Two | Colson
“What do you guys say we get another round to kick off the start of the season?”
The hoots and hollers of agreement from the guys and crowd surrounding us drown out the clanking glasses and brash country music reverberating through the bar. Their vocalized excitement dies down, allowing a few grumbles in our inner circle to slip through.
Well, that’s not the kind of enthusiasm I was after.
Training my eye on each person at our table, I seek out the origins of the perturbed noises. A few riders’ lack of eye contact validates my suspicions about who the complaints came from.
I shift my attention to Brian Sanders beside me. His eyelids are half-lidded, the twenty-two-year-old kid looking like he’s about to nod off and faceplant in his beer. A goddamn beer that he’s been nursing for the last hour.
It may be a Thursday night, but the bar is packed. Nearly every table and stool is occupied as the band crosses the stage and sets up the equipment for their set. There are even standing groups, individuals scanning the space and quickly snagging a seat when one becomes available.
The exposed amber bulbs dangling over the bar clash with the neon beer lights flickering on the weathered wood-paneled walls.
There is a dartboard in one corner, a pool table, a jukebox, and various vintage western posters tacked to the walls.
The scent of whiskey, hops, and leather lingers in the air; the occasional wave of cigarette smoke overpowering the senses.
It’s your typical country bar, and the one we visit every year when the circuit finds itself in Tucson.
A few other professional bull riders and I, staying at the same hotel a few blocks away, wanted to celebrate the start of the season.
The night started with four of us, and now ten bodies are circled around our table while fans linger, training their ears on our conversations.
The buckle bunnies, on the other hand, are hovering, eagerly waiting for the moment they can snag our attention and shoot their shot.
I clap a hand on Brian Sanders’ shoulder, making him jump. He glances up, those dark eyes glaring at me from below the brim of his straw cowboy hat.
A corner of my mouth tugs upward. “Tequila isn’t going to hurt you, Sanders.”
“Yeah, a fuckin’ bull will do that before alcohol does,” my best friend Matt slurs drunkenly into his beer glass beside me.
I shoot him a disapproving scowl, and he shrinks under my gaze.
Logic may escape him when he’s five beers deep, but he should fucking know by now not to push my buttons with that shit.
Attempting to calm myself down, I lift my hand, dragging my fingertips across the worn braided bracelet on my left wrist.
Take a breath.
The cool touch of the metal charm that’s dangling from the chain woven into the leather releases some of the tension threaded around my ribs. I exhale a weighted breath.
Matt clears his throat. “I mean, the worst it’s going to do is loosen your balls a little. Maybe give you a hangover.”
“I have to ride tomorrow,” Brian groans. His lips twist to the side beneath his mustache. Peering around the table, his attention lands on Dalton Carroll’s empty beer bottle on the other side of him. “You guys do, too. How can you drink this much before an event?”
Snatching my beer, I down the rest of the contents and set the bottle back on the table. “I’m thirty-four. I’m old enough to handle my alcohol.”
“I’m not,” Brian grunts.
“You’ll get there,” I encourage, slapping his back.
Yeah, that’s the inspiration he needs.
“Like I said, we’re celebrating,” I repeat, trying to ignore the unsettling feeling in my chest that keeps penetrating deeper each time I sign that fucking contract to compete another year.
I wave down the cute brunette walking around with a tray, signaling we’re ready for another round.
Through the crowded tables, she catches my eye and smiles instantly, pressing her red lips into a line to conceal her enthusiasm.
She nods gratefully to the patrons she delivers drinks to, taking a few bills from them as she tucks them into the valley of her breasts in her tight black tank top, not letting her gaze wander from mine.
She ambles over in her fishnet stockings and cutoff shorts, dragging her tongue over her bottom lip. “What can I get for you?”
“Six shots of tequila, and”—I glance around the table, spotting the empty glasses—“six more draught IPAs.”
Brian straightens, dragging a hand down his face. “Get me one. I can keep up.”
I’m never one for bullshitting, so I give Brian the truth no matter how much he’ll hate hearing it. “No, you can’t.” His brows knit. “I’m your friend, Sanders, not just your competitor. You look tired as shit, and I want to see you do well tomorrow.”
And that right there is the truth. At the end of the day, we are all holding onto that goddamn rope, trying to make a name for ourselves.
