Page 110 of Ride or Die

Eight seconds for ten grand.

Everything else is just noise. None of it matters. Not the crowd. Not the announcer. Not the music. Not the rattling steel of the chute. Just me and Hateful Dread.

Eight seconds. Eightfuckingseconds.

I sit low over the bull’s shoulders, gloved hand wrapped around the rope so tight my fingers ache. Hateful Dread shifts beneath me, eighteen-hundred pounds of pure muscle and animosity packed into a living earthquake. His hide twitches under my legs. Every movement feels loaded, like a bomb counting down, ready to go off.

The chute vibrates as he slams into the steel causing the entire structure to shudder violently again.

Someone outside yells something but I don’t hear the words.

My eyes drift automatically toward the stands. Toward Clara. I spot her instantly. Pink sundress, honey hair bright beneath the glow of the setting sun. Billie sitting on her lap, bouncing up and down excitedly. Tommy sitting beside her, trying to look tougher than a ten year old has any right to.

They’re smiling. Watching me. And fuck I love having them here. But my stomach knots because I can’t stop looking beyond them. Scanning, searching every crowd for a shadow that looks like someone who don’t belong, who shouldn’t be here. A baseball cap pulled too low. A man standing too still. A face disappearing behind another. I’ve had this same feeling all week because I know he’s here. He’s close. Watching. Waiting.

My heart hammers harder in my chest, but not from the bull or what I know is about to happen the second the gate opens, but because Clara doesn’t know. She doesn’t know how close to danger she might be, and fuck, I hate lyin’ to her.

The flank strap is tightened and Hateful Dread explodes, thrashing against the gate again. The steel rattles and the crowd roars.

“Come on, Cole!”

Tommy’s voice somehow manages to cut through everything and I smile despite myself. But then my smile disappears because another voice cuts through, echoing around my skull.

The doctor.

One more bad concussion, and you may not recover fully.

You need to stop.

I tighten my grip. Not today. Not when I’m this close. Everything I’ve worked for. Everything I’ve bled for. I can almost taste it.

“You ready, Cole?” the chute boss asks.

No. Not even close. I never am. But I nod anyway and less than a second later the gate swings open and all hell breaks loose.

Hateful Dread launches forward like he’s been fired from a cannon, the first jump nearly tearing my arm clear from its socket.

I snap forward. Back. Forward. The world around me blurs, pure chaos mixed with unrestrained violence.

He bucks high, causing my teeth to smash together.

He twists left like I suspected he might, I counter.

He spins right, and the arena disappears into streaks of color, the crowd noise becoming one deafening scream.

I don’t think. I react. Years of riding taking over my instincts, hips moving, arm swinging, legs squeezing. Every single muscle firing off at once.

Hateful Dread is one pissed off motherfucker. He’s trying to kill me. I feel it in the way he changes. He’s meaner, bigger, more unpredictable. He launches upward and twists midair and the force whips my head sideways causing white light to flash behind my eyes. Pain shoots through me—sharp and instant—like a warning.

My stomach drops. Not now. Stay on. Dammit, stay the fuck on.

The doc’s voice is gone. Clara’s face flashes through my head. Billie’s giggle, Tommy’s knowing grin. And suddenly it hits me. The possibility of waking up one day unable to remember any of them. The possibility of never waking up at all. It’s like a sucker punch and it hits hard. Before, I had nothing to lose. Now, I have everything to lose.

For a half-second I want off. I want my boots on the ground. I want to be sitting on the other side of the fence. I want a normal life. I want a life. But then Hateful Dread bucks again, and survival is my only option. I need to last.

The crowd is chanting my name. I hear it. I feel it.

The bull spins so violently, my body is almost perpendicular to the ground, my free hand skimming the dirt. My balance falters and everything slows. This is how riders die. One mistake. One inch too far. One heartbeat. I can feel myself start to slip, but the instinct and possibly something else saves me, and I shift my hips and find my center, recovering at the last millisecond.