Six | Harlow
My head hangs between my shoulders, my eyes closed in concentration as my pump-up playlist drifts through my headphones. “That’s Why We Fight” by Ella Langley blares into my eardrums—my attempt at muting my erratic heartbeat.
I should be stretching, keeping my muscles loose even if my brain isn’t, but instead I’m in one of the meeting rooms they set up for us, with plastic folding tables and chairs, tucked away from the arena noise.
I’ve been waiting for Aaron to call with the pre-ride advice that helps me refocus, instead of letting my mind slip into flashbacks of what happened two years ago.
However, he didn’t call yesterday, and something in my gut tells me he won’t tonight either.
I know he’s camping with his family this weekend, so he’s probably out of range and has no service. Doesn’t keep me from wishing his deep, soothing voice would dial down the anxiety weaving around my ribs and lungs like a lasso pulling tighter as the minutes tick down till I ride.
I lasted all of 3.6 seconds in round one yesterday. It was longer than my rides in Tucson, but I’m still cursed by those three seconds and seem to black out whenever it hits.
My internal timer is being a bitch.
If I keep this up, I’ll be so behind in points that catching up will be impossible. Thankfully, Jacksonville is early in the season this year, so maybe once this event is over, I’ll be able to clear my head.
I slowly release the breath I had been holding, but when I open my eyes, the figure looming in front of me makes me jolt.
A hand flies to my chest. “Shit,” I rush out.
So much for trying to calm myself.
Colson’s fingers tighten around his bull rope. His teal and black chaps are caked in dust, his features pulled into a grimace that makes me think he either didn’t get a scoring ride, or he did, but it was lower than he anticipated.
On the other hand, he always looks like this.
Especially around me.
His hat is off, so his brown hair is tussled in that way that draws even more attention to the way it curls around his ears and at his nape.
He looks all sweaty and rugged standing before me.
Colson wipes his forehead with his forearm before opening his mouth to say something I can’t hear, because Ella Langley is hyping me up through my earbuds.
I remove one and arch a brow.
“Who needs hearing aids now?” he jests.
Yeah, I walked right into that one. My insides unexpectedly warm whenever his frown turns upward when he tries to be funny.
He has a handsome smile, but I won’t admit it.
I’m sure he hears it enough. Not that he smiles very often.
He only seems to pull out that weapon at the bars to lure in his newest prey or when he is in an interview.
“Still you,” I mouth the words.
His turquoise eyes narrow in challenge. “What was that?”
“See.” I motion to him. “I said, ‘Still you.’” I raise my voice a little more so he can hear me.
I know I’m being a brat right now, but my stress is firing off my tongue, and he just happens to be the target standing right in front of me.
“How has that mouth not gotten you into more trouble?”
I shrug. “Not sure. I only seem to use it with you.”
“So, are you saying that I need to be the one to do something about it, dust bunny?”
A bolt of something unfamiliar zips through me, the warmth flooding to my cheeks, chest, and another area between my legs that he should have no power to command.
He must notice my response because his gaze falls to my mouth.
He works the bull rope through his hands, and momentarily, I wish I could know the thoughts running through his head.
His veins and tendons ripple where his sleeves are rolled up, revealing large sunflowers and leaves cascading down both arms to his wrists. I can’t help but be hypnotized by those calloused, inked fingers that I’m sure have more talent than their ability to curl around a rope.
The letters are faint, but I can still make out the words “don’t stop” on his fingers. They may just be tattoos; however, I’m more curious about the stories behind them than I should be. If there is one.
I don’t realize I’m biting my bottom lip until he smirks.
The only reasonable explanation for reacting this way to Colson is that I haven’t been laid in a year since I broke up with Zach.
We had been together since high school, and he always treated me like the fragile flower he thought I was.
Sex with him wasn’t great, but he knew where a vagina was, so I couldn’t complain.
He got the job done, but only with the help of my fingers.
An image of what Colson’s fingers might look like and feel like, replacing mine, has my core throbbing with need.
I’ve known for a long time that I need my sex life to be as thrilling as the rest of my life. Clearly, I’m not deterred by a little bit of pain.
The way Colson handles that rope makes me wonder what he’s like in bed. Those hard hands from years of bull riding are too rough to be soft.
Get your shit together. These are not the kind of thoughts you need to be distracted by right now.
I’m making a mental note to download a dating app to find a hookup, so I’ll stop looking at Colson this way. My traitorous body is hinting at me that it’s time to step away from my vibrator for once.
I pause the music and place my headphones back in the case. “I’m not in the headspace to take your jokes right now, Colson.”
The column of his throat moves as he swallows. He hikes a thumb over his shoulder. “I was on my way to the locker room to shower, and they told me to let you know that you’re almost up and need to head out there.”
I blow out a shaky breath. “Oh. Okay.” He turns to leave, but I stand up quickly. “Wait, you’re showering? You didn’t get a score?”
Colson is an incredible rider and walked away winning the buckle last season. He scored an eighty-nine yesterday evening—one of the highest scores of the night—so I figured he would score in round two and make it into the top twelve for the championship round later tonight.
“Nope. Pegasus kicked my ass. I was leaning back too much and had to work harder to keep control.”
The announcer’s muted voice from the arena drifts through the hallway, filling the silence between us since we’re the only ones in the room.
