Forty-Four | Harlow
Music blares in one ear while information from Kent, our director, is fed into the other.
I should probably be paying attention, but I’m trying to focus on the beat that is better at keeping my nerves settled than the same spiel he gives at most events that I know by heart.
I’ll start paying attention when our judges start going over score expectations and rules.
To anyone else, it may look like I’m paying attention to what Kent is saying as he shares the timeline for today’s event.
However, I’m already getting in the zone, preparing myself for the battle I’ll have tonight, since Gunpowder it’s the man behind me.
Swallowing, I try to suppress the unwelcome sting of possessiveness that twists around my rib cage. I know she and Colson have a history from the things she has shared on Instagram. I wasn’t here last season, but I know he would take her back to his hotel after events.
“I don’t want to have to track your asses down,” she finishes.
Synthia keeps talking as a warm breath glides across the shell of my ear. “You’d think she would’ve learned by now not to wear fucking six-inch heels in cowboy territory.” Colson’s whisper is husky and too sexy for this moment.
I eye Synthia up and down, taking in the number she chose for tonight: a floral-print wrap dress with stiletto-heeled brown boots.
Glancing over my shoulder at Colson, propped against the wall, I smirk, keeping my voice low. “Says the man who had those six-inch heels on his floor a few times last season. Or were you being a gentleman, letting her rest her feet in your bed?”
His lips tilt, the cocky look spreading liquid warmth between my thighs. “Are you jealous?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Don’t worry. You’ve ruined me for all other women. I prefer a dust bunny over a buckle bunny now.”
I chuckle and playfully roll my eyes at him, feeling his deep laugh roll off his chest. My skin crawls in unease when I glance over at the other side of the hallway and see Jax Bowman tucked beside some other riders, his scowl blinding under the shadow cast over his face from his hat as he watches Colson and me.
Quickly, I wipe my happy expression off my face and shift my attention back to Synthia as she hands off the next part of the conversation to the judges.
The next hour flies by in a blur.
The intro of all the competitors walking between the trail of fire.
The announcer’s voice booming over the speakers relaying the current standings.
The media, and Heather and Mark from Kickin’ Up Dust snagging me for pre-ride interviews.
Now, dirt, the tang of sweat, and anticipation flood the arena, the crowd rowdy and fired up as bulls are let out of the chute. My competitors hang on with every ounce of grit and determination they have, being this close to the end of the season, as these final points can make or break standings.
The exhilaration from my 89.5 first-round ride still flows in my veins.
My face is still hot and covered in a sheen of sweat, my body humming in anxiousness for the man and bull who are currently getting loaded into the chute.
My pulse is still racing chaotically, like my heart hasn’t gotten the hint that I’m done for tonight until the last two rounds tomorrow.
But in all honesty, I’m eager to watch Colson get out there and do what he does best.
From this angle, I have a view of the chute, the top half of Colson’s body visible on the platform as the crew prepares the bull.
Colson is adjusting his glove; his features hardened in focus. My fingers tighten around the rail, my body clinging to the fence for stability.
He may be in the second-place position right behind Jax Bowman, but even I know the points he collects this weekend could determine whether he and Jax stay neck and neck for that world champion title.
This could be Colson’s second consecutive win, and the old Harlow would be scolding me if she heard me say that I want him to walk away with the buckle.
If it’s not me, I want it to be him.
And the fact that both of our parents are in the stands tonight makes this evening that much better.
I knew Colson’s would be in the stands, but I was shocked when Mel arrived at my hotel room with two other people in tow.
Ever since my accident, my parents have watched each event live from the comfort of their living room, but seeing them show up shocked the hell out of me.
I hadn’t seen them since the holidays, and apparently, they were missing me and couldn’t watch me ride virtually any longer now that I am this close to the end.
“You need a bucket?”
The question catches me off guard, and I glance over at Dalton Carroll, standing next to me. A wispy lock of his blonde hair is secured to the sweat on his face. Like me, he is done riding for the night, but sadly, he didn’t last the eight seconds and failed to score.
“To sit?” I ask.
He shrugs, those blue eyes looking at me skeptically. “Or to throw up in. You look nervous right now.”
“Oh.” I wipe my sweaty palms on my chaps. “Yeah, I guess I am.”
Ever since I asked Brian to dance with me at the bar when I was sitting at the table with him and Dalton, I think they’ve known that something is going on between Colson and me—especially after we left the dance floor together, hand in hand, like we didn’t care who would see us.
There’s no doubt that some of our competitors are suspicious of us, some more than others. That thought was confirmed when Jax Bowman had his eyes trained on us during the earlier meeting. There was something almost threatening about the way he was looking at Colson and me.
But nothing has been said, and no questions have been asked, but as Brian leans forward on the other side of Dalton to pin me with a raised brow, it’s clear they know why I’m nervous.
Brian tries to contain his smirk, but it still bleeds through with his words. “Nervous because you want him to have a bad ride or nervous for another reason?”
Dalton laughs, bracing his elbows on the rail. “You can’t take your eyes off him.”
