Chapter One
There was nothing like live porn.
Chase McKay rested his shoulders against the cheap headboard, taking a long pull off his beer as he settled in for the show.
The naked blonde with the huge rack balanced on her knees, head thrown back as the naked brunette, with an equally impressive set of double D’s, feasted noisily on her nipples. When the blonde—Lanae, or was it Renee?—grabbed the brunette’s head, trying to force her to take more of her nipple into her mouth, the brunette—Leah, or was it Gia?—smacked her ass.
“Rhea,” the blonde whimpered, “that hurt.”
So the brunette was Rhea. Check.
Rhea fisted her hand in the blonde’s mane, gaining her full attention. “Every time you touch me without permission, I’ll stop what I’m doing, Janae. Understand?”
Ah, so that made the blonde Janae.
And people said he was bad with names.
Janae’s nod of assent earned her a reward from Rhea. A kiss. A deep, openmouthed kiss, with lots of glimpses of flashing pink tongues and feminine moans.
Damn. That was freakin’ hot.
But not as hot as watching Rhea’s hand gliding down the center of Janae’s body.
Chase’s dick stirred—a happy surprise as he’d already received the duo’s oral worship. Talk about a tandem effort—French kissing with the head of his cock between their warring tongues and lips. Then Janae jacked his shaft while Rhea’s hungry mouth milked him to orgasm, but Rhea didn’t swallow. He watched, panting and wide-eyed as Rhea kissed Janae, sharing his come with her.
Yeah, that’d been something new for him. But not for them apparently.
“We’ve been selfish,” Janae cooed, adding a husky, “your turn.”
As he sank into a blissful place where embarrassing buck-off times were a bad memory, and two sets of soft, talented hands caressed him, he heard the door open and then slam into the wall.
“Chase? Honey? Are you okay? I’ve been so worried…” A gasp. Then another. Louder. More horrified and theatrical than the first. “And to think I came here because…” The length and pitch of her sobs escalated.
Fucking awesome.
“What in God’s name is going on here?” boomed an outraged male voice.
Chase’s impassive gaze zoomed from Sheree Bishop—her triumphant eyes filled with crocodile tears—to her father, Lou Bishop, then to Winnie, his PBR publicist, and Elroy, his PBR liaison.
Hail! Hail! The gang’s all fucking here.
“How did you get a goddammed key to my room?” Chase demanded.
“See, Daddy? He isn’t even the least bit sorry for being caught red-handed with…” Sheree gasped dramatically. “Are there two of you?”
Janae waggled her fingers at Sheree as Rhea said, “Hey. What’s up?”
Chase might’ve laughed if he wasn’t so incensed.
Sheree burst into tears.
Lou Bishop patted his daughter’s heaving back as she fell into a fit of hysterics. “I’ve heard rumors about you, McKay. And you’ve outdone yourself this time.” Lou glared at Elroy. “The PBR condones this behavior from riders?”
“No,” Elroy assured him, “but I think we all oughta take a deep breath and a big step back—”
“Yeah, feel free to take a big step right the hell outta my room,” Chase snapped.
Lou stabbed his sausage-shaped finger at Chase. “Don’t think I won’t knock you on your ass, punk, for your smart mouth and for what you’ve done to my Sheree.”
The absurdity of this situation was the only thing stopping Chase from leaping out of bed and laying Lou Bishop out cold.
“Daddy, please,” Sheree sniffled. “Let’s just go.” In a calculated move that so perfectly defined the type of manipulation Sheree Bishop specialized in, she yanked a ring from her finger and threw it at him. “You can have this back, Chase McKay. We’re done. For good.” Wailing, she ran out, Winnie close on her heels.
Lou’s fury pulsed through the room. Without taking his burning gaze away from Chase, he spoke to Elroy. “I want this handled. Tonight. You know what’s at stake.” After aiming one more death glare at Chase, he lumbered after his daughter.
Trying to remain calm, Chase picked up the ring and slid it to the first knuckle of his pinkie finger.
“McKay.”
He glanced up at Elroy.
