Page 14 of Tame Our Wild

Ihate sand.

My boots may be on, but I still feel like those grainy little fuckers are somehow wedged between my toes.

A light morning breeze floats over the water, carrying the scent of salt and seaweed while the sun rises against a vibrant blue sky. Most would consider the smell of the ocean clear and clean, but not me. Okay, I don’t despise the beach, but I’d like it a lot more if I were lounging around with a cold beer in my hand.

The air in Florida is just different.

It’s not the rich scent of earthy notes that comes with higher altitudes, thick forests, and a crisp climate. The mountains are home. I prefer the sense of safety and seclusion they bring. When I’m on the road all the time competing in cities, it’s peaceful to return to something so quiet and simple.

Florida isn’t Tennessee.

“Alright,” a voice raises, directing my attention to the videographers, photographers, and our PBR marketing staff. “I need—”

I zone out, not listening to the list of names Jason, our videographer, shouts out at the top of his lungs. The first round of the event in Jacksonville starts tonight, and all of us athletes are standing around on the beach, annoyed, because we would rather be elsewhere. Unfortunately, they need video and marketing materials for our social media, and whenever there’s a break in the live stream. So, here we are, standing around in our hot-as-hell riding gear as the temperatures continue to rise.

“Colson,” someone barks, cutting through my distracted state. My eyes cut to Synthia, our marketing manager. Her perfectly straight, bleached hair is blinding in the sunlight. She tosses her hands up in frustration, clutching her clipboard with the schedule for the next hour of my life. “We don’t have all day!”

No shit.

We should’ve started thirty minutes ago. It’s not my fault that some of the other riders were late. She also finds any excuse to single me out after we slept together several times last season, since we regularly stay at the same hotels during events.

I got bored. Really bored because she liked vanilla sex and sharing too much on social media about my sex life. It should’ve been a one-and-done thing, but after I’m finished with a ride, my adrenaline is still so high that I need other methods to release it.

She just always happened to be around.

I also regularly got annoyed when she started pushing for more. I didn’t want more. I wanted to fuck and for her to dick and dash, because there are only a few select people whose company I enjoy.

Synthia isn’t one of them.

A laugh, too warm for this early in the morning, pours through my ears. “Might need to turn your hearing aids on, old man.”

I locate the frustratingly stunning blonde in a taupe cowgirl hat and button-down, with suede chaps in a black, tan, and rust-red pattern. Harlow stands with ten other athletes near the cameras, all of them laughing at her remark. Brian Sanders is beside her, and he leans in, muttering something too close to her ear. Surprisingly, it has an unfamiliar feeling clawing at my sternum.

I don’t like that.

She covers her mouth and chuckles.

Yeah. I really don’t fucking like that either.

The muscles in my jaw tighten. Some of the things that come out of this girl’s mouth rub me in ways I don’t quite understand.

I march toward them, my attention solely on her. Harlow’s striking blue eyes narrow into slits as I quickly advance. They’re the exact shade of the water today—that intense hue you catch in the middle of a wave just before it crashes into the surface. I’d say they are beautiful, but it’s one of those waves concealing a riptide, ready to drag you under to the depths where you’ll never resurface.

They’re dangerous.

I cup my hand over my ear. “Sorry, I didn’t hear you, dust bunny. Will you repeat that?”

She folds her arms, huffing out an exasperated breath. “You’re an ass.”

“And you’re a brat.”

She runs her tongue over her top teeth, probably looking for another comeback since bantering back and forth to no goddamn end seems to be our thing.

The second her plush pink lips part, Jason yells, “Synthia, we need another rider to even this out.”

I turn, analyzing the tall, skinny man who reminds me of the skeleton from that cartoon movie Nightmare Before Christmas. He’s a living, breathing version of that character, but has a layer of skin over his bones and no muscles as far as I can see.

He fiddles with his video camera before gesturing to me. “I want these two in the middle with five riders on either side of them in the shape of a V.”