The lie tastes bitter on my tongue. “Yeah, because he’s my rival. I’m protecting myself and need to always know where he is so he can’t ambush me.”
“Ah, I see,” Dalton says cynically. He and Brian are sharing an amused look, like they are having a secret conversation they don’t want to clue me in on.
I furrow a brow. “What?”
“We aren’t buying your bullshit, Harlow,” Brian retorts. “You looked way too happy when Colson ambushed us on the dance floor at the bar. You ran into his arms so fast that I was left in your dust.”
I knit my arms over my chest. “That’s not true. I felt bad saying no to the guy when he asked me to dance. I didn’t want to hurt his ego.”
Brian gives me a wicked grin. “Is that why you left the bar with him, too?”
My eyes widen. “I … We—”
Dalton takes his phone out of his pocket, shaking his head at me. He starts to scroll through Instagram as I struggle for words.
Brian’s deep laugh heats my skin even more. “How much longer are you guys going to keep up with this?”
My voice trembles. “Keep up with what?”
“You clearly don’t hate each other anymore. Why keep up with acting like you do?”
The announcer’s deep, enthusiastic voice booms over the speaker, alerting us that Colson is about to be let out of the chute. At the same time, Dalton mutters a “fuck” under his breath at whatever is on his phone screen.
Between his curse of shock and Colson flying out of the chute on the back of his bull, both men fight for my focus.
I keep my gaze on the man dancing on the dirt with fury bucking between his thighs, my attention plastered to his form and the way he is tackling this ride with such ease and perfection that I can’t help but grip the rail harder as the seconds pass.
Out of the corner of my eye, Dalton holds out his phone to Brian. Whatever is on his screen is more entertaining than the beautiful battle for dominance happening on the dirt before us.
This is the most flawless ride I’ve seen Colson have, and I’m mesmerized by him.
The clock blares, alerting that he’s reached the eight seconds, and my excitement for him pours out of my body like the most natural thing in the world as I jump up and down, screaming in excitement as he is flung from the bull, getting tossed across the dirt before the bullfighters and Matt intervene to get the beast away from him.
“Uh, Harlow? You’re going to want to see this.” Brian’s deep, worried tenor pierces through my haze of excitement for Colson.
Settling back down from jumping, I blow out a relieved breath that Colson nailed this ride, but my heart is still smashing against my ribs.
Turning, I take in the two riders before me with shocked expressions on their faces.
They are alarmingly pale, both staring at me in a way that has my heart lurching into my throat.
They are peering at me the same way Mel looked at me when she told me Aaron died.
The expanse of Dalton’s throat moves as he holds out his phone to me. I take it, my eyes taking a moment to register the video in front of me.
Or more accurately, an Instagram post.
“I don’t think you and Colson are going to be able to act like you hate each other much longer,” Dalton says cautiously.
The blood that just rushed to my head flows south to pool below my feet as the video transports me back to one of the best nights of my life.
But instead, I’m watching it as a spectator as someone films Colson and me from a doorway down the hallway from us.
My eyes widen as I watch Colson’s hips thrust me up against my hotel room door with my legs wrapped around his waist. Our mouths lash against each other as our bodies grind and hands roam.
I turn up the volume to counteract the noise of the arena. It’s subtle and quiet from how far the person is from us, but I can still hear every word like it’s punctuated.
“While I’m opening this door, I want to feel your talented tongue against my neck before it’s gliding against my dick,” Colson says breathlessly.
“Yes, Coach,” I respond.
“Whether it’s riding a bull or my cock, you always listen to me so well.” And then his hands are grabbing my ass to pull my key card out of my jeans.
Tears burn behind my eyes as I take in the social media post. It already has a few hundred comments and thousands of likes, which means the view count …
Oh, God.
Frantically, I turn, my eyes darting around the space as I see other riders with their phones out, some showing the video to their peers, while others glare at me. Bile burns my throat as I lean over, unsteadily grabbing the rail. I think I need that bucket now.
“We all knew Colson Payne was an elite rider, but this score confirms it,” the announcer belts into the microphone. “A 96.25 is the highest score we’ve seen all season and a new personal best. Winning that third World Champion title might be in his future!”
The cheers in the arena are subtle, like a wave of shock that paralyzes the crowd. I instantly know it’s not because of his ride. I’d say I’m overthinking it, but I don’t think I am.
I look up through the fence, my watery eyes clashing with my rival. My coach. The man someone caught me with.
Colson’s gleeful expression after he had the ride of his life suddenly shifts to concern as he studies my face.
My blood evaporates from my body as Dalton’s question is muted in my ears, like he’s speaking to me underwater. “Is it true?”
“Has Colson been coaching you?” Brian clarifies.
I worry my bottom lip and nod.
There was so much going on in that video, and if they caught on to the one thing that could destroy our season, it’s only a matter of time before everyone else focuses on that part, too.
Our commissioner’s deep voice barks, “Harlow Hartt. I need you and Colson Payne in my suite. Now.”