As much as I despise the thought, I am nearing the end of this career. This life. Our dream.
Dirt.
Sweat.
Pain.
Determination.
It’s all in my blood.
After sixteen years of devoting myself, I know nothing else. I don’t know what life would look like without bull riding.
I’m thriving when I’m in that arena. Sure, it’s dangerous, but there’s a reason why I’ve never quit. I’m riding for her—chasing two dreams, but the weight to fulfill them is solely on my shoulders. I said this year would be my last, but I told myself the same thing the year before.
And the year before that.
But here I still am, riding my body raw because letting go is a bitch.
The thought of whatever comes after this leaves a cavernous void in my chest that will never be filled with something that drives me as much as bull riding does.
It makes me feel whole. Like I’m not as unbalanced as I feel, always missing a piece of myself when I hit the dirt.
I made a promise. I told her I wouldn’t stop—even though she’s supposed to be here, competing with me.
Giving up isn’t an option.
I know my sister is watching, though. She never fails to.
“Did you guys see Lucas’ update on Instagram about his surgery next week?” Dalton, the rookie next to Brian, says as he picks up his beer. “Man. He’s going to have a long road to recovery.”
Lucas Abbot had been gunning for a professional spot for the last two years while competing in the minors. Bull riding runs in the Abbot family’s DNA. He’s practically a legacy in our world.
I competed against Lucas’ older brother in three World Finals a couple of years ago.
When he retired, his parents spared no expense to ensure their younger son would succeed, since his brother never won a buckle.
I don’t think Lucas’ brother made it into the top five any of those years we competed together.
Lucas, though, would’ve been a real threat if he hadn’t gotten injured and dropped out. He’d be more of a threat than the fragile little ray of sunshine they plucked from the Arizona desert.
That injury should’ve ended Harlow’s career a few years ago. If the searing pain and doctors’ desperate warnings for her to quit didn’t stop her, then the suffocating clutches of PTSD and fear of repeating the past should have.
Unfortunately for me, she’s back.
She’s here, lingering in Tucson somewhere, waiting for the first round tomorrow night, ready to prove to the damn world that she’s healed and ready to raise the stakes again despite that gruesome ride that took her out for two years.
Injuries like that tend to implant a seed of fear. It may be small and shoved into the dark, where she thinks she can’t access it, but even weak things can still thrive in desolate places. Fear is a weakness, and it has no place on the dirt. The only solution is to terminate it altogether.
I’d bet money that Harlow’s not as untouchable as she portrays herself to the world.
This season will expose whether she’s ready or not.
She’s not in the minors anymore.
“Alright,” the waitress drawls, hinting that she’s returned with our drinks.
I take a step back, letting her slip between Matt and me. She’s cute. At least two feet shorter than I am, with brown hair tied into a knot on her head and golden skin highlighted by the subtle light above the table.
“I’ve got those six shots and IPAs.” She lowers the tray, picks up each drink, and slides them onto the table littered with empty beer bottles and glasses.
I tip my hat toward her. “Thank you, darlin’.”
The waitress reaches into the pocket of her shorts, giving me a suggestive smile as she holds out a torn piece of receipt paper.
“In case you need anything later, too.” She winks.
Without another word, she turns and struts away, and suddenly the cigarette smoke wafting through the air is replaced by the pure jealousy radiating off the buckle bunnies.
Glancing down, I smirk at the numbers scribbled across the paper below her name. I can’t say I’m surprised. Throw on a pair of Wranglers and a buckle, and some women will instantly drop to their knees to discover what’s under them.
When the sides of my face start to burn, I look up to see nine pairs of eyes boring into my head. What? Have they never seen a woman hit on a man in a bar before? For us, it’s common, especially during the season.
“She’s a little young for you, don’t you think?
” Jax Bowman grills from across the table.
He reaches for one of the beers, his narrowed eyes searching my face for a response.
Several of my competitors are wearing expressions that mirror his.
“She has to be in her early twenties. Maybe even freshly twenty-one by those bright eyes and tight fuckin’ shorts. ”
Ah. That’s what those looks are for.
Dicks.
Dragging my hand over my jaw, amusement pulls at my features. “Apparently, she doesn’t think so.” I shrug off their opinions—they don’t matter to me. “Must like older men.”