Chapter Four
Royce
The automatic doors slide open, and Texas smacks me in the face.
Warm. Thick. Humid enough to make the hangover I’ve been keeping at bay all morning surge back to life.
Yeah, I need water. A gallon of it. And fast.
I suck in a breath and roll my shoulders as I step outside the hotel, dragging my carry-on behind me.
My left shoulder screams in protest.
I stop dead. “Son of a—” I clamp my mouth shut before the rest comes out.
Jovie glances back at me. “What was that?”
“Nothing.”
She gives me the look.
I hate that look.
I turn away and keep walking.
Axle is already ten steps ahead, cowboy hat pulled low, phone in one hand as he scans the front of the Hotel Drover. He looks annoyingly good for a guy who was up half the night, celebrating a championship.
And this morning, he looks like he could go straight back into the arena.
Me? I feel like I got run over by the damn stock trailer.
There had been champagne, whiskey, and a bar full of people more than willing to buy him another round.
Trust me, last night was the exception, not the rule.
This life is about being a nomad. A drifter.
Dirty arenas and roaring crowds. The stink of manure and sweat.
Blood ground into mud. A body held together by tape, stubbornness, and painkillers.
Dark, smoky honky-tonks and dollar drafts.
Waking up with a hangover in some dingy motel room, staring at questionable stains on the carpet and wondering what kind of crime scene you just stepped into.
The kind of place where you wear flip-flops in the shower and hope you don’t pick up some god-awful infection.
“Stay here,” Axle says, nodding toward the curb. “I’ll go get the truck.”
I stop beside Jovie and her pile of luggage and drop the handle of my suitcase.
My shoulder is throbbing. It has been since last night.
Actually, if I’m being honest, it’s the main reason I drank so much last night. I was self-medicating, but there’s no point dwelling on it.
I’d made it through the finals. I rode. I finished. I pocketed a fat check.
And now, Wildhaven is waiting.
Home.
That’s all the medicine I need.
We are hit with a blast of cool air as the automatic doors open again. I glance over my shoulder to see Blaze Cassel.
He steps through the entrance, wearing sunglasses, his golden locks tucked beneath a black hat and a smug grin plastered across his face. He looks like a damn cartoon character. Less rodeo star, more Malibu Ken, like he should be posing beside a plastic Jeep instead of climbing onto a bull.
The blonde buckle bunny in the black dress from last night is draped over him, one arm looped around his neck, her body pressed tight against his side like a tick on a dog’s ass.
Most of the bull riders on the circuit get along.
When you spend the better part of the year traveling together, you form bonds.
In the arena, we try to kick the shit out of each other.
Rivalries are inevitable, but most are good-natured.
Outside the arena, we’re a motley crew of hard-asses who talk shit, bust each other’s balls, and would throw down without hesitation if one of our own needed us.
Somewhere along the way, somewhere between the bruises, cheap beer, and endless miles, we stop being competitors and become brothers.
Blaze Cassel is the exception.
He’s a prick.
He can turn on the charm for the cameras, and the teeny-boppers in the stands lose their minds the second he flashes those dimples.
But behind the polished facade is a man who cares more about his image than the sport, and he couldn’t give two shits about the riders beside him or the next generation of kids watching him, hoping to follow in his boots.
I look away, hoping he doesn’t notice us.
Unfortunately, he does.
“Well, well.” His expensive-looking boots scrape against the pavement as he saunters over. “Look what we got here.”
You can tell a lot about a cowboy by his boots.
I keep my eyes on the road ahead, willing Ax to hurry his ass up.
“Morning, Blaze.”
“Still sore?” he asks.
My jaw tightens. “Sore?”
“That I came out on top again last night,” he says, and his hand slides down the blonde’s side and cups her ass.
Yesterday flashes through my head—Blaze beat me for third, by the skin of his damn teeth, and he knows exactly why.
“Pretty sure Ax is the one who came out on top,” I remind him.
“That he did,” he says. “This time.”
“Right,” I bite out.
“I’m coming for him next year. And with Bryce out of the way—”
I cut my eyes to him. “What?”
“I have no doubt that championship will be mine.”
I laugh. Actually laugh out loud.
His grin falters.
“Eh, don’t worry. Third place still pays pretty good,” he says. “I should know.”
He slaps my upper back, causing a sharp pain to shoot down my arm.
I bite down hard on the curse rising in my throat.
“Yeah, my bull was meaner.”
He shrugs. “Just because you like to pick the rankest bulls doesn’t make you better, just means you have a death wish,” he says.
“Yeah, well, anyone can pick the easy bulls. Give the crowd a pretty ride,” I say, turning to face him. “You might win some money playing it safe, but nobody’s gonna remember your name. And we all know that tears you up.”
