Tame Our Wild

One | Harlow

Anxiety coils around my rib cage, sharp and suffocating, like the moment I fell into a sea of catclaw acacia shrubs at the edge of our property when I was ten.

Their curved thorns dug into my flesh, unwilling to let go.

Those same feelings of imprisonment flood my chest, stirring the nausea deep in my stomach.

God, I need to stop.

I should shove aside my competitiveness for one goddamn second and ignore the new episode looming on the screen. A casual interview that, without a doubt, will end with my phone shattered on the floor.

But I’m known for being stubborn—which means I keep my eyes glued to the podcast video and mute the voice inside my head telling me this is a terrible idea. Which, it is. It will only rile me up.

Or more accurately, he will rile me up.

Drawing a deep breath, I press the play button, starting the video at the eighteen-minute mark. I’m only interested in the part that my coach, Aaron, says concerns me.

That’s one thing I appreciate about him—he doesn’t treat me like a slow-burning ember, like my parents.

Or the rest of the world, for that matter.

My coach keeps the rogue blaze burning in my chest. He fuels the flame, knowing that I’m thriving when I’m scorching everything in my path like those relentless wildfires that claim acres of Arizona land every summer.

Whenever Aaron texts only the double exclamation point emoji with a link, it means the matter is urgent. Dread flooded my chest when I saw his message, but it also battled that other feeling I know all too well.

Rivalry.

It’s not hard to guess what topic of conversation is driving this part of the interview. My body is rigid; concern lines etched between my brows as I ponder the questions they threw at my competitor. Unfortunately for me, traces of bullshit usually lace into whatever spills out of his mouth.

The sugar-coated voice of Heather Ellis from Kickin’ Up Dust fills my room. “What were your thoughts when the official roster was updated for the Professional Bull Riding season?”

There are three individuals on the screen, but only one holds the power to feed the inferno blazing under this exterior he finds so delicate.

Heather’s co-host, Mark Sutterman, is lounging beside her on the brown leather sofa they always sit on.

He leans into the gigantic microphone positioned in front of him.

“You must have been shocked by the outcome? I mean, I think everyone who follows the Pbr was caught off guard when Lucas Abbot dropped out one week before the first event.”

Colson Payne reaches up, adjusting his black cowboy hat—the Lucchese that he’s worn ever since they became his sponsor ten years ago—further tousling his medium-length brown hair that falls in those wavy curls that you can’t help but want to tug your fingers through.

His sponsor gives him a new hat every season.

There’s nothing like walking around with several thousand dollars balanced on your head.

Not that I’d understand the feeling.

Maybe someday.

Colson lowers his arm to drape it over the cushions. He leans back smugly, comfortably settling into the matching couch opposite the podcast hosts.

I shift on my mattress, bracing my elbows on my knees to ready myself. Colson’s lips part, the slight motion already causing me to choke my phone in a death grip before he’s uttered a word. “There’s not much that surprises me in this sport anymore, Heather.”

The way he injects charm into her name has a crimson blush creeping across her cheeks. She lifts her fingers to tuck a strand of dark-brown hair behind her ear, the red tint on her skin deepening when she realizes her hair is in a high bun.

“Lucas was a fierce competitor both on and off the dirt,” Colson continues.

“I don’t think anyone expected him to come out of practice with an injury as wicked as a knee fracture, but you go into practice and each ride knowing that injuries are a part of the lifestyle—” He swallows, for a moment making me think he’s going to say something sympathetic.

“That’s the game. If you can’t handle that, then you’re not built for this sport.

It’s as simple as that. Hence why I’m not shocked. ”

See—bullshit.

I roll my eyes dramatically.

Instead of turning off my phone as I should, I lean forward, keeping my scowl trained on the dick as he keeps talking.

“Forty of the world’s top bull riders are ready to ride their asses off this season to snag one of the top twenty spots at World Finals.” Colson shrugs, and my gaze effortlessly magnetizes to how his broad shoulders fill out his shirt. “A lot can happen in six months.”

“You’re a veteran.” Mark gestures to him.

“Have been going hard at this sport since you were eighteen, and now you are thirty-four. You have won two coveted buckles throughout your career and aim to win the world title for a second consecutive year. If you win again this year, three titles would make you one of the greats.”

