Chapter Nineteen
Rick
Rick learned quickly that bull riding, while true mated—complete with the associated mind link with said mate—was not the same as when he rode bulls as a single man. Bull riding was as much a mental game as it was physical, and having someone else lurking in that mental space was… distracting.
The first ride was easy enough. Rick got on, counted to ten, pushed off the back of the bull, and landed safely enough.
The damn bull had swung around, and Rick had to add a skip to his step to avoid getting a sharp jab in his torso with the bull’s horn.
But it was a good ride, and buoyed by how well it went, Rick was happy to see Ian waiting for him on the other side of the fence.
Hopefully, his kiss showed how happy he’d been.
Rick couldn’t help focusing on those scores.
That was the point of the rides. With the first bull, Rick scored ninety-six—a well-above-average score.
George had been put on a stronger bull for his first ride, and although he hadn’t stayed on as long, the bull’s performance counted too. George scored ninety-four point five.
Pretty damn good for an old guy, which Rick realized was a bit of a joke, because compared to so many of the cowboys hanging around the gates, Rick was an old timer, too.
He drew badly for the second bull. Rick already knew that.
The bull was younger—less experienced. It didn't have the sort of show-power that the judges were looking for. Rick stayed on slightly longer than the eight seconds, determined to make a point, but the bull wasn’t giving him a lot to work with, and as he refused on principle to hurt the animal, he pretty much just jumped off and made his way back to the fence.
He could tell from Charlie's face that it was not his best ride.
“You're going to do all right with the last one,” Charlie said. “You’ve got the meanest, orneriest damn beast here for the third session. That has got to do your points some good. All you need to do is stay on.”
Rick—who was holding Ian close—nodded, his mind already on the next ride. George had just pipped him slightly with his ride—he had a better bull and knew how to work it. With two rides down, George was half a point ahead. And the man knew it—his smirk made Rick’s slapping hand itch.
Fuck, the number of times I've been in this position. What made it worse was that Rick knew George would be thinking the same damn thing. Giving Ian a hug, Rick dropped a kiss on his hair and went over to study his bull, mentally preparing himself for the last ride.
That bull was billed as a cowboy killer—not literally, of course, but he had a huge following in the rodeo circuit, and his stud fees were reported to be in the millions of dollars.
Even though Rick had been out of the loop for years, he had heard of that particular bull.
Simply named Devil, the animal was big, fully white, with long horns and a shit ton of attitude.
The bull took out a vendetta on anyone who dared get on his back—so Rick had heard—and even getting a rope attached took far more hands than usual.
“You’re the last ride.” Charlie came up beside him. “You know that’s going to make a difference, and on this beast, all you have to do is get on, hit the eight-second bell, and get off. This bastard will do the rest.”
Rick grunted in acknowledgment.
The crowd roared, and Charlie glanced at the board. “George got ninety-five for his last one. Not bad, but definitely beatable. He doesn’t look happy. You need a ninety-six, and you’ve already done that once today. Just got to do it again, and you’ve got it.”
“Hmm.” Rick could run the numbers, that wasn’t the issue. “Is Ian doing okay?”
“You’re asking me?” Charlie laughed. “He’s your mate. He doesn’t say much, but he hasn’t fainted or asked to leave yet. Why don’t you just ask him?”
“I was just thinking about something Ernest said yesterday—you met him at our mating party, remember?”
“Yeah, the elephant guy. I liked him.” Charlie burst out laughing. “I thought Pip was going to cream his sweet little pants when he heard he was within touching distance of an elephant dick.”
“I’m sure you reminded him yours was better.” Rick was still distracted. He gestured at the crowd. “Do you think people—you know, those who aren’t part of the circuit—do they see this sort of life as dangerous?”
“Duh, yes. That’s the point.” Charlie shook his head.
“I can’t think a man of Ernest’s size would worry about anything, but yes.
It’s why the riders do it, because they’re chasing their adrenaline rush, and the crowds come because they want to see the bull win.
Everyone loves a crash-out. It’s as simple as that. ”
Why haven’t I ever seen it that way before? Rick could feel Ian’s unease seeping through their bond. He was doing his best to block it out, but it wasn’t easy. Even his bear was on his case, telling him that Ian’s honey badger was having a full-scale fucking fit at the thought of one more ride.
It's just one more ride, eight more seconds, ten if Rick could manage it, because that's what he preferred. He just had to hang on, count, and get off without breaking anything, walking out, and the job was done. No matter how well he did, there were no do-overs.
Charlie had already been making mention about other competitions coming up—another day, another month—but Rick tuned him out. He already knew that wasn't going to be possible. Ian was like Ernest. He didn’t understand the lifestyle, and what he didn’t understand, he worried about.
There might have been a tiny part of Rick that thought, maybe he could have dusted off his spurs and gone back out onto the circuit again.
Riding was a rush, the guys on the circuit were fun, and Rick clearly still had what it took to be a contender.
But even as he allowed himself one tiny dream about what that would be like, Rick knew he couldn’t do that to Ian.
Ian was far more important to him than anything else—well, him and beating George.
If this was going to be Rick’s last ride, he was going to make it a good one.
The crowd roared again, and then a young guy yelled at Rick, “We’re getting ready for you next.”