“Meet me in the parking lot. After you put on some clothes.” Elroy glared at the women who were hurriedly getting dressed. “Alone.”
Chase let his head fall back against the cheap headboard after the door slammed. “Fuck.” This was the last thing he’d needed tonight. He never should’ve gotten mixed up with Sheree Bishop.
Or maybe you shouldn’t have comforted yourself about your disappointing buck-off time by instigating a threesome.
Probably true. But it pissed him off that Elroy and his publicist had just burst in on him, like he was some delinquent kid who needed constant supervision. What he did off the dirt was nobody’s business but his. No matter who they were.
Chase slid his jeans up his naked flanks. Zipped, buttoned and buckled, he reached for his shirt. “You ladies goin’ someplace?”
“Don’t you want us to go?” Janae said.
“Maybe they did, but I sure as hell don’t.”
“That woman wasn’t your wife…or something?”
“Not even close.” He jammed his feet in his boots without socks—God he hated that—and snagged his hat off the nightstand. “I’ll be back.”
“Promise?” they cooed in unison.
“Oh yeah.” He ran his fingertip up the inside of Rhea’s left arm, mirroring the motion on Janae’s right arm. “I’m sure you two can find interesting ways to entertain yourselves while I’m gone.”
Snagging a keycard from the dresser, he slipped into the humid night. The parking lot was nearly empty. He’d chosen this motel for its off-the-beaten-path location, which made him wonder if Sheree had planted a tracking device in his truck. He wouldn’t put it past the psychotic broad.
Chase stopped ten feet from where Elroy paced in front of a big semi emblazoned with the PBR merchandise logo.
“No, sir. It’s an extreme solution.” Elroy gestured wildly. “Because sponsors shouldn’t have that kind of power—” He hung his head. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t do it. I said I didn’t agree that it needed to be done at all. Fine. Your call.” He poked a button and let the phone dangle by his side.
Chase ambled across the asphalt. “Getting your ass chewed by the big boss?”
“Jesus, McKay. Ya think?” Elroy rubbed the skin between his eyebrows. “I can’t fix this for you. Lou Bishop is threatening to pull every penny of PBR sponsorship money if we don’t take action against you.”
“What kind of action?”
“Lou wants you suspended from competition.”
Chase’s blood boiled. “I’m getting suspended because Lou Bishop barged into my private room and didn’t like that he’d caught me in bed with two women?”
“Neither of the women in question was his daughter.”
“So the fuck what? I’m not with Sheree.”
Elroy cocked his head. “Does Sheree know that?”
“What the hell kinda question is that?”
“FYI, McKay, Sheree’s been blabbing to every bull riding mag and pro rodeo blog that you two are practically engaged.”
He never read those magazines. It pissed him off that some “expert” asshole gave commentary about how to improve a specific bull rider’s riding percentage. Yeah, Chase had an idea how to improve too—stay on the damn bull for the full eight seconds. “That’s bullshit.”
“So why’d s
he throw the ring at you?”
“I have no idea.” He held up his pinkie. “You think I gave her this ring? I’ve never given a woman a piece of jewelry in my life.” Chase tossed the ring to the ground and pulverized the cheap piece of shit beneath his boot heel. “Besides, no one believes her.”
“Her father believes her. That’s our biggest problem.”
Chase froze. Our. Not his.
Elroy started pacing. “I told you not to get mixed up with her, Chase. Told you not to take her to dinner. Told you not to encourage her. Told you whatever you do—don’t sleep with her. But did you listen? No. Women like Sheree get what they want. Period. For some reason, she set her sights on getting you.”
“Since she can’t have me, she causes a scene with Daddy as a witness to get me tossed off the tour.” He hadn’t a clue a total lunatic lurked beneath the surface of polished Sheree Bishop, former Miss Rodeo USA. Sheree was on the hunt for a husband—a bull rider husband. His biggest mistake was ignoring her, believing she’d switch her affections to another rider once she got wind of his extracurricular sexual activities. But Sheree’s determination had only increased.
