Ten | Colson
Ikeep my weight centered, my head and determination a solid, impenetrable barrier, like it always is, the second the chute flies open. Marshmallow Bunny’s hooves dig into the earth, a cloud of dust rising around us as we do this deranged dance that became both of our livelihoods a long time ago.
My breaths are shallow but controlled with each jerking movement that I read as flawlessly as one can when they’re locked on the back of a one-ton beast.
Dirt sits on my tongue like lead.
Adrenaline courses through my veins like a drug.
White-hot light rains down on me, making the bull and me the focal point in an arena full of fans.
Blood whooshes into my ears, mingling with the hoots and hollers from the crowd in that perfect way that mutes the relentless voices in my head—voices that whisper the same guilt-tripping anthem that rotates like a repeating record unless I’m bull riding or find the bottom of a whiskey bottle.
Dust drifts into my lungs, settling in that void in my gut that I can’t shake anymore like I used to. It’s alive, potent in a way that lingers like a bad taste in your mouth that’s determined to drive you to the brink of madness if something else doesn’t take over your senses.
In the past, I could push past the uncomfortable feeling. I could ignore the anxious bubbling beneath my skin whenever my boots hit the expanse where I compete, until all I felt was pure grit to keep setting out to do the one thing I promised I would.
But year after year, the imposter has been growing more dominant, determined to show me that it isn’t nerves or even an eagerness to get on the back of the bull.
It’s the feeling of imprisonment.
Knowing there are things I’ll never be able to change.
Still, with each second I hold onto the rope, a weight lifts from my shoulders, my body acutely aware of the finish line as time ticks down and the buzzer sounds.
My grip loosens on the bull rope the same moment a streak of blonde hair flashes in the corner of my eye, my resolve fading enough that a split second of distraction allows Marshmallow Bunny to gain the upper hand.
He pounces off his front hooves, immediately changing directions as I’m flung over his shoulder and launched onto the ground.
Curses fly from my lips, my body acutely aware of the blinding pain that bolts through my hip and down my right leg.
In the chaos, Matt and the other bullfighters crowd in on Marshmallow Bunny to direct him toward the open gate and lead him safely to the back pens, but it’s already too late as he charges my way.
Without thought, I sprint toward the nearest fence, vaulting to the top as fast as I can to dodge the rogue bull.
“Shit,” I hiss, though I’m not sure if I spit out the curse because of the situation or because I come face-to-face with the girl who vexes me like no one else can.
The same girl I offered to coach, as if I enjoy being tormented by her presence.
Apparently, it’s not enough that we’re forced to be in proximity a few times a week, so I’m subjecting myself to the possibility of everyday torture.
Harlow is on the other side of the fence, peering up at me. Glancing over my shoulder, I see Matt and the others crowd the bull to steer him toward the exit. When my attention finds Harlow again, she’s bent down, retrieving my cowboy hat that fell off my head from the dirt at her feet.
Her hand swipes at the brim to get the dust off, her composure carrying an arrogant weight to it. She raises a brow at me. “You should consider wearing a helmet. Your face seems to be as much of a moneymaker as your riding.” Her sarcasm is evident. “I’d hate to see it get a little scuffed up.”
Her comment increases the inferno behind my chest, boiling my blood. You’d think after this long that a remark like that wouldn’t get to me, but you’d be wrong. It doesn’t help that I hear them all the fucking time in this sport, considering we like to dance with death every time the chute opens.
My fingers pulse into the metal rail I’m grasping. I swallow down the acid searing my throat. “Aww, worried about me, dust bunny? Careful, it almost sounds like you care about me.”
Climbing to the top, I toss my leg over the fence, attempting to ignore the stabbing pain blooming in my leg. I’ll push past it. I always do. Landing before her, I struggle to take a full breath. Harlow sucks the oxygen out of the air as much as a plume of smoke.
Her hand juts out with my hat, those baby blues rolling at my quip. She doesn’t say a word, just narrows her eyes in that way that embeds daggers into my flesh.
The announcer’s voice booms over the speakers, excitement laced in his tone as he says my score into the mic, and the crowd cheers.
I don’t hear the score, nor do I care; I’m too entertained by the girl glaring at me from below the brim of her hat.
That one response for her alone tells me all I need to know.
“Aren’t you going to tell me how well I did?” I taunt. “I think that ride landed me in the championship round for this event.”
Her tongue darts out, wetting her bottom lip. I stare at that entrancing mouth, eagerly anticipating the sharp comeback she always seems to have when I provoke her. Luckily, I don’t have to wait long.
“Wow, I didn’t think the great and untouchable Colson Payne would have a praise kink. Is that what you want? For me to tell you how well you did?”
Stepping into her, I clear my throat. “Kind of.”
Harlow shrugs. “Too bad I’m not one of those girls who can be fooled by your charm.”
“Would it kill you to give one compliment?”
She twists her lips to the side as if she’s contemplating my request. “Drop to your knees and maybe I will.”
I darkly chuckle. “I’d much rather see you on yours so I can see what other things that smart mouth is capable of.”
The heat between us is vibrating uncontrollably as neither one of us backs down. I half expect her to look at me with disgust, but as her mouth curves at one corner, I can’t help but swallow.
Lifting her arm, she plops my cowboy hat back onto my head. “It’s capable of a lot of things, cowboy. Too bad you’ll never find out.”
Fuuuck.
Surprisingly, she takes time to adjust my hat, the moment giving me the opportunity to let my eyes roam over her soft features that have yet to be tainted by sweat and the aftershocks of adrenaline.
