and my fingers catch on something else instead.
Paper.
I tug it out. It’s folded small and careful—like someone didn’t want it getting ruined.
I already know what it is. I found it tucked under my windshield wiper this morning before I left the ranch.
Neat handwriting.
Come back in one piece
The only person that makes sense is the fake girlfriend I apparently have now. The one who keeps turning up for morning chores and makin’ Fisher’s day.
It’s nothing I need to look into too much.
But it’s been burning a hole in my pocket all day anyway.
“Charming, heard you're paying tonight since losers buy the rounds,” Honey says casually as I tuck the note away.
“That means I get to spend more time with the bartender. Who’s the real winner?”
Rogue hops onto the nearest stool. “And we need four more shots.”
Trouble raises his shot as soon as she pours them. “To not dying.”
“To not dying,” I say, but the words hit differently after you’ve spent longer than you should have on a bull called Red.
I knock the shot back. It tastes like cinnamon and lighter fluid.
The bar gets crowded fast after that, mostly with women already half-drunk, looking for a reason to keep it going. The men by the pool tables are getting rowdy, cues cracking a little harder than necessary. I try not to look at the door every two seconds
I fail.
Not that I’d admit it. Not that I’d let anyone know I’m hopin’ she walks through it.