by Joanna Wylde
On the far side of him, all the club people were laughing and talking and cheering. We were quiet. I don’t know about him, but I was scared to say the wrong thing, to break this weird spell that had fallen over us . . . so I sat back to watch the roping and the barrel racing, savoring every second in his presence. Didn’t hurt that the side of Painter’s leg pressed against the side of mine, every inch of it hot and hard and so close I could’ve just reached out and dug my fingers in deep, if I’d had the nerve. Somehow I managed to hold off—I’d already humiliated myself once in the last twenty-four hours.
Still, when Painter wrapped his arm around me, I told myself that I might as well enjoy it, seeing as it’d gotten dark and was starting to get cold. (Okay, so it was at least eighty-five degrees and I was sweltering, but what’s a woman to do under those kinds of circumstances?)
The rodeo was winding down when his fingers started moving across my shoulder. I could smell him all around me—male sweat, which was weirdly sexy. Leather from his cut. A hint of beer, although not too much. He’d only had a couple over the course of the night.
I wanted to lean over and sniff his neck like a creeper.
The Devil’s Jacks and Reapers who’d come with us had gotten louder with time, although not so much that they were obnoxious. I’d seen the way people shied away from us, though. I understood why, too. I still remembered how I’d felt the first time I’d seen London with Reese—he’d looked like a monster to me. Then the monster had taken me in and given me a home, so I guess I couldn’t exactly point fingers.
My head had fallen to Painter’s shoulder, and I found myself drifting as he continued to rub my arm. Somehow along the way, my hand fell to his thigh despite my best intentions. I wasn’t feeling him up, exactly, but I was definitely feeling him. Strong, thick muscles tensed beneath my touch. And I do mean tensed—he wasn’t relaxed at all. Not even a little. Painter was all coiled strength and power just waiting to break free in a burst of violence or . . . something. Best not to think about that.
God, but I wanted him.
By the time the bull riding started, I’d fallen into a Painter-induced haze. I watched lazily as big Dodge Ram trucks pulled out into the arena to drop off the barrel for the rodeo clown.
“Ladies and gentlemen, now is the time you’ve all been waiting for—does anyone like bull riding?” asked the announcer.
The crowd went crazy, cheering as loud music poured through the speakers.
“We always save the best for last here at the North Idaho Rodeo, and tonight you’ll see ten men brave the most dangerous eight seconds in all of sports. First up is James Lynch, all the way from Weezer, Idaho. This is his third year on the circuit, and he’s looking to take home a prize tonight. Feel like giving him a little encouragement?”
All around us, people shouted again as the music got louder. I sat up a little straighter, watching as two men came out to stand on either side of a gate against the back fence, loose-limbed and ready for action. One of them looked almost familiar, although it was hard to tell from so far away. Seconds later the gate opened, and the bull exploded out. Lynch held on tight to the ropes, one hand held high in the air as the massive animal tried to buck him off. I found myself forgetting to breathe as eight of the longest seconds in history ticked slowly by, counting down on the big display board.
He’d almost made it when the bull twisted, and then he was flying through the air. One of the men who’d been flanking the gate darted in between the bull and the fallen rider, using his body to distract the beast. The other grabbed the cowboy, pulling him to his feet.
Holy shit.
Lynch ran for the fence, jumping up against the metal bars as men waiting on the other side pulled him over. Riders raced into the arena toward the bull, chasing it toward the far gate.
The whole thing had taken maybe twenty seconds, tops.
“Better luck next time, James,” the announcer said. “Now let’s take a moment to put our hands together for our bullfighters this evening, folks. You saw them in action just now—these athletes have a tough job out here, because it’s up to them to protect our cowboys once they hit the dirt. They do it the hard way, too. Tonight is a special night for one of them . . . He’s playing for his hometown crowd for the first time this weekend. Chase McKinney is a Coeur d’Alene boy, born and raised right here in this community. Chase, how does it feel to be here tonight?”
