Eleven | Harlow #2
Her deep blue eyes roll. “You know that’s not what I meant,” she mutters, turning and disappearing as she walks back down the hallway.
“Love you, Mom,” I call out to her, smiling.
Her beautiful laughter is farther away, but it warms my bones like she is still standing in the room. “Love you too!”
A few beats pass before Melanie sighs. “Now that she’s gone”—she crosses her arms, standing her ground—“I’m calling it right now.”
I pick up a shirt from the pile of clothes next to her on my bed. “Calling what exactly?”
“You are about to be living with an incredibly hot, pain-in-the-ass, cocky bull rider. Something is bound to happen, and you know it!”
“No, I don’t know it because it won’t happen! I am going for one reason, and one reason only: to let him coach me.”
Her skeptical eyes zone in on me, igniting a burst of unease that skitters up my spine. “Whatever you say, dear sister. I’ve heard the best sex is hate sex.” She points to her chest. “So, I expect a phone call after you both fold and it happens, because I want to know if it lives up to the hype.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“And you’re about to ruin my whole social media strategy for you this season. The whole rivalry thing was blowing up your account. Do you know how many followers you’ve gotten since I posted that picture of you two at the bar?”
Nope, I don’t know, and to be honest, I don’t really care about any of it besides the other female bull riders who reach out here and there, saying I inspire them.
But I also hired Mel to manage my social media presence because it is easier to land big sponsorships and influencer deals.
If it weren’t for that aspect, then I wouldn’t do it.
But Melanie loves it, and she’s good at it.
Which is clear when she says, “You’ve gotten over five thousand followers in the last month, Harlow. Five thousand!”
My lips twist to the side. I wish they were following me for my skills and my story, and not just my rivalry with the arrogant bull rider who knows all the right buttons to push to aggravate me.
Colson finds too much amusement in playing that game where you keep pushing something toward an edge, waiting to witness the exact moment it finally tumbles and shatters. To him, it’s like I’m some shiny, breakable object.
Now I’m about to live with him …
His comment that I would never be able to make it to the Pbr was one thing.
I was seventeen, and there were so many other riders and buckle bunnies trying to get his attention after the competition.
He probably viewed me as a kid, and that comment was a way to dismiss me.
Didn’t make it hurt any less, but it was motivation to push myself.
Yet that night at the bar a few years ago was my undoing. When I decided that he was a complete and utter ass. The moment when his damn mouth unbearably tightened the rope weaving through my ribs and around my heart.
I try to push the memory away, but the faint haze of smoke and the air thick with tension sit heavy on my lungs, as they did that night, spurring the vision.
The music from the speakers pulses the floor under my boots.
The bar is more packed now than it was an hour ago.
People are lined up and pushing their way toward the bar, impatiently waiting to get a drink.
My beer is nearly gone now, but a part of me came here tonight hoping that I would start to make some acquaintances with my competitors.
Other athletes are hanging around, all of them surrounding a tall table in the corner, laughing and drinking like they’ve been competing together for the last several years, which they have.
I’m the newcomer.
The only girl in a sea of men who don’t think I should be competing at their level.
A bead of sweat glides down the ridge of my spine, every hair rising in response to his presence. He places two beers on the table, pinning me with a look that has my breath hitching in my throat.
We’re halfway through my first season, yet most of my interactions with Colson have been shared only through glances and glares.
Has he finally figured out who I am? That I’m the girl who he said should stick to the women’s circuit?
He slides one of the beers toward me. “You look like you need another.”
I stare at him suspiciously, scanning his handsome face framed by long locks that curl up at his ears under his cowboy hat. He has the face that belongs on a men’s outdoor magazine cover and not on the back of a bull.
“Oh, come on,” he taunts, pushing it closer when I don’t answer.
I shouldn’t have been expecting that he ditched his table with the other bull riders because he finally remembered me, but my gut still sinks.
