Page 16 of Tame Our Wild

A bead of sweat glides down the valley of my spine, soaking into my shirt tucked into my Wranglers. It may be nine in the morning, but I’m still sweating my balls off in this heat.

“This is so stupid,” I mumble. My back isn’t touching Harlow’s, but the air shifts in the foot of space between us as her posture solidifies in response to my tone. Somehow, it brushes against my skin. “I’d rather be doing anything else.”

“Like sitting down with your newspaper and coffee?”

Fuck. I shouldn’t entertain the idea, but sometimes, I wonder what it would be like to smother her hot tongue with mine.

“I mean,” I drawl through clenched teeth, “that we should film and take marketing pictures before the season starts and not do it the day of an event when all of us are trying to focus.”

My body flares as Harlow’s eyes bore into me.

I don’t dare move my body position; Synthia would lash out like I’m a disobedient child who can’t stay still for a family photo. Keeping my arms still knitted, I peer over my shoulder to find Harlow looking over hers. She’s staring up at me from her 5’3’’ frame with those groomed brows drawn. I know her exact height because the PBR uses that information for our online athlete profiles. I’m 6’2’’, so she seems so small and fragile beside me.

At first, a feeling I can’t decipher passes between us. Then I realize why she’s looking at me the way she is.

We are in Jacksonville, where her accident happened two years ago—in the same arena where her career could’ve ended.

Where her career should’ve ended.

Her eyes bounce between mine, and she swallows. “I think that’s the first thing we’ve ever agreed on.”

SIX | HARLOW

My head hangs between my shoulders, my eyes closed in concentration as my pump-up playlist drifts through my headphones. “That’s Why We Fight” by Ella Langley blares into my eardrums—my attempt at muting my erratic heartbeat.

I should be stretching, keeping my muscles loose even if my brain isn’t, but instead I’m in one of the meeting rooms they set up for us, with plastic folding tables and chairs, tucked away from the arena noise. I’ve been waiting for Aaron to call with the pre-ride advice that helps me refocus, instead of letting my mind slip into flashbacks of what happened two years ago.

However, he didn’t call yesterday, and something in my gut tells me he won’t tonight either.

I know he’s camping with his family this weekend, so he’s probably out of range and has no service. Doesn’t keep me from wishing his deep, soothing voice would dial down the anxiety weaving around my ribs and lungs like a lasso pulling tighter as the minutes tick down till I ride.

I lasted all of 3.6 seconds in round one yesterday. It was longer than my rides in Tucson, but I’m still cursed by those three seconds and seem to black out whenever it hits.

My internal timer is being a bitch.

If I keep this up, I’ll be so behind in points that catching up will be impossible. Thankfully, Jacksonville is early in the season this year, so maybe once this event is over, I’ll be able to clear my head.

I slowly release the breath I had been holding, but when I open my eyes, the figure looming in front of me makes me jolt.

A hand flies to my chest. “Shit,” I rush out.

So much for trying to calm myself.

Colson’s fingers tighten around his bull rope. His teal and black chaps are caked in dust, his features pulled into a grimace that makes me think he either didn’t get a scoring ride, or he did, but it was lower than he anticipated.

On the other hand, he always looks like this.

Especially around me.

His hat is off, so his brown hair is tussled in that way that draws even more attention to the way it curls around his ears and at his nape. He looks all sweaty and rugged standing before me. Colson wipes his forehead with his forearm before opening his mouth to say something I can’t hear, because Ella Langley is hyping me up through my earbuds.

I remove one and arch a brow.

“Who needs hearing aids now?” he jests.

Yeah, I walked right into that one. My insides unexpectedly warm whenever his frown turns upward when he tries to be funny. He has a handsome smile, but I won’t admit it. I’m sure he hears it enough. Not that he smiles very often. He only seems to pull out that weapon at the bars to lure in his newest prey or when he is in an interview.

“Still you,” I mouth the words.