Nodding, Rick sought Ian in the crowd, blowing him a kiss when he caught his mate’s eyes. Last one, he mouthed with a smile, because he was doing his best to keep their bond locked down.
He’d already gotten a twinge in his ankle—the same damn ankle he'd damaged when he'd fallen off the tractor a few years before. It wouldn't make any difference to his riding, but it could make a difference to his dismount. And that was the issue. Ignore, ignore, ignore.
The bull was snorting, his eyes wild, and if he could have gotten out and eaten Rick, he would have done. He was pounding the ground, snorting like crazy, his tail lashing wildly. He was pissed.
It's gonna be all right, Rick told himself. It was just another ride. The ornerier the bull, the better my score. Climbing the chute, Rick waited for the okay before settling gently onto Devil’s back.
Easing his butt over the bony spine—this is going to bruise my balls—Rick checked his glove, gripped the rope with one hand, raised his other arm, and inhaled. Then he nodded.
“Rather you than me, mate,” the cowboy on the gate said as he slammed open the gates with a clang, and the bull took off. He barely got three feet into the ring before he was bucking wildly.
Rick was struggling to stay on. The bull was hellishly strong, and he was sure his shoulder was going to be ripped apart as he gripped on as best he could. Mentally he was counting… one… two… three… four…
Eight fucking seconds had never seemed so long as it did in that moment.
The crowd was on its feet and screaming their lungs out, but all Rick could focus on was the power of the beast underneath him.
Once he got off, that bull was going to be hell and determined to kill him.
And in a lot of ways, Rick couldn't blame him, but he wanted those points.
I'm gonna beat fucking George.
Nine… Rick didn’t make it to ten, but the bell had sounded for the eight-second mark, so his ride was valid.
All he had to do was roll off, get to his damn feet, and get to the fence line.
Just as he went to go, his glove caught in the rope, and as he fell, he landed on his bad ankle.
The snap of his bone, Rick was sure, could be heard right the way around the ring as he fell face-first and the crowd gasped.
Get up. Get up. The pain was excruciating, but Rick could not stay down.
The clowns were trying to herd the bull away, but he was determined to get back at Rick.
The Devil had a score to settle, and he was determined to do it.
The longer Rick stayed in the ring, the more danger it was to the other cowboys who were trying to keep the bull away from him, trying as best they could to shunt him off to the other exit.
Standing up through sheer force of will, Rick felt the blood from his face drop at the pain in his ankle when he tried to put his weight on it.
I'm not fucking hopping out of this ring, he thought as he quickly bent down, adjusted his boot, and then straightened his spine as he hobbled his way to the fence line.
“What's fucking broke?” Charlie was waiting by the fence to help Rick over it.
“My damn ankle’s gone. It’s nothing a shift won't cure.” Rick tried to keep his weight on the other foot. It was tempting to shift, and to hell with his clothes, but that wasn’t allowed. One of the primary rules for shifter riders is that they keep their shifting away from the bulls.
Rick might have been the last rider of the day, but there were still animals around in the pens, and if he let his bear loose, there would be hell to pay. He would automatically forfeit his place, whether he came first, second, or last. It would make no difference.
Ian came flying up towards him. Of course, he would know that Rick was hurt, but Rick kept the mental barriers up and smiled, showing his teeth. “It's all good. It's all good. I’m fine. What's the score?” What's the fucking score?
Leaning on Ian’s shoulder, he turned and looked up at the board. The judges were conferring, and if the eight seconds on the bull felt like forever, waiting the five minutes for his score to be posted was worse.
Ninety-six, ninety-six, ninety-six, come on. Rick knew he was gripping Ian’s shoulder to the point of pain, although his mate was huddled into him, his arm around Rick’s waist, and he didn’t seem to have a problem helping support Rick’s weight.
And then it came. Ninety-seven point four. Rick couldn’t believe it, even as Charlie was bouncing around, thumping his arm, and yelling, “I knew you could do it. I knew it. You finally fucking did it!”
“And I can barely stand,” he muttered, but it was worth it, especially when George approached, a rueful look on his face as he held out his hand.
“You did a bloody good job for an old guy,” George said gruffly. “Congratulations.”
“You did good out there, too.” Rick shook his hand warmly. “I can finally tick that off my list.”
George chuckled. “Probably just as well you got yourself an alpha as a mate, though.
Somebody's going to have to carry your sorry ass home. At least I can walk off under my own steam, unlike you. Take care out there.” He wandered off, but Rick was more focused on Ian, who was suddenly looking him up and down.
“You did, you broke a bone? And you’re still standing?” Ian’s voice was rising.
“It’s fine, babe, just my ankle. I really need to sit down so I can cut this boot off, and then yeah, find somewhere to shift. But I’m sure…”
“You stupid fucking fool!” Ian yelled in disbelief.
“Er, yeah, well, I’ll get going,” Charlie said as Ian tried to get Rick to move. “If you ever want to—"
“You're welcome to come and see me anytime. I really miss having you guys around, but I will not ride again. I beat George. That's all I wanted. This was the last time, eh?”
Charlie looked disappointed for a second, but he nodded. “Totally get it, man. Totally. You have a lot of making up to do with your mate. See you again real soon, Ian,” he added with a chuckle as he hurried away.
“Er… Ian, are you upset?” Rick could feel Ian’s entire body tremble. “If you’re going to yell, can I please sit down first?”