“So this incident, coupled with the one in Lubbock last week…”
His thoughts rolled back to his last PBR performance. He’d bucked off at two point four seconds and decided to drown his sorrows at a local honky-tonk. Some dumbass redneck made a remark about the superiority of Texas bull riders. Given Chase’s shitty mood and four shots of Chivas, he let loose on Texas cowboys being soft, jeering they wouldn’t last a single winter day in the real West. Then he added a crack about butt-ugly Texas longhorn cattle not being good for nothing but trophy heads. Two Texas guys took offense. They dragged him outside, puffed up with Lone Star pride, intent on teaching a Wyoming sheep fucker a lesson.
Chase beat the living shit out of them.
Three other guys jumped in the fray. When Chase got control of his rage, five men were moaning in the dirt, mopping blood from their bruised faces, and he was still standing. Wobbling a little, but still standing.
Until the cops tackled him, cuffed him and threatened to arrest him for assault. But ten minutes later they released him, because not a single man came forward to press charges. They all claimed to be too drunk to remember who’d taken the first swing.
But the truth was no man wanted to admit that five-foot-seven-inch Chase McKay had taken on five Texas tough guys, all who topped the six foot mark…and won.
Luckily no one had uploaded streaming video to YouTube of PBR bad boy Chase McKay busting heads. But his ass smarted after Elroy ripped him a new one the following day.
And it was more of the same tonight.
Elroy said, “This attitude isn’t helping you. And we both know this situation has been building for a while, because you, my friend, like to fight and fuck. Not necessarily in that order.”
Through the haze of anger, he demanded, “How’d you guys get a key to my room anyway?”
“Sheree told the manager you were despondent about your bad ride and she feared you’d do something drastic like kill yourself.”
“Bitch thought of everything, didn’t she?” he muttered. “I get why the big bosses would be upset by what happened in Lubbock. I screwed up. In public. But tonight? I was in my private room. If Sheree lies believably enough to break in there, why wouldn’t Lou suspect she was lying when she told him we were practically engaged?”
“No clue. But it changes nothing.” Elroy sighed. “Bottom line: you’re off the tour.”
Fury lit his insides and Chase got right in Elroy’s face. “This is bullshit and you know it. I have fans. Those fans bring revenue to the PBR. And what do you plan to tell the blogs and trade mags about my abrupt disappearance? Because if this ‘incident’ is presented to the public as I’m a discipline problem, then I’ll fire right back about nepotism with the PBR’s newest Daddy Warbucks corporate sponsor.”
“First off, you signed a shitload of nondisclosure forms. Even if you’re pissed—and between us, yes, you have a right to be—you can’t violate the terms of the contracts. This is short term, Chase. Does this suck? Absolutely. That’s why the PR arm will release news of a recurrence of your previous injury, which is a perfect excuse for why you rode so shitty tonight after being last year’s defending champion. Fans should be happy to know you are recuperating until you’re ready to ride again.”
The PR spin machine thought of everything. “Tell me Winnie ain’t gonna be involved in issuing the statement.” He’d been taunting Winnie, his assigned PR person, for the last year. The woman was too sharp, and saw right through his bullshit attempts to rattle and distract her. Plus, her comments, always softly spoken, grated on him, mostly because she was dead-on in her assessments. And he hated she saw things about him that he tried to hide from everyone else.
“Look at it this way. The PBR goes on hiatus for two months. So you’re really only missing three performances instead of eleven.”
Chase didn’t exactly relax, but he realized if he was going to fuck up, he’d picked an ideal time to do it—because he might actually have a chance to fix it. “Can you guarantee I’ll be on the roster come August?”
Elroy gave him a considering look. “Two things you need to do before I’ll consider recommending you for reinstatement.”
“Name them.”
“Stay out of the damn spotlight. I don’t wanna hear about you, I don’t wanna read about you in the trade mags or see your naked ass on YouTube. No interviews, no drunken brawls, no excess of easy women, no Chase McKay sightings anywhere. You vanish. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.” Chase exhaled the breath he hadn’t been aware of holding. “What else?”
“In the meantime…try to remember how to ride a damn bull, okay? Practice, relearn, do whatever the hell it takes to get back to the professional level where you belong. Give me your word that you’ll figure out what you’ve been doin’ wrong and try and fix it.”