My eyes lower to the extra beer. “Thanks for the drink, but I’m good,” I say, lifting my glass and downing the rest of it before setting it back on the table. “I’ll probably just head back to the hotel and get some rest for round one tomorrow.”
His dark chuckle raises the hairs on my arms. “Come on, Harlow Hartt, you’re trying so hard to keep up with us, so why would you stop now?” To everyone else, that voice is as smooth as honey, but it won’t work on me.
My teeth grind. “What makes you think I’m trying hard to keep up? Maybe you’re just not as good as you once were.” His eyes narrow at my retort, and I smile. “Have you looked at the rankings lately? I’m sitting in the top twenty. Only a few places below you, if I’m remembering correctly.”
For a second, it looks like he’s biting his tongue, but then he says, “Maybe you’re getting lucky.”
“Maybe I’m just good,” I fire back.
“This is an unforgiving sport. I just don’t want to see you get hurt.”
I don’t miss the way his drunken eyes graze my chest and linger on my breasts. The heat in his eyes melts my body from the inside out, and I’m not sure how, but that one look has a raw, unwelcome desire flooding where it shouldn’t.
My head tilts to the side. “I appreciate the concern, but me riding out there is no different than any one of you doing it.”
“Is that so?”
I pull my bottom lip between my teeth, blowing out a condescending chuckle. “You and I both know the real reason why you hate seeing me out there.”
His fingers pulse into his beer glass, and for a second it seems as if he might back down. But I’ve watched this man ride even before I was a teenager. He doesn’t give up easily.
“And I’m not the only one thinking it,” he replies.
“Fuck you,” I spit, crossing my arms over my chest defensively.
Colson takes a step closer to me around the small high-top table.
His dizzying scent of leather and spice creates a shield that blocks out the hint of smoke lingering in the air and the potent stale beer.
When he leans over and his lips brush the shell of my ear, it releases a flurry of goosebumps that ghost over my body.
“You should save that mouth for the bedroom. You’re much more suited to be a buckle bunny where you can spread your legs for men like me instead of spreading them to get on a bull.” He raises his head and straightens, his mouth quirking into a smirk that floods my vision with red.
Rage seeps through my pores. Before I know what’s happening, my fist flies, nailing the man in front of me across the jaw. My pulse pounds as Colson hunches over, cupping his mouth. When he stands back up, a line of crimson is dripping down his chin.
He swipes his thumb across his split lip, my eyes widening as I take in the scene before me, my adrenaline instantly taking a nosedive into the fucking cement floor. He starts to say something, but the words fade into the distance as I sprint toward the door, not looking back.
“Well.” Mel sighs. “You’d better take extra safety precautions to make sure your body doesn’t betray you when you and Colson start getting acquainted more.”
I side-eye her. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
She rolls over on my bed, reaching for my nightstand. She opens the drawer and reaches in, pulling out something that is being thrown toward me as fast as she grabbed it. When I catch the object, it’s clear why she didn’t want to touch it longer than needed.
My gut swoops violently as I glance down at my purple vibrator. I mean, I know the nightstand is a normal place to keep something like this, but it still shocks me that she knew it was there.
I swallow, embarrassment flooding my cheeks. “How did you know—”
Mel holds up a hand to stop me. “Our headboards share a wall, and I don’t enjoy white noise while I sleep. The vibration of this is noticeable in the middle of the night.” She crawls off my bed, heading for the door. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go scrub the skin off my hands.”
I stare at the device clutched in my fingers. She’s not wrong. If I’m going to be there for five months, I’m going to need something to alleviate my stress. And possibly a desire I’m hoping will never make itself known.
I need to keep that boundary. Draw that line because I’m not there to “get acquainted” with him or even become friends with the man. He is offering his coaching services, and I have accepted.
That’s it.
If anything, maybe working with Colson will mute the chaos he seems to cause in my head.
I may have punched him in the face that night at the bar, but he got in my head and remained there until I found myself being bucked off and trampled into the dirt. My scar is a constant reminder that some battles aren’t worth fighting, but this one is.