Her second-round ride of the weekend is coming up soon, and I should feel guilty for distracting her, but there’s something about this girl that makes it hard for me to walk away.
Her smirk increases the pounding in my sternum. I nearly raise a hand to grip at my chest because the ache there is foreign. Different than the one I’ve grown accustomed to. “You couldn’t handle me.”
Goddamn. Why is that confidence sexy as fuck?
My curiosity gets the best of me. “Is that a challenge?”
Harlow shakes her head. “You’re an insufferable dick. Did you know that?”
“And you’re a pain in my ass, Hartt.”
Those lips that shouldn’t be tempting part, but it’s not her voice that fills the space between us when a deep tone shouts, “Payne.”
My head turns to see our Pbr commissioner and CEO, John Barrett, glaring at me with interest etched in his features.
Harlow pats my pec over my riding vest, lowering her voice. “Don’t want to keep the boss waiting.”
When I turn to face her again, she’s already walking away with her bull rope slung over her shoulder, my attention locked on the way those hips sway in the black chaps and jeans she chose for tonight.
I’m trying to ignore the way that entire interaction had blood flooding to my cock with every jab. Every heated word.
Blowing out a breath, I pace toward John, failing to hide my limp. The pain has dulled slightly, but it’s still a bitch as I walk to stand before him.
“John,” I greet. I’ve known this man since I started when I was eighteen. We are past formalities now.
He extends a hand, and I shake it like I always do. I respect the hell out of this man. We all do.
John drops my hand, lowering his back to his lap. “That was one hell of a ride, but Marshmallow Bunny tossed ya good.”
My response is clipped as I straighten my posture. “Nothing I can’t handle.”
He drags a hand over his salt-and-pepper beard. “I think you should head over to the medical area to get that checked out before the championship round. You’ve got everyone on edge.”
I arch a brow. “When do I not have them on edge?” His mouth flattens into a line as if he’s not impressed.
“And I’m fine, it’s no big deal,” I add.
I’d say I’d walk it off, but I made that mistake once, and I’ve never felt more like bullshit.
I assume he feels the same way about those comments as I do about someone getting trampled or suffering from a head injury.
It doesn’t matter, because John says it for me anyway.
“You’ve been walking off injuries since you started this sport.
Someday, one of them is going to take you out for good if you don’t take care of yourself.
There’s more to life than the ride, don’t forget that.
Take it from me, this sport can humble you quick if you’re not careful. ”
My chest tightens at the reminder.
My eyes scan his wheelchair, and I give him a firm nod.
John had competed for fifteen years, back in the day.
Then there was one ride, one wrong landing, and it changed his entire life.
When Paisley and I begged our parents to let us start competing and join the junior bull riding league when we were fourteen, they sat us down and made us watch John’s career-ending ride several times.
Still, we accepted the risks and never once let it deter us. There’s a gamble with everything.
Every rider looks up to John with all the respect in the world.
He was a three-time world champion back in his prime.
He is a reminder that this sport can take more than it gives, but I already know that.
It’s why I keep riding. Why I push through the agony and welcome it like I enjoy every ache and stabbing pain in my body because it’s what I need to do to push on.
I have no choice but to power through it.
Despite how many times his wife has tried to get him to officially retire, John still loves this sport too much to let it go.
I may ride for myself and Paisley, but it also helps silence my demons in a way nothing else can.
“And don’t think I didn’t notice you and Miss Harlow Hartt bickering over there, son.”
I clear my throat. “It was nothing. I was just wishing her good luck.”
His bushy brows draw together, hinting that he is serious.
“You must think I’m fuckin’ delusional if you think I’m going to believe that.
Leave her alone, Payne. She needs to focus, and she doesn’t need you distracting her this season in any way.
You hear me? I don’t want to have to intervene.
This rivalry between you two is already a pain in my ass, and I’ll kick both of yours if I have to. ”
I scrub a dirty palm over my jaw. “Heard.”
He gestures his head in the direction of the arena as another bull is let out of the chute. “Speaking of our Pbr’s Sweetheart.”
John leaves me as I walk up to the fence that looks out over the dirt, peering through the bars to watch as the bull relentlessly flies around in a chaotic circle before switching directions. Harlow is too late to adjust before she’s tossed off and rolling across the dirt like a kicked pebble.
She stands up stiffly, dusting off her chaps in a frustrated manner. I can see her mouth moving behind her helmet, but I’m too far away to make out the words. Knowing that tongue, she’s probably cursing up a storm at herself for failing another ride.
I’m right when I look up at the timer to see that same number three that seems to haunt her.
Just like they always do, those blue eyes scan the chutes until they locate mine.
I shouldn’t, but sometimes I eagerly wait for her gaze to find me.
Bracing my arms on the fence, I lean over it, enjoying her little tantrum far too much.
She looks like she’s stomping toward me, but she’s walking toward the gate the team has open to let her through to the back pens.
Bending, she snatches her bull rope, lying in the dirt from when it fell off the bull, not once letting her attention slip from me.
You’d think I’d be able to hold myself back from joking with her for one goddamn second, but as she rips off her helmet, I can’t help myself.
“Offer still stands,” I yell out, knowing everyone else around is too distracted to hear me.
Harlow pauses, regarding me momentarily as if she wants to say something, before she thinks better of it and storms off.
She knows the offer I hung over her head. I should take it back, considering John’s warning, since he’s the CEO, but there’s just something about this five-foot-three hell-raiser that I can’t let go.