Colson’s deep, sultry laugh floods my ears. “Stroking my ego there, Mark.”

All three of their laughs blend through my speaker.

Gag me.

When the chuckling dissipates, Mark arches a brow. “If Lucas dropping out didn’t knock your boots off, what about when they announced that Harlow Hartt would take his place for the upcoming season?”

That vexing tilt to Colson’s mouth appears.

It’s as if I’m standing before him, witnessing his grin in person as I have so many times before.

Is it pathetic that I’ve memorized his smirk?

First, his turquoise eyes shift to a darker hue. Then he lets amusement tug at his lips in that way that has had countless women shedding their panties in hopes of earning a front-row seat to see what else his mouth is capable of.

It’s sickening, is what it is.

When Colson smiles at you, it doesn’t mean there are pleasant, fluffy thoughts in his head; the truth is, he’s patronizing you.

He’s the Pbr’s biggest asshole.

And my competition again for the next six months.

“We know you two have a history,” Mark presses.

“Yeah, nobody can forget that bar debacle that went down two years ago,” Heather adds, pointing a fresh manicured finger at my rival.

Truthfully, I have no idea where the hell they found her.

She is beautiful, but way too polished and prim to host a podcast that focuses on bull riding and rodeo news.

She’s always in some kind of power suit.

Like in this episode, her burgundy ensemble is perfectly tailored to fit her tall frame.

Given the way Colson is eyeing her, I suspect her value lies in hooking the male viewers.

But also, she’s always exuding power, and I’m here for it.

Both Heather and Mark wait with bated breath for Colson’s response.

Holding my phone in one hand, I glance down at my other hand, imagining that the blue and black splotches are back, cascading across my knuckles. However, that injury at the bar that night was nothing compared to the broken limb that nearly stopped my career the next day.

An eye for an eye. That’s the saying, right?

I lift my thumb to my mouth, nervously chewing on my nail.

“Like I said the last time you interviewed me about this topic…” Colson doesn’t sound irked by their question, just entertained. “Harlow would be a better fit for the women’s bull riding circuit and the rodeo. Less risk.”

Heather peers at him skeptically. “Don’t you think Harlow has earned that spot?

You said it yourself: if you can’t handle injuries, then you’re not built for this sport, but here she is.

She’s worked hard for it and has returned stronger than before.

” She smiles pompously at him. “Maybe she’ll give you a run for your money this year. ”

Hell yeah! I always knew I liked her.

He blows out a dark, condescending laugh.

“She made it to the Professional Bull Riding circuit once a few years ago, and we all know how that ended. All riders know the type of PTSD that haunts you after an injury like that. Harlow shouldn’t be competing if her fear still lingers.

End of story.” He crosses his arms across his sculpted chest. I eye those long, thick, tattooed fingers longer than necessary.

“Lucas took that last spot for this season because Harlow’s scores weren’t good enough this year.

The only reason she’s on the roster is because he had to drop out.

She didn’t earn that spot.” His words slice through my flesh, burrowing deep where they sprout roots and stay grounded like they always do.

“That being said, if a bull can’t make me run away with my dick between my legs, then neither will Harlow Hartt. ”

Red-hot, boiling fury flows through my bloodstream like a drug, seizing my muscles.

A hand whips out, snatching my phone from my fingers before I have the chance to shatter into smithereens on my bedroom floor.

“Okay, that’s enough of that,” a soft, annoyed voice pierces through my haze of rage.

I lift my head, peering into my younger sister’s light blue eyes. “I needed to hear it,” I grit out through clenched teeth.

“Like you haven’t heard him say those things before?

” Melanie leans against my white dresser and waves my phone around, not buying it.

“Colson Payne says that same, exact thing every time they bring you up in an interview.” She glances down at the screen and clicks the power button.

The voices immediately cease, the silence in my bedroom letting me hear the blood whooshing in my ears.

“Besides a few words changing here and there, everything he says about you remains the same whenever someone brings up your rivalry.”

She’s not wrong. He said the same thing in an interview a month ago when my scores started reaching high enough that I was becoming a threat to the other bull riders in the minor league, and it looked like I might make it back into the Pbr.