Around me people exploded in excitement as one of the bullfighters raised a hand, waving at the grandstands before giving a thumbs-up toward the announcer. No wonder he looked familiar—he’d been a few years ahead of me in high school. Not that I really knew him, but I’d seen him around. Pretty sure he’d been a senior when I was a freshman . . . Past Painter, I saw both Em and Kit on their feet, hooting and shouting like crazed monkeys.
“Next up is Gordo Gallagher, an experienced bullrider down from Calgary, Alberta,” continued the announcer as Chase moved back toward the gate. “He’s looking for points and prize money, and it’d sure be nice if he could go home with both. Give him a warm North Idaho welcome!”
We all cheered again, and then I watched as one bullrider after the next tried to hold on for the full time period. Only about half of them made it, which meant the bullfighters were busy. Over and over, they jumped between the bulls and their riders, protecting the cowboys with their bodies. Why the hell would someone do that to themselves on purpose?
Craziness.
Of course, I was going a little crazy myself as Painter ran his fingers across my shoulders and down my arms, all the while pressing his leg against mine. By the final ride of the night, I’d fallen into a warm haze of desire that just wouldn’t go away.
“Ladies and gentlemen, let’s put our hands together for Cary Hull,” said the announcer. “We’ve saved the best for last, as Cary was our top prize winner during last year’s rodeo. From there he went on to become a circuit finalist. He’s been patiently waiting all evening to show you what he’s got.”
Down in the arena, Hull had climbed up and over the chute, ready to drop onto the bull for his ride. Then the horn sounded and the pair burst out into the center of the arena.
At first I didn’t realize anything was wrong—bulls are supposed to buck at a rodeo. But this one seemed wilder, crazier than any of the others. I mean, his eyes weren’t literally glowing red—no ominous chanting—but that thing was scary. The cowboy was holding on for his life, flanked on either side by Chase and the other bullfighter, light on their feet as they tried to anticipate the beast’s next move.
That’s when things fell to shit.
Without warning, the bull bucked higher than I’d ever seen. So high it hardly seemed real. The rider’s body flew free, turning through the air above him. That’s when he should’ve launched off but he didn’t. The bull bucked again, and this time the cowboy flopped along the side of him, which seemed to piss him off even more.
Up to that point, I’d assumed that Hull was holding on out of sheer stubborn badassery. Now I could see he was caught, flopping helplessly as the bull tried to kill him. The crowd fell silent as the monster bucked backward—higher this time—shying away from the fighters desperately flanking him. Chase ran along the side, trying to reach the rider while his partner distracted the animal.
It didn’t work.
In an instant, the bull spun to charge Chase. As the beast lowered its head for a killing blow, Chase reached out and caught its horns, throwing himself up and over its back in a move I couldn’t quite believe was humanly possible. He hit the animal hard—sideways across the ridge of its spine—somehow catching the rope holding the cowboy prisoner. We all watched, horrified, as the beast bucked again.
Hull broke free, bouncing as he hit the ground.
Enraged, the bull flew up and backward, twisting midair to land heavily on its side.
Right on top of Chase.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The bullfighter was dead.
He had to be dead�
�no human could possibly survive something like that.
We watched in horror and shock as the bull struggled to its feet, then turned on him, lying still in the dirt. In an instant, the other bullfighter darted between them, catching the beast’s attention. The big head swiveled as the man took off across the arena, mere feet ahead of the deadly horns, leaping high as he hit the metal barrier. Hands reached out to catch him, jerking him up and over the side.
He’d distracted the monster, but only for an instant. Now it turned back toward Chase’s limp body, snorting and stomping. The crowd grew silent, and directly below me a mother pulled a toddler into her lap, forcing his head into her chest so he wouldn’t see. If by some miracle Chase had survived the first attack, there was no way he’d get through this one.
That’s when the rodeo clown leapt into action.
For most of the evening, he’d been working the crowd with the announcer, joking and doing tricks between events, flirting with the girls and generally making a nuisance of himself. Now the clown was deadly serious despite his bright, floppy clothes and the paint covering his face. He sprinted at the bull, flapping and shouting, taunting it until it turned toward him.
