Chapter 6 #3
A few more riders take their turns—none last more than a handful of seconds. Lydia and I slip away to grab another beer before Wesley’s up. I chug half before we’re even back in our seats.
My nerves return like a punch to the gut.
Lydia tips her cup toward me, smirking when she sees how quickly I’ve drained mine. We clink again, and I throw the rest back.
Another rider nods from the chute, and the gate swings open. The bull bucks viciously, but the rider holds for eight full seconds. Still, he doesn’t qualify—his free hand smacked the bull during the chaos.
A technicality.
Seems stupid. But what do I know?
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Lydia nursing her drink, taking small sips. Over half her beer is still untouched.
She reaches out and squeezes my hand tight. I follow her gaze.
Wesley’s in the chute.
He wraps the rope around his wrist, jaw tight, shoulders squared. My stomach flips violently and that second beer churns in my throat. I clutch Lydia’s hand like a lifeline and hold my breath.
Wesley nods and the gate bursts open.
The bull charges into the arena, bucking like something possessed. Wesley clings to its back, one hand raised, body whipping with every violent twist.
The arena is silent except for gasps.
Until finally, the loud buzzer sounds, signaling both the end of the longest eight seconds of my life and Wesley’s qualifying ride.
Relief crashes into me like a wave and the crowd explodes as Lydia and I shoot to our feet, screaming and jumping like we’ve lost our minds.
He did it. He made it.
But when Wesley shifts to dismount, he slips. The bull is still thrashing wildly and I slap a hand over my mouth to stifle the scream rising in my throat.
He’s stuck.
Lydia grabs me, holding me tight as we watch the moment unfold in excruciatingly slow motion. Wesley finally manages to yank his arm free—but the bull spins again and we’re forced to watch helplessly as Wesley’s roughly thrown across the arena.
People rush in. Some distract the bull. Others circle around Wesley’s unmoving body.
I cry out, unable to hold it in. The paramedics sprint in with a stretcher. Lydia says something but I can’t make out her words. Everything around me is dull and muffled, drowned by the roar of my pounding heartbeat in my ears.
Is he dead?
Please don’t let him be dead.
Lydia grabs my arm, shaking me. “Let’s go.”
She pulls me through the crowd. Everyone’s quiet except for a few low murmurs. They’re so still. Staring. Waiting for a sign of life.
We meet Landon halfway and he leads us through the backstage gates to the medical tent.
Inside, everything smells like antiseptic. Wesley’s stretched out on a narrow cot, the harsh overhead lights bleaching the color from his face. His chest rises and falls with slow and even breaths.
Two paramedics stand close, hovering over him, murmuring. I strain to hear them over the rush in my ears.
Emmett bursts into the tent a moment later, eyes wild, chest heaving. He moves to shove past the medics but Landon grabs his shoulder, stopping him.
When his eyes find me and Lydia, something in his face breaks. He pulls us in, one arm around each of us, his thumb moving in slow, grounding circles against my arm.
I don’t fight the tears anymore, letting them fall freely and quietly, soaking into the fabric of Emmett’s shirt.
We’re strangers.
We don’t even get along.
But that doesn’t mean I wanted him to get hurt.
The paramedics finally step back and Wesley’s face comes into view.
His dark amber eyes are open and heavy-lidded. His hat is missing, hair tousled, and he’s wearing his usual scowl as he slowly shakes his head in response to something the EMT says.
Relief hits me so hard I feel dizzy. I wipe at my cheeks with the heel of my hand, fingers tugging the hem of the ridiculous little shirt.
“He’s gonna be okay.” Emmett breathes in a sigh of relief before pressing a kiss to my temple. I try to breathe through the tightness in my chest, but the pressure doesn’t ease.
Wesley turns his head, and the movement is clumsy and slow. His eyes scan the tent, unfocused, until his gaze lands on me—then gradually drops to where Emmett’s arm is wrapped around me. The muscle in his jaw ticks.
I don’t think. I just move, stopping only when I’m within arms reach—then freeze when I realize I don’t know where he’s hurt. What I’m allowed to touch.
If I’m allowed to touch him at all.
I glance back over my shoulder. Landon isn’t paying attention to us, deep in conversation with a staff member in a neon green shirt. Lydia and Emmett are standing off to the side, his hands gripping her shoulders and forcing her to look at him.