I watch in satisfaction as his face turns red.
Jovie shifts beside me, and Blaze’s attention slides toward her.
“Well, hello there.”
The blonde hanging off his arm doesn’t seem to notice—or care—that his attention has suddenly found another woman.
Blaze pulls his sunglasses down his nose. “Don’t think we’ve met.”
Jovie gives him a polite smile. “Sure we have.”
“Right.” His grin turns predatory. “You’re the sexy new therapist on the circuit.”
Blaze looks her up and down like he’s got all damn day.
“That’s right. Axle’s got good taste. Unlike some people,” I say, my patience evaporating.
He glances at me and then back at Jovie. “Oh, so she’s your brother’s girl. Not yours. Makes more sense.”
The blonde giggles against his shoulder.
I shake my head.
Complete fucking asshole.
Finally, our rented F-150 turns into the entrance. Axle pulls it up to the curb, and I reach for my bag.
Blaze calls after me. “Hey, Royce!”
I stop, but don’t turn around.
“Make sure you wear your seat belt.”
I glance over my shoulder, and he flashes that smug smile.
“With the way you’ve been riding lately, might be safer. I’d hate to hear you fell out of the truck too.” He laughs. “Just kidding, buddy.”
I stare at him for a long second.
Then I smile.
Not because he’s funny. Because, one day, when my shoulder is healed, I’m going to wipe that fucking grin off his face in the arena.
“See you at the next one, Blaze,” I say as a black SUV stops in front of him and he climbs in with his buckle bunny and his oversize ego.
The truck window slides down, and Axle calls, “Throw the bags in, Royce, and let’s go. We don’t want to miss our flight.”
Jovie nudges one of the suitcases with her boot. “You want me to get that?”
“I’ve got it.”
“Royce.”
“I said, I’ve got it.”
She raises both hands. “Okay.”
I grab the biggest suitcase.
The second I try to lift it, my shoulder gives out.
It just … fails.
The suitcase slips out of my grip and hits the pavement with a heavy thud.
“Fuck!” I grab my arm instinctively.
Jovie is beside me in an instant.
“I’m fine.”
“Obviously,” she huffs.
“What happened?” Axle asks as he climbs out of the truck and tosses all three suitcases into the bed.
“Nothing,” I say. “I’m just tired and dehydrated.”
His eyes narrow.
“Don’t you start too.”
Jovie jumps up on the bumper and reaches over to unzip one of the suitcases.
“What are you doing?” Axle asks.
“Fixing him.”
“I don’t need fixing.”
She pulls out a flannel shirt. “Shut up and hold still.”
She shakes the shirt out and starts folding it, mumbling under her breath, something about cowboys and pride.
She rolls the flannel into a thick band and steps in front of me. “Bend down.”
“Jovie, come on.”
She glares at me until I bow forward.
She loops the flannel beneath my forearm.
“I don’t need a sling.”
She ignores me as she ties the makeshift brace around my neck.
“I’ve been riding bulls for three days. I think I’m allowed to be a little stiff.”
She snorts. “Cut the macho crap. It’s just the three of us,” she says, softer now. “You don’t have to pretend you’re fine.”
Something about that lands differently because I am nervous that something might actually be wrong.
I swallow.
“There.”
I look down at it. “This is ridiculous. I look like an idiot.”
“You looked like a bigger idiot when you dropped the suitcase.”
Axle snorts.
“Shut up, asshole.”
Jovie adjusts my arm carefully. “Keep it supported until we know what we’re dealing with.”
I sigh. “Fine.”
When I climb into the passenger seat, Jovie reaches for the seat belt.
“I can do it.”
She ignores me, grabs the belt, pulls it across my chest, and clicks it into place.
I stare straight ahead.
Axle climbs behind the wheel and puts the truck in drive, and nobody says anything for a few miles. The silence is worse than the lecture.
Finally, I clear my throat. “I’ll schedule an MRI.”
Jovie looks back at me. “When?”
“As soon as we get to Wildhaven.”
She studies me. “I want to see the results.”
“You will.”
“And until then, you’re following my protocol.”
I nod.
“No riding. No lifting. Ice and rest.”
I glance at her and grin. “You gonna be the one to tell Charli I can’t help with setup or teardown this weekend?”
She gives me a pointed look.
I sigh. “Fine.”
She settles back in her seat. “Good.”
I stare out the window as the city disappears behind us.
I hate the weakness. Hate the not knowing worse.
But for the first time since the pain started, I stop pretending it isn’t there.
I’ll get the MRI.
I’ll follow Jovie’s advice.
And I’ll be back on a bull in no time.