Page 18 of Lost Trust

I blink again. “You run into me for the first time in years, find me crying over my collapsing life, and your solution is … a wedding. In Wyoming. This weekend.”

He nods. “It’s going to be a blast.”

Royce

The automatic doors slide open, and Texas smacks me in the face.

Warm. Thick. Humid enough to make the hangover I’ve been keeping at bay all morning surge back to life.

Yeah, I need water. A gallon of it. And fast.

I suck in a breath and roll my shoulders as I step outside the hotel, dragging my carry-on behind me.

My left shoulder screams in protest.

I stop dead. “Son of a—” I clamp my mouth shut before the rest comes out.

Jovie glances back at me. “What was that?”

“Nothing.”

She gives me the look.

I hate that look.

I turn away and keep walking.

Axle is already ten steps ahead, cowboy hat pulled low, phone in one hand as he scans the front of the Hotel Drover. He looks annoyingly good for a guy who was up half the night, celebrating a championship.

And this morning, he looks like he could go straight back into the arena.

Me? I feel like I got run over by the damn stock trailer.

There had been champagne, whiskey, and a bar full of people more than willing to buy him another round. Trust me, last night was the exception, not the rule. This life is about being a nomad. A drifter. Dirty arenas and roaring crowds. The stink of manure and sweat. Blood ground into mud. A body held together by tape, stubbornness, and painkillers. Dark, smoky honky-tonks and dollar drafts. Waking up with a hangover in some dingy motel room, staring at questionable stains on the carpet and wondering what kind of crime scene you just stepped into. The kind of place where you wear flip-flops in the shower and hope you don’t pick up some god-awful infection.

“Stay here,” Axle says, nodding toward the curb. “I’ll go get the truck.”

I stop beside Jovie and her pile of luggage and drop the handle of my suitcase.

My shoulder is throbbing. It has been since last night.

Actually, if I’m being honest, it’s the main reason I drank so much last night. I was self-medicating, but there’s no point dwelling on it.

I’d made it through the finals. I rode. I finished. I pocketed a fat check.

And now, Wildhaven is waiting.

Home.

That’s all the medicine I need.

We are hit with a blast of cool air as the automatic doors open again. I glance over my shoulder to see Blaze Cassel.

He steps through the entrance, wearing sunglasses, his golden locks tucked beneath a black hat and a smug grin plastered across his face. He looks like a damn cartoon character. Less rodeo star, more Malibu Ken, like he should be posing beside a plastic Jeep instead of climbing onto a bull.

The blonde buckle bunny in the black dress from last night is draped over him, one arm looped around his neck, her body pressed tight against his side like a tick on a dog’s ass.

Most of the bull riders on the circuit get along. When you spend the better part of the year traveling together, you form bonds. In the arena, we try to kick the shit out of each other. Rivalries are inevitable, but most are good-natured. Outside the arena, we’re a motley crew of hard-asses who talk shit, bust each other’s balls, and would throw down without hesitation if one of our own needed us. Somewhere along the way, somewhere between the bruises, cheap beer, and endless miles, we stop being competitors and become brothers.