Toward him, but away from Chase.
The bull charged, and now the clown was off again, leading the beast into the center of the arena. He reached the barrel and jumped into it seconds before the bull thundered into it with a bellow, sending the barrel rolling. Then riders tore by, chasing the bull away from the trapped clown. The bull tried to turn back, but no matter what direction he went, the cowboys were waiting.
I focused on Chase, lying on the ground, limp and still. Beyond him was Hull, rolling in obvious agony, but clearly very much alive. EMTs were running out onto the dirt now, as the riders formed a living wall between the animal and its victims. They herded the bull toward the far end of the arena, where a gate swung open, creating a safe path. It charged through and I hoped to hell they were ready for it back there—enough people had been injured already. Then an ambulance pulled in from the other side, and the announcer’s voice came over the loudspeaker.
“Ladies and gentlemen, that was our final ride of the night. Normally we’d announce winners and hand out the prizes, but the North Idaho Rodeo officials have decided that under the circumstances, it’s best to end the event at this time. I’ve been told that fair organizers will announce updates on Chase McKinney’s condition as they’re available. We’ll be clearing the arena shortly. Until then, please keep all our rodeo athletes in your thoughts and prayers.”
I watched silently as the EMTs worked over Chase. Hull was already strapped to a backboard and they were lifting him into an ambulance. Unlike the bullfighter, he was clearly alive and aware of what was going on around him. Painter shifted next to me, and I realized I’d burrowed against him, digging my fingernails into his thigh.
“Sorry,” I whispered, loosening my grip. I gave his leg a little rub to make it feel better. His hand caught mine, stilling it—shit, I’d been all but massaging him just inches away from his dick. Classy.
“Do you think he’ll live?” I asked Painter quietly. He squeezed me tighter.
“Dunno,” he said. “Guess we’ll have wait and see.”
“Ladies and gentlemen, we’d ask that you leave now. Normally I’d say I hope you enjoyed the show, but instead I’ll ask you again to keep Chase and his family in your prayers. God bless each and every one of you, and God bless the cowboys and cowgirls who came out tonight.”
• • •
It took about forty-five minutes to make our way out of the grandstands and back to the bikes. The crowds were quiet for the most part. Em and Kit held each other’s hands tight, whispering to each other as they checked their phones.
When we finally made our way out of the stands and into the main fairgrounds, Hunter came up to me and Painter, the two men staring each other down. For a minute I was worried, because there was obvious tension between them.
“You’ll get her home?” Hunter finally asked Painter, nodding toward me. “She rode here with Taz, but I think he’s giving Jessica a ride. Em and Kit want to go to the hospital—I guess there’s going to be a candlelight vigil. Em says she didn’t know him well, but he went to school with Kit and she’s pretty upset.”
“I’ve got her,” Painter said, squeezing my hand. “You headed to the hospital, too?”
Hunter nodded tightly, glancing toward Kit with a frown. “Gonna be a long night, I think.”
I shivered, thinking about Chase lying in the dust. I’d seen him around school, but couldn’t remember ever talking to him.
“Yeah,” Painter agreed. “Get going—I’ll make sure Mel is okay. No worries, okay?”
Hunter nodded, eyes flicking across me as he turned back to Em and her sister. “Sure thing.”
I watched him walk away, leaning in close to Painter.
“Do you want to go to the vigil, too?” he asked. I considered the question.
“No,” I said finally. “It would feel fake. I didn’t really know him . . . But I definitely want to get away from here. There’s too many people here who didn’t see the rodeo, and they’re all having fun and going on rides. It doesn’t feel right.”
“Let’s say good-bye, then.”
He kept hold of my hand while we made the rounds of his club brothers and their old ladies, almost like we were a real couple. It should’ve felt awkward, but it didn’t. Jess was clinging to Taz, whispering to him quietly. When I hugged her good-bye, she whispered in my ear, “Okay if I bring him to the house tonight?”