When I don’t say anything, he tilts his head, studying me. “That was your problem last night, you know.” He treads lightly. “You started to override the bull instead of meeting it jump for jump. The second you were off balance, you leaned back and then had to overwork yourself to try to catch up.”
Creases form between my brows, and I give him a surprised look. “Since when have you ever given me advice? Since the very beginning, you’ve always treated me like I was never built for this sport. Why are you trying to help me now?”
“Do I really have to answer that?” He shakes his head, and a lock of hair flops onto his forehead. “Last week, you curled into a ball on the ground and were almost trampled. Again.”
I wince, turning my head to the side to avoid his penetrating gaze.
He’s right, I know he is, but hearing it from him out of all people has my shields rising.
Cowering on the ground when a 2,000-pound beast is kicking its hind legs in the air and charging at anyone in the general vicinity is extremely reckless, but I blacked out from panic and was unaware of what I was doing in the moment.
“And yesterday—”
“Alright, I get it!” I snap. “I’m trying.
” Tears sting behind my eyes as I hold his gaze, but I blink them away.
“I am trying my hardest to get back out there and do what I know I am fully capable of. It’s only normal to react this way when you have been through something as traumatic as I have.
” My muscles harden as I point a finger at him.
“You have no idea what I’ve been through. ”
The muscles in his jaw flex, and he sucks in a breath as if he’s trying to keep himself in check. “You have no idea how wrong you are about that.”
I bite the inside of my cheek.
He turns toward the door but looks back at me over his shoulder.
“I just wanted to give you a pointer because I noticed it and figured it would help. You scared the shit out of everyone last week, and nobody wants to see the Pbr’s Sweetheart succumb to the same fate as two years ago. ” Colson leaves without another word.
Blowing out a frustrated breath, I grab my bull rope and helmet from my bag and follow him, but only because I’m almost up and need to get out into the arena.
He turns right into the locker room, tossing his rope over his shoulder as I run past him.
The cheers from the crowd heighten, my eyes taking a second to adjust to the dark atmosphere as I emerge from the tunnel.
Ten minutes fly by in a blur. One moment, I’m standing on the platform at one end of the stadium waiting to climb into the chute, and the next, I’m mounting on my bull, Outcast, shuffling through the box of cards in my head with all the advice Aaron has ever given me.
I breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth, focusing on a select few pieces of advice that will apply to my ride tonight.
However, the one that slips into the mix shocks the hell out of me.
“You leaned back and then had to overwork yourself to try to catch up.”
Colson’s words bounce around in my skull. I watched my ride from last night on YouTube. I was off balance and overrode because I was stiff. I didn’t catch myself leaning back, but Colson did, and for some godforsaken reason I’m clinging to that little piece of information.
This is a redemption ride; I’m in no position to be picky and ignore insight, even if it’s given to me by my rival.
I shift my position on the bull’s back and adjust my grip, briefly settling into that comfortable state that tells me I’m ready. I nod my head, and the chute flies open.
Outcast darts forward, bucking to the right in a rotation.
Colson’s tip lingers at the forefront of my mind, my body instantly aware the second I start leaning backward.
I re-center myself, focusing on adjusting my form as I meet the bull jump for jump.
The weight bucking under me has the panic creeping up my throat, but I zone in on my breathing.
My free hand is in the air, and the moment Outcast’s muscles tense differently below my thighs, I know what’s coming and correct my body.
He suddenly changes directions, but my hips stay down and steady with each jerk.
And when the blare of a buzzer harmonizes with hoots and hollers from the crowd, sparks of excitement flare every nerve ending.
I release the rope, safely letting Outcast fling me aside. My body lands on the ground with a thud, but I jump up, unable to keep the massive smile from my face as the bull is directed to the open gate that leads him out of the arena.
The announcer’s deep voice booms over the speakers. “Harlow Hartt is back in the game, folks, with a—” He pauses, waiting for the score from the judges. “83.25 to finally get her on the board!”
Not the best ride of my life, but it’s points.
And it happened in Jacksonville.
I remove my helmet and raise it in the air, waving to a sea of spectators stacked in the stands, decked out in their boots, Wrangler jeans and cowboy hats.
I jog off the dirt, meeting the rest of the athletes behind the chute.
Video cameras follow me as other riders slap me on the back, congratulating me, their encouraging voices adding to the high.
Colson is standing against the fence that overlooks the dirt, freshly showered.
His cowboy hat is back in place, and he’s in a clean black T-shirt that hugs his muscular frame.
He gives me a congratulatory nod, the look accompanied by a sly smile that on any other day would make me roll my eyes.
But his advice is the reason I have my first scoring ride of the season.
I grin only momentarily before a body darts across the open space toward me.
Mel stops short, wiping at her red-rimmed eyes.
Panic bubbles under my skin when I fully register her state.
Her breaths are shallow, her cheeks dusted with pink splotches and mascara streaks, like she’s been crying for a few hours.
Maybe she has, because I haven’t seen her since I left the hotel midafternoon to come to the arena.
My heart plummets into my stomach—my post-ride high completely forgotten. “Melanie?” I choke out.
She shakes her head, a fresh wave of tears streaming down her face. “It’s Aaron.” She hiccups through the emotion clogging her throat. “He died of a heart attack this morning.”