Jesus. That fucking stung. He said, “You have my word, Elroy,” and wondered how he was supposed to relearn something he’d been doing for over a decade.
“You do those two things. Prove to me you can do them and I’ll push for you to get back in as soon as the season restarts.”
Chase didn’t bother mentioning the break would put him out of contention for the world title this year because he wasn’t even close to contention. In fact, if he didn’t get his shit together, he’d soon be off the PBR tour altogether.
Helluva mess you got yourself in, McKay.
“Try to behave, and I’ll be in touch,” Elroy said.
With nothing left to say, Chase started across the parking lot toward the motel. Lost in thought, he almost bumped into Winnie when she slithered from the shadows.
She blocked him like a sentry, arms crossed over her flat chest, her eyes strangely defiant behind glasses.
“You stick around to gloat?” he taunted.
Winnie sighed. “No, I don’t enjoy this, but it’s necessary to speak my piece while I have the chance.”
“So go ahead and tell me I’m the Antichrist.”
“There you go, putting words in my mouth.” She held up her hand to stop his rebuttal. “And I don’t need to hear for the umpteenth time that you’d rather put something else in my mouth.”
“You’ve got me pegged, down to knowing exactly what I’m gonna say?”
“Yes. You aren’t all that complex, Chase.”
Low blow. “You calling me a simpleton?”
“Three things matter to you. Bull riding, sex and Chase McKay. That seems pretty simple to me.”
“Bullshit,” he spat.
“I understand athletes at the top of their game are self-centered. Privileged. I worked with a pro baseball team before I joined the PBR staff.” Winnie sneered at him. “Betcha didn’t know that. Know why? Because you didn’t bother to ask. I never expected us to become BFFs, but I deserved your cooperation. I deserved your faith that I knew how to do m
y job just as well as you did yours. I deserved your respect. Whenever you called me—”
“Sugar tits?” he supplied.
“Nothing about you calling me sugar tits is considered remotely respectable,” she snapped. “You know exactly where to strike to make me feel small, but that doesn’t make you a big man, Chase McKay.”
A flush rose up his neck. It’d been an assholish thing to say and he had no excuse for it, besides lashing out from sheer frustration. Before he could buck up and apologize to her for a change, Winnie lit into him.
“But here’s the thing: It’s my job to know all about you. Because of your natural riding talent early on, everyone in your ranching family cut you slack, believing you were destined for great things, and you accepted it as your due. Maybe you did work hard initially at being the best bull rider around, but I’ve seen none of that drive in the last year. Now you make excuses for your piss-poor riding averages.”
She ticked off the reasons on her fingers. “It has to be the organization that’s holding you back. Or the shitty bulls. Or the sponsorship commitments. Couldn’t be that you’ve become a slacker. Resting on your previous laurels. Using charm and your good looks to keep your sponsorships rather than utilizing the talent that should keep you at the top of the standings.”
“The PBR ain’t the only game in town,” he reminded her.
Winnie laughed. “Don’t think the PBR isn’t aware that you spoke to the PRCA folks about jumping circuits. We didn’t address it because, given how you’ve been riding? Chances were high the situation would resolve itself and you’d get kicked off the PBR tour anyway.”
Chase fumed but kept his mouth shut as another layer of harsh reality settled in.
“I tried to get you on track. Suggesting you focus on improving your average by going back to basics. By keeping distractions during the season to a minimum. And by distractions, yes, I meant women. You don’t need me to tell you how good looking you are. But I’ll point out that even the homeliest riders in the PBR are highly sought after. Those types of women want the thrill of riding a man who rides a bull. They dream of being the wives in the stands the cameras pan to when you get a hoof to the gut. They’re star-fuckers. It’s less about you personally than about the fact that you’re on TV every week. Or you’re talked about incessantly on the fan sites. Or your career is dissected in the trade mags. Oh, and let’s not forget the potential for the top riders to make over a million bucks in a single season. That’s mighty appealing to a woman who just has to show a little cleavage to garner your attention.”
Chasin' Eight: Rough Riders, Book 12 Page 1