Wasn’t sure how I felt about that—of course, she had every right to bring someone home. I just hoped she wasn’t doing something stupid.
“You sure?” I whispered back. “I thought you were happy just keeping things simple.”
“I don’t want to be alone right now,” she replied, squeezing me tight. Yeah, I could understand that. Too bad I didn’t have anyone interested in going home with me.
• • •
I kept my arms wrapped tight around Painter as we rode back downtown. He smelled good and he felt good . . . safe, somehow. Under normal circumstances, I’d be all over him, but right now I was too busy picturing Chase’s limp body in the dirt—would he live?
I’d never seen anyone die before.
We turned down my street and I braced myself to say good night. I had no idea where we stood or even whether I’d see Painter again. Had tonight changed things? Obviously he wasn’t pretending we weren’t friends anymore . . . but exactly what were we supposed to be?
Then I saw Taz’s bike parked in front of the house. Of all nights for Jess to abandon her celibate streak, why now? I needed to talk to someone and she was unavailable . . . Painter rolled to a stop, and I’d started to swing my leg over the bike when he put a hand on my thigh.
“Taz gonna be there for a while?” he asked, his voice low and quiet.
“Yeah, Jess said she’d invited him to stay over,” I replied, feeling uncomfortable. He frowned.
“Feel like a ride? I’m not ready to call it a night.”
“That sounds really good,” I whispered. Maybe I wasn’t the only one who didn’t want to be alone.
“Hold on,” he said. “It’s a beautiful night, despite what happened. We should try to make the best of it.”
• • •
We headed south, down toward Moscow and then turned off at Plummer to ride around the south end of the lake. I had no idea how late it was when he slowed the bike and pulled into a gravel parking lot surrounded by trees. The big Harley’s engine died, leaving us alone with the soft chirping of crickets and frogs.
“You wanna go down to the water?” he asked. “It’s right through the trees.”
“Sure.”
I slipped off the bike, and we walked down a grassy slope to a long, sandy beach nestled among the trees. The moon shined bright, painting a trail of silver across the lake’s gentle waves. Here and there, dark shapes broke the water.
Took me a minute to figure out what they were—floating logs.
“You want to sit for a while, watch the stars?” Painter asked. I looked around, spotting a patch of grass sloping down toward the sand that seemed perfect.
“How about there?” I asked him. Silently we settled ourselves, close to each other without touching—I could feel him, though. Feel his heat and his presence and the unbreakable tension that ran between us all the time, whether we chose to acknowledge it or not. “I’ve never seen anything like that. I don’t see how a person can live through a bull jumping on them.”
He didn’t answer for a minute. “People can live through a hell of a lot. Didn’t look promising, though.”
There wasn’t much emotion in his voice, which threw me. My mind was swimming, images from the rodeo running through my head over and over again. I’d assumed Painter was as upset as I was . . . that maybe he needed to talk, too.
“You aren’t bothered by it?” I asked, my voice soft.
“I’ve seen a lot of shit, some of it not so good. I don’t take it lightly and I don’t enjoy seeing a man suffer, but you can’t afford to get involved emotionally.”
“You mean, in prison?”
“Yeah,” he said after a minute. “In prison.”
Neither of us spoke for a moment. I stared up at the stars, watching as a satellite blinked its way across the sky.
“And in the club,” he added softly. “Bad shit happens there, too. Although so far nobody’s started dropping bulls on their enemies.”
The words caught me off guard, and a little giggle burst through. I bit my cheek, feeling awful. “I can’t believe I laughed at that.”
“It’s okay—you have to laugh when things fall apart. Otherwise you’ll go crazy. Better not to think about it too much, at least that’s how I do it.”
Rolling over, I leaned up on my elbow to stare at him.
“So you just turn off your brain when something bothers you?” I asked, studying his face in the moonlight. His features were softened by the shadows, leaving him handsome but less intimidating than usual. He met my gaze, giving away nothing. “That must be nice—wish I could do that. Sometimes I lie awake in bed for hours, wondering why my mom took off and left me.”