Two | Colson #3
“I’m not in the mood for your mockery, Colson. Go back to your table.” She waves a dismissive hand.
“Just trying to be friendly,” I push. “Welcome you back.”
Her head slants, exposing the soft column of her throat. “Oh, is that what you’re doing? I’d say you’re trying to frazzle me up.”
“Frazzle you up?” I repeat, trying not to laugh.
“You know, distract me. Get in my head.” She taps the side of her skull with her finger. “But it’s not going to work this season. You know why?”
“Why,” I ask, amused.
“Because while I was on bed rest for four months, I had nothing else to do besides strengthen my mental game. Now leave me alone.” She turns to face the rows of liquor bottles lined up behind the bar, attempting to ignore me while she waits for her drink.
I lift my hands in surrender. “No reason to make a scene like last time.”
Her eyes snap toward me with a heat that could incinerate me. She huffs out a breath. “You were the one who—”
“Don’t blame your little outburst on me, dust bunny. I’m a very controlled man.”
The music increases in volume, so she cups a hand over her ear. “Sorry, what was that? Did you say ‘controlled man’ or ‘old man’?”
“Oh shit,” Matt bursts, the table of guys behind me cackling, clearly eavesdropping on our conversation.
When the bartender sets Harlow’s drink down on the counter, she pulls it toward her, immediately taking a long pull.
Irritation pulls at my chest. “There are only eleven years between us, sweetheart. I’m not that old.”
“Those grays poking out from under your hat tell a different story.”
Fuck, she is spicy tonight.
If her riding is as hot as her mouth, she might give me a run for my money this season.
She lifts the beer glass to her lips and speaks over the rim. “Between your age and your sex life that’s plastered all over the internet, I bet your dick is already shriveled up like a deflated balloon.”
“Want me to take you into the family bathroom so you can find out? Then, after you apologize, I might be nice and let you swallow something else besides your words.” I throw it out there the second she takes a sip.
I should know better than to get in her head after what happened last time, but she’s infuriating. I can’t help myself when it comes to her.
She chokes, little droplets of beer spraying out of her mouth.
The silence that follows is satisfying—so is the splash of pink that floods her cheeks and cascades down her neck.
The color is vibrant against the dark green tank top she’s wearing, which is tucked into her cutoff shorts that gave me a glimpse of her ass before she turned around.
Harlow’s getup is topped off with her usual brown hat and cowgirl boots.
Her lightly curled blonde hair pours over the swells of her breasts like a champagne waterfall. My eyes linger there for a moment.
Has she always had breasts like that? Because goddamn, they look like they would mold perfectly against my pecs.
She sets down her beer, wiping the back of her hand across her mouth and chin. “No, I know I’m right,” she quips confidently. “It would just be embarrassing for you. Then you would have to run away with your dick tucked between your legs.”
My mouth lifts wickedly as I lean against the counter. “You watched my interview with Kickin’ Up Dust.”
Her eyes widen like she didn’t mean to let it slip that she keeps an eye on the newest interviews I’m doing.
We always seem to be aware of each other, even when we don’t want to be.
I won’t lie, I’ve stalked her on social media, keeping up with her recovery over the last few years.
Each time I saw a picture or a new video, my blood felt like acid coursing through my veins.
She shifts uncomfortably, glancing down at her boots before meeting my eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself, cowboy. Heather Ellis is right; I’m going to give you a run for your money this season. The bulls may toss you on your ass, but I’m going to be the one to kick it.”
She looks behind her, scanning the crowd until she sees her sister at an empty high-top table, gesturing her over.
Harlow slaps me on the shoulder like the guys do when they’re being friendly. From her, I know it’s anything but. “Have a good evening, Colson.”
I can’t help but watch her walk away. Briefly, along with several other men in my vicinity, my eyes drop to her perky ass in those tight shorts that show off her toned figure and Arizona tan, right before my focus locks on her left leg.
The mental picture of a quiet and dark arena with Harlow in the center plays before my eyes. Her screams of agony penetrate my mind, blending with Paisley’s as both memories begin to collide—images of them lying in the dirt, slashing across my vision like a strobe light.
One memory, and then the other.
My stomach roils, threatening to release all the alcohol I’ve consumed on the floor.
Harlow’s lucky she walked away, and here she is again, trying to prove herself. As talented as she may be, if her fear of that night still lingers, she doesn’t belong in the Pbr.
She never will.