Sneak Peek #3
The gate is steel. Cold when I wrap my hand around it.
I test my grip, putting the rope between my pinky and ring finger.
Once.
Twice.
I flex my fingers inside the glove until the leather creaks.
My teeth grind down on the mouthguard.
My mind tries to drift.
A flash of desert heat. Sand in my teeth. A sudden pop like lightning.
I clamp down on it hard.
Not today.
I drop my chin and murmur the words under my breath, so low no one else can hear them over the crowd.
“Here. Now. Eight.”
My team used to make us say it when we were amped and the world felt too big. Here, where your boots are. Now, what you can see. Eight, how long you have to stay in control.
I say it again.
“Here. Now. Eight.”
The bull shifts again, testing the boundaries of the chute. The metal shudders. My thigh muscles lock. My core tightens.
The familiar edge of fear is there, but it’s clean. Simple. Honest.
I can handle fear.
It’s everything that comes after that tries to kill me.
“McAllister!” someone shouts.
I lift my head a fraction. The gate man is watching me, waiting for the nod.
I don’t give it yet.
I keep my eyes on the bull’s neck, on the curl of muscle, on the line where rope will hold.
One more breath.
In.
Out.
My pulse stays steady.
I press my palm to the bull’s hide, feel the heat, the life, the undeniable here of it. “Let’s go,” I tell him quietly.
***
The gate man moves, metal clanking, and the bull huffs like he knows what’s coming. I settle my weight, feel the balance point, and then, without asking for it, my attention snags.
Across the arena.
Ellery Shaw sits tall on her mare as she clears the out gate, sunlight catching in her long braid below her worn hat. She’s calm now, run finished, hand low on the reins. No show. No victory lap. Just that quiet, contained strength she’s always had, the kind that doesn’t need witnesses.
I don’t look for her. My eyes go anyway.
It’s a problem. I recognize it immediately, the way you recognize a pulled stitch before it tears. Focus fractures, just a hairline crack, but that’s all it takes. I force my gaze back to the bull’s neck. Back to the rope. Back to the eight seconds that matter.
Here. Now. Eight.
The crowd surges toward the chutes as the announcer pivots, hyping the next ride, noise building for what’s about to come, not who just finished. Pride lifts something in my chest I don’t want lifted. Wanting her to watch me ride is worse, hot and stupid and sharp as a spur.
I grind my teeth.
Don’t.
The gate man glances at me. “You good?”
“Yeah,” I say.
I am. I’m not.
Ellery disappears beyond the fence, gone from sight but not from my head. The distraction lingers like heat on skin, unwelcome and undeniable. I resent it, the pull, the timing, the way wanting her to be safe has already threaded itself into my muscles.
This isn’t the place for ghosts.
The bull shifts again, agitated now, coiled. The world narrows the way it’s supposed to. The crowd noise dulls at the edges. I roll my shoulders, settle deeper, give the rope one last check.
Hold on.
The words float up unbidden, double-edged. Eight seconds. Don’t let go. Don’t think about the way she looked riding out, spine straight, chin lifted like she belongs everywhere.
I nod.
The latch snaps.
And the world comes apart.
***
The chute detonates beneath us, metal screaming as the bull explodes forward.
My body reacts before thought has a chance to catch up. Hips loose. Core locked. My free arm snaps up and back, fingers spread, finding balance by instinct instead of calculation.
The first jump is straight up. Hard. My teeth clack together as the force rattles through my spine.
Hold on.
The second jump twists left, violent and fast. I roll with it, letting my weight lag a fraction behind the motion, rope burning against my glove. The bull drops his head and kicks, back legs snapping high enough that the air whistles.
Three seconds.
The crowd surges into sound again, noise layered on noise, but it stays distant, muffled. There’s only the bull and the line of tension between us. Eight seconds of negotiation, nothing else.
He bucks harder, trying to peel me off his shoulder. I feel the pattern now. Left-right-left, just like I guessed, but faster than expected. He’s smart. Adjusting.
So am I.
I shift my hips, clamp down with my thighs, let my free arm counterbalance the spin. Every movement is precise, brutal, efficient. There’s no room for fear here. No room for memory.
Four seconds.
The bull slams down and explodes again, twisting the other direction. My shoulder twinges, sharp and hot, but I ignore it. Pain is information. I catalog it and move on.
Five.
I’m grinning before I realize it.
This is the part they don’t talk about. The part that feels clean. Man against animal, gravity against will. For these seconds, nothing else gets through.
Six.
The bull drops his head low and kicks again, harder this time, trying to launch me forward. My grip slips a fraction.
Hold on.
I adjust, fingers tightening, forearm screaming. The rope holds. I hold.
Seven.
The whistle blows, sharp and bright, slicing through the chaos.
Eight.
I let go.
The dismount is ugly, no style points, but intentional. I hit the dirt hard, roll with the impact, come up on one knee as the bull surges past, snorting and wild-eyed. The bullfighters move in, all color and motion, pulling his attention away.
My chest heaves. My pulse finally spikes, hammering now that it’s allowed.
I laugh once, breathless, surprised by the sound.
Hands grab my arms, steadying me as I stand. Someone slaps my back. Someone else shouts something I don’t catch. The world tilts, then rights itself.
I tip my head back and suck in air, the taste of dirt and salt grounding me.
I did it.
The thrill lingers, buzzing under my skin, a rare, dangerous joy. I smile before I can stop myself, wide and unguarded.
For eight seconds, I wasn’t anything else.
I was just alive.
***
The smile doesn’t last. It never does.
As soon as the bull is clear and the noise rushes back in, the world tilts on its axis. The lights feel closer now, hotter, harsher. The roar of the crowd sharpens into individual cracks of sound that hit too hard, too fast.
My jaw locks.
For a split second, the arena floor isn’t dirt.
It’s sand.
Dry and pale and stretching too far in every direction. The smell changes, diesel and heat and something metallic. A sound like a pop snaps through the air, too close to my ear.
I blink hard.
Grip the rail.
Cold steel bites into my palm, grounding and real. I lean my weight into it, forearm flexed, breathing through my nose the way I was taught. In. Out. Slow enough to give my body something to follow.
Here.
The word anchors.
A rodeo clown jogs past, bright paint and movement, and the color helps pull me back. The crowd noise blurs again, losing its edges. My vision steadies.
Now.
I stay still until the tremor in my hands fades to something manageable. I don’t look up. I don’t give anyone the chance to read my face.
Eight.
It passes.
Mostly.
I straighten, rolling my shoulders like I’m working out a kink, and step away from the rail. A couple of guys clap me on the back, grinning, riding the high. I nod, accept it, and keep moving.
I don’t want to think about who might have been watching.
I think about her anyway.
Ellery has always been too perceptive. She sees things other people miss, the shift of weight before a turn, the breath before a lie. The idea that she might have caught that moment, that half-second where the past almost dragged me under, knots something tight in my chest.
I’d rather take the pain.
Pity is worse.
I duck behind the panels where the light dims and the air cools, pressing my back to the wood for just a beat. The smell of pine and old sweat steadies me further. My pulse slows, finally syncing back up with the rest of me.
Control regained.
The announcer’s voice carries faintly now, already moving on, already rewriting me into something cleaner than I am. I let him. Legends are easier for people to swallow than the truth.
I adjust my glove, tugging it tight again, grounding myself in the small, ordinary motion.