Two | Colson #2
“Why don’t you be a good wingman and give that to me?” Matt says, plucking the paper from my fingers. The alcohol dulls his focus as he struggles to register the name. “I think I’ll give Savannah a call.”
Matt and I have been best friends since my sister and I competed against him at the Copper Lake Rodeo over seventeen years ago.
While my concentration was zoned in on bettering myself to work toward the professional league, he was driven for the love of bull riding.
Matt still rides occasionally, but it wasn’t until I made it to the Pbr that he hung up his bull rope and followed me, becoming a bullfighter instead.
When a rider dismounts or is bucked off, he is one of the few men on the dirt who distracts the bull so a rider like me can escape safely.
A part of me believes that he sticks by my side each year I sign that contract because he knows I was never meant to be here alone.
I snatch the paper back from him. “Because she didn’t give it to you. What do you think will happen when you call and she expects—”
The following words evaporate on my tongue as something bright and unmistakable pulls my attention to the bar. The conversation around me about the waitress fades, allowing the erratic beat of my heart to pulse in my ears.
Her blonde hair is like a goddamn beacon, always drawing me in.
Harlow. Fucking. Hartt.
To everyone else, she’s Pbr’s Sweetheart. To me, she’s a cactus thorn in my ass I apparently can never get rid of. A drop of Arizona sunshine on my turf that is hell-bent on proving she belongs here.
Enduring this sport was already difficult before she came along. Now all I can focus on when I look at her, since she’s the only female I’ve competed against at this level, is that she’s not Paisley.
She’s not my sister.
If that isn’t enough of a reminder, Harlow’s injury from two years ago is.
I gave her the nickname Dust Bunny because, unlike the buckle bunnies chasing cowboys on the circuit, Harlow isn’t afraid to get down and dirty with us. She floats around like she owns the goddamn place.
The nickname suits her, and it thrills me even more that she hates it when I call her that.
You would think I’d have a lot of rivals in this sport, but you’d be dead wrong. Out of all my competitors, she’s the one who holds the power to unravel me and pull at my sanity with those delicate fingers. Fingers that are rough like mine from years of riding.
Suddenly, I’m disinterested in Savannah’s contact info and slap it on the table in front of Matt. Any other night, Savanah might have been one of the lucky ones I take back to my hotel room. Now, my interest has shifted to the buttery-blonde at the bar who isn’t as soft as everyone thinks she is.
“Have at it,” I tell him, earning a wide-eyed, skeptical look. “I need to go get another beer.”
“For who?”
My brain scrambles, taking its sweet damn time to find an excuse. The moment I come up with one, it’s too late.
Matt glances over his shoulder, releasing a flurry of curses under his breath. “Fuckin’ hell, Colson. You think that’s a smart idea right now? Do you not remember the last time we found ourselves in a bar with her?”
Fuck. He’s right, I should leave her alone. If I go over, all I’d do is add more fuel to the raging fire of hatred that’s blazing between us—toxic flames that should’ve disintegrated us both by now.
I’m sure it will this season.
I swipe a thumb over my bottom lip. “Oh, I remember.”
His eyes thin. “Just making sure you know what you’re getting into.”
Hell, I never know what I’m getting into with Harlow, and irritatingly, the unpredictability is exhilarating in the worst way.
My competitors’ voices fade into the chaotic commotion of the space as I push through bodies, marching to the counter. Harlow’s bright laugh pierces through every other noise when she chuckles at something the other blonde girl with her says. The sound penetrates my ears, making my skin itch.
She’s facing away from me, so I casually slide between her back and the man behind her, standing at the bar.
The recognition hits me, and I realize the girl with her is her sister, though I can’t remember her name. Her sister’s eyes widen when they take me in. I clear my throat, finding enjoyment in how Harlow’s shoulders stiffen in response to my presence.
Harlow slowly turns, her baby blue eyes magnetizing to mine.
My mouth quirks. “Well, hey there, dust bunny. Fancy seeing you here.” Her jaw tightens at the nickname I gave her the first year we met, her glare holding me in place.
It’s been two years since I’ve seen her.
She looks older. This is a sport that ages you, and after the hell she’s been through recovering, I’m not surprised.
She may be twenty-three and a lot younger than me, but she’s got a tongue and temperament that I can’t help but want to draw out for some reason.
Harlow’s sister studies me with a guarded expression. “I’m going to find the bathroom. I’ll be right back.” Before she leaves, she points two fingers at her eyes and then back at mine, hinting that she’s watching me, before scurrying in the opposite direction.
It’s Harlow she should be keeping an eye on. This girl is as unpredictable as a bull when she’s drinking. She was the reason for the infamous bar debacle that happened between us two years ago, which led to me nursing my busted lip and swollen jaw in the bar bathroom.
I swallow when she doesn’t answer. My curiosity is genuine. “How’s the leg?”
Her smile is anything but sweet. “I’m here, aren’t I? Shouldn’t that be a big enough hint?”
“Bet you’re excited to have another shot at the buckle,” I counter.