Chapter 4
Chapter Four
TRISTON
T he small pill burns where it sits just under my tongue, taking a literal decade to dissolve.
The temporary pens clang in the distance—one of the bulls already restless—and the metallic clattering sends a stabbing ache behind my eyes that I ignore.
I’ve learned over the last several years, even when I was only semi-pro, that trying to hide from the overstimulation just makes getting out there and lasting the full eight seconds ten times harder.
Especially when my heat’s trying to break through my suppressors.
My hands shake as another wave pulses through my body, and I will the breakthrough, heavy-duty medication to work faster, be stronger, before the staging area of this arena fills with the other competitors.
Lance closes the distance between us with long, clipped strides, his eyes locked on me and his lips drawn in a thin line.
He might be a Beta, but he knows the dangers of me dropping into a heat surrounded by so many Alphas hyped up on adrenaline and testosterone.
At least one of them is on a rut-amplifier, too, in an attempt to help his performance.
It’s the only enhancement drug not banned by the NbrA—National Bull Riding Association—at the moment.
One of the bulls calls out, and the metal fencing rattles again.
I can’t help but shudder. The sound’s worse than nails on a chalkboard.
Then a different kind of shudder races down my spine.
I don’t dare close my eyes, knowing it’ll just make everything even more heightened.
Instead, I pop the second emergency pill from the foiled packaging and shove it under my tongue, too.
Clearly, I didn’t medicate this heat early enough, and now I’m going to pay for it.
Not until after my ride , I mentally order my body.
I haven’t endured nearly eight months worth of longing and homesickness since the last competition cycle ended to miss this opportunity at the last possible moment.
Most of the other competitors walk through the large doors that lead to the parking lot, laughing and chirping at each other in that way alphas do when they’re not quite friends but not entirely enemies, either.
Their collective noise just makes my skin crawl, even worse than typical.
Michael, the only Beta among those of us who’ve made it to the final rodeo of this cycle, walks a bit behind the rowdy group of Alphas, his hands in his pockets.
He’s already got his vest on, and his helmet is tucked against his side, held in place with his elbow.
He lifts his chin in silent greeting, a movement I mirror.
Then I adjust my hat, drying my forehead with my arm before focusing on Lance.
He holds out a small paper cup filled halfway with gatorade—or whatever sports drink is actually a sponsor of the National Bull Riding Championship.
Both pills finally dissolve, and I groan as I clean out the residual taste with the sticky yellow drink.
You’d think they’d figure out a way to make the medications used by omegas worldwide to force their heats into submission less of a nightmare to take.
At least it’s just the add-on medicine that tastes that rancid.
My standard, low grade suppressor is blessedly flavorless every morning.
“You good?” he asks without fanfare.
“Fine,” I say.
He frowns but doesn’t actually call me out on it.
Not tonight, at least. Nothing’s getting between me and this last ride tonight to cement the championship.
I make it eight seconds in just about fifteen minutes?
I’ll be the first omega to manage it in just two seasons and only the fifth to manage it at all in that time frame.
That belt buckle will look really nice next to my rookie award from last year.
My heat can fuck right off tonight, thank you very much.
“Blockers?” Lance twists so the others can’t read his lips.
“Got ‘em.”
I never, ever risk being anywhere near this group of guys without them.
“You need another dose?”
Shaking my head, I shrug into my own vest, zipping it and rolling back my shoulders to settle into the weight of it.
If I need another dose, there’s no way I’m managing to get onto the back of a bull tonight.
The coordinators spill into the open space, their gazes searching the group of us to find whoever pulled first. The woman with long blonde hair pulled back in a high, slick ponytail points to Levi Remington and waves him forward.
The other one—the redhead that’s been eyeing me all weekend—cups her hands so her voice carries. It bounces off the concrete walls, cutting through the boisterous ribbing as effectively as an airhorn. I grimace as it causes another throb of head pain.
“Five minutes, y’all!” Anticipation settles over us all, a living sentiment between us. “If you’re going to be cheering on from the chutes, you need yours vests on!”
There’s a growing cheer from the arena, the crowd being egged on by the announcer as they go through the opening bits of the event’s song and dance.
A couple of the alphas wave as they pass by me on their way into the arena to watch.
Sean, the oldest of us, lifts his chin and claps me on the shoulder as he passes.
A bit of his brandy scent curls around me, and I swallow a groan, breathing deeply as another shiver of awareness races down my spine like lightning.
I don’t dare move to join them. There’s no way I’ll be able to handle standing beside any of them on the chutes while they scent in response to all the excitement and posturing the rides always bring out.
Lance waits until we’re alone again, even Michael opting to watch everything from a perch on the unused chutes.
“You have a preferred Haven here?” He gestures broadly around us, referring to Oakland in general and not the immediate vicinity of the arena, though I’m sure there’s a Haven within a ten minute drive.
Oakland’s big enough to have several, I’m sure.
And if not, San Francisco is right across the bay, and there will definitely be multiple options there.
“Nope.” I pop the “p.” “They’re all the same at this point.”
This will be the fourth heat I’ve had since leaving Creek Falls a year and a half ago.
Are the Havens designed to be welcoming and calming for omegas who need a safe place to ride out their heats?
Yes. But after seeing the inside of three of them now—not including the one in Jackson—the novelty has worn off.
The blankets, the pillows, the bed? They’re soft and clean, yes, but they’re not mine .
And that’s not even getting into the scents of the alphas that are assigned to help you through the heat itself.
One more lily-scented alpha, and I might just opt to sedate instead.
I push away the thoughts. They aren’t what needs my focus right now. I can deal with sorting through the heat tomorrow after I secure this second place finish and a piece of bull riding history. If the extra dose of suppressant I took doesn’t delay it another several months, at least.
The announcer introduces the first rider, the rookie on the circuit this year, and the arena explodes in another unbearable round of raucous cheering.
I run my arm across my mouth and breathe carefully, using the bit of pheromone replacement I’ve applied to the inside wrist of the shirt to settle me as much as feasible right now.
The artificial vanilla is almost as good as the memories I keep locked away for the moments when the quiet’s a bit too suffocating.
Time to shine.
Lance grabs my hand and pulls me into a quick embrace, the same as every ride I take.
“See you on the other side,” he says. “Now go get that buckle.”
I shut out all the noise best I can as I walk into the arena, passing the other guys waiting for their turn.
Each of them clap me on the shoulder, offering luck as I walk by and then climb up the chute with the bull I drew this afternoon: an all black behemoth aptly named Shadow.
The coaches lean over me as I ease onto the bull and get situated, tightening the strap around my hand in the same ritual I’ve done for years now.
“Shadow’s a perfect bull for tonight.” Phil—the most experienced coach—says, leaning close so he can be heard over the roar of the crowd. “He pulls to the left and has a hell of a high kick. You got that?”
It’s all I’ve been thinking about for nearly three hours. I nod once, and he claps my shoulder.
“Eight seconds, and history’s yours.” Now he smiles. “Go prove all the assholes wrong, kid.”
I blow out a breath, trying to find a calm center despite the lights and sounds of the sold out arena around me.
One of the other coaches holds up a thumbs up in silent question.
Adrenaline and nerves rocket through me.
I mirror the signal before raising my left hand above my head and leaning forward in anticipation of the bull’s drop and first hard kick out of the chute.
The coach drops his hand. Time suspends for a long moment. Then I nod and the side of the chute opens.
Here we go .