Wesley exhales, lips parting like he might say something, but he just sweeps his eyes over me.
Finally, he murmurs, “You look…freaked out.”
I gape at him. The man was just thrown off an almost two-thousand-pound animal and I look freaked out.
“You scared us,” I say, softer than I mean to.
A faint breath of a laugh leaves him, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly.
“Yeah,” he says faintly. “So I’ve heard.”
His gaze drifts, then slips back to me, softer around the edges now. His eyes bounce between mine, small flecks of gold sprinkled in his dark amber gaze.
“You’re so stupid,” I whisper.
Then his eyes drop to my mouth. So subtle, I almost miss it. Almost.
Something dangerous tugs in my chest.
This could be different, the voice whispers. Maybe this is who he really is.
But then Landon steps into my periphery, Emmett and Lydia right behind him. The shift in the air is immediate, but the spell doesn’t break—it only thins like a fog under harsh and unforgiving lighting.
“Damn,” Landon says, amusement threading his voice. “You look pretty good for a guy who almost met his maker.”
Wesley doesn’t look away from me. Doesn’t even blink.
“I’m not complaining,” he hums, eyes still locked on mine.
My heart stutters and the tent suddenly feels a thousand degrees warmer.
“How are you feeling?” Lydia asks.
“I’m fine,” he says, voice strained. “Just got the wind knocked outta me and maybe a couple of bruised ribs, I guess.”
Landon steps closer, studies him, then reaches out and gently pats Wesley’s cheek.
“I wouldn’t be complaining either, if I had a little prescription cocktail flowing through my veins.”
The word prescription hits like cold water.
Of course.
That explains the looseness. The softness. The way his rough edges feel sanded down.
Wesley rolls his head toward Landon, slow and unbothered. “Don’t be jealous.”
Emmett snorts. “Enjoy it while it lasts, buddy. You’re gonna be an absolute nightmare when that wears off.”
Lydia and Landon murmur something I don’t quite catch. The moment widens, filling with other people, other voices. Wesley’s eyes flick back to me one last time before drifting shut again.
“I guess we’ll have to wait and see.”
And just like that—the moment is gone.
It didn’t mean anything.
I repeat it over and over in my head until the words feel hollow.
The ride home is dark and quiet. There’s not a single streetlight on the remote highway.
Emmett’s driving and Wesley is fully reclined in the passenger seat, his hat pulled over his face and arms crossed loosely over his chest.
I stare out the window, watching trees and mountains blur into dark streaks of green—until my phone buzzes.
Vapid Dick <3
I like that shirt
My stomach flips. I blink, glancing down at my shirt—then at Wesley. He’s completely still, aside from the steady rise and fall of his chest. Like he’s asleep.
I bite my lip and type.
It was Lydia’s idea.
We were going to surprise you guys
… before you tried to die and everything
The reply is instant.
Vapid Dick <3
Remind me to thank Lyd
I’m about to type again when the three dots appear.
Vapid Dick <3
You looked really nice tonight
I hesitate.
Wesley. Are you flirting with me?
Vapid Dick <3
Do you want me to be?
I glance up.
His eyes are already on me.
My cheeks flush. I don’t even try to hide my smile.
Do I want him to be?
The question lingers, heavier than it should. Like if I answer it, the scales will tip and there won’t be any pretending after that.
I think about the way his eyes softened in the medical tent. The way his voice dropped, low and loose, like he had forgotten to keep his walls up. The way my chest still feels tight when I picture him lying there in the dirt, too still.
I tell myself it was the drugs. The adrenaline. The moment.
It didn’t mean anything.
But my body doesn’t listen.
My pulse is loud in my ears. My fingers feel unsteady around my phone. I look at him again—really look this time—and my breath catches when I realize he’s watching me openly now. No scowl. No distance. Just awareness. Like he’s waiting.
Waiting for me.
Whatever this is, it’s inconvenient, beyond inappropriate, and dangerous.
And yet.
I can’t explain the way I feel when he’s near me. It’s like we’re magnets, pulled toward each other no matter how much we try to fight it.
The warning voice in my head is frantic now—listing every reason, consequence, and line I shouldn’t cross.
But I ignore it, typing back the only thing that feels honest.
I think you already know the answer to that.