Page 63 of Drifter’s Heart

WEST

Junk Yards and Training Hard

“Stay straight. Tall. Lean forward. No, not that much. Hand up. Up. Up, goddamn it. Wave it about like it’s your favorite thing in the world. Six, seven—fuck.”

I don’t even wince as Dustan hits the ground for the third time in as many rides. The lightweight bull prances away, particularly proud of himself, apparently, for giving us all hope before dumping his rider back where he started at the entrance to the training chute.

The area that Cord and Billy set up at the back of the main arena for tonight is perfect for training. There’s twenty minutes left on our slot and I intend to maximize every second. Slade is running as ringside clown for me, dressed in knee-length shorts and a bright, multicolored shirt.

“Here, bully, bully, bully,” Slade mutters under his breath, presenting his ass to Parental Suicide and wiggling it.

The poorly named bull ignores him and paws the sawdust, digging in while my clock expires.

“I don’t think either of those things is doing what you hope it is doing,” I call, pressing the heel of my boot into the metal railing. “All right. Dustan? Let’s try a few more rides before we run outta time today, okay?”

“Yeah. Gotcha, boss.” Dustan rubs the back of his head, and grit falls free from his hair.

Slade scoops Dustan’s hat out of the dirt-and-dust mix beneath his feet, tossing it to him as he herds the bull into the chute, a one-man army all on his own. I pull the door to the chute closed with a rope and cheer Dustan on.

“Good job, man. Get over here,” I call to my protégé. “Come on. People are going to arrive shortly. You need to be cleaned up; otherwise you’ll be doing the initial presentation with grit in your ass crack.”

“Been there before.” Dustan wiggles his ass at me, and suddenly I’m presented with two denim-clad butts, both waggling at me.

“Did you really expect anything less from this dick?” Trixie hauls herself up next to me and points at Slade. “Waggle faster!” she yells through cupped hands.

Slade dances for us, and the bull bangs his shorn horns on the chute in time with Trixie’s clapping.

“Good thing it’s the practice bull,” I say, throwing my clipboard onto the seats behind me as my practice round goes to hell. “Are we gonna get one more ride in, at least?”

“Yeah, we can do one more.” Dustan clambers up onto the rails and passes me his hat. I place it on top of mine in a stack that rains grit, but I don’t care. All that matters is that he practices and is safe.

“Come on. Concentrate. On the bull. That’s right. What?” I snap, then softening my tone when I realize the elbow in my ribs comes from Trixie.

“West. He knows what he’s doing. Let him think.” She rubs her shoulder against mine. “You were never this tough on Cordell.”

I manage a smile that feels alien on my face. “Cord nearly died, twice,” I mutter, knowing Dustan is listening.

“And neither of those times was your fault,” she reminds me. “Once was a freak accident. The other—” She shrugs. “That ain’t gonna never happen again here, cowboy. Every person on the Invitational crew is vetted by Slade there.” Something akin to pride laces her voice even though I know they’ll probably be at each other’s throats—or in each other’s bed—by the end of the night.

“Did he?” I look over at Slade, who’s stopped horsing around in order to help Dustan secure his seat. He’s talking quietly in Dustan’s ear, and the same calming effect passes to the bull as well. “Not bad,” I approve.

Trixie’s bump isn’t quite as aggressive this time. “Is that a compliment, Mister West?” She feigns shock.

I snort, looking over at Trix with her raised eyebrows and backed-off stance. Okay, maybe it’s not so fake. “Get off the railing. Don’t you have your own practice to do?” I berate her lightly.

“Done and dusted. My ride is in the bag.” She hops off my rail and steps back, her arms folded and chin up. “I’m here to provide moral support only, cowboy.”

“You’re here to annoy fuck outta that man, Trix. Don’t you pretend any different.” I grin and turn my attention back to Dustan. “How are you feeling?”

He takes his time, not jumping to answer me like he has the last few times. “I’m feeling good.”

“All right, then.” I get the nod from Slade, who sits back but doesn’t take his eyes off my boy. “I’m gonna count you in and open the chute. Three, two⁠—”

I pull the rope. The chute opens. The bull rips out of the small metal enclosure, and it’s decided that this round is its Kodak moment.

Pity it’s not in front of the crowd. I don’t need to count the next eight seconds out. I don’t need to breathe with Dustan. I know he’s made it before my timer goes off.

So does he.