Page 2 of Tame Our Wild

Gag me.

When the chuckling dissipates, Mark arches a brow. “If Lucas dropping out didn’t knock your boots off, what about when they announced that Harlow Hartt would take his place for the upcoming season?”

That vexing tilt to Colson’s mouth appears.

It’s as if I’m standing before him, witnessing his grin in person as I have so many times before.

Is it pathetic that I’ve memorized his smirk?

First, his turquoise eyes shift to a darker hue. Then he lets amusement tug at his lips in that way that has had countless women shedding their panties in hopes of earning a front-row seat to see what else his mouth is capable of.

It’s sickening, is what it is.

When Colson smiles at you, it doesn’t mean there are pleasant, fluffy thoughts in his head; the truth is, he’s patronizing you.

He’s the PBR’s biggest asshole.

And my competition again for the next six months.

“We know you two have a history,” Mark presses.

“Yeah, nobody can forget that bar debacle that went down two years ago,” Heather adds, pointing a fresh manicured finger at my rival.

Truthfully, I have no idea where the hell they found her. She is beautiful, but way too polished and prim to host a podcast that focuses on bull riding and rodeo news. She’s always in some kind of power suit. Like in this episode, her burgundy ensemble is perfectly tailored to fit her tall frame. Given the way Colson is eyeing her, I suspect her value lies in hooking the male viewers. But also, she’s always exuding power, and I’m here for it.

Both Heather and Mark wait with bated breath for Colson’s response.

Holding my phone in one hand, I glance down at my other hand, imagining that the blue and black splotches are back, cascading across my knuckles. However, that injury at the bar that night was nothing compared to the broken limb that nearly stopped my career the next day.

An eye for an eye. That’s the saying, right?

I lift my thumb to my mouth, nervously chewing on my nail.

“Like I said the last time you interviewed me about this topic…” Colson doesn’t sound irked by their question, just entertained. “Harlow would be a better fit for the women’s bull riding circuit and the rodeo. Less risk.”

Heather peers at him skeptically. “Don’t you think Harlow has earned that spot? You said it yourself: if you can’t handle injuries, then you’re not built for this sport, but here she is. She’s worked hard for it and has returned stronger than before.” She smiles pompously at him. “Maybe she’ll give you a run for your money this year.”

Hell yeah! I always knew I liked her.

He blows out a dark, condescending laugh. “She made it to the Professional Bull Riding circuit once a few years ago, and we all know how that ended. All riders know the type of PTSD that haunts you after an injury like that. Harlow shouldn’t be competing if her fear still lingers. End of story.” He crosses his arms across his sculpted chest. I eye those long, thick, tattooed fingers longer than necessary. “Lucas took that last spot for this season because Harlow’s scores weren’t good enough this year. The only reason she’s on the roster is because he had to drop out. She didn’t earn that spot.” His words slice through my flesh, burrowing deep where they sprout roots and stay grounded like they always do. “That being said, if a bull can’t make me run away with my dick between my legs, then neither will Harlow Hartt.”

Red-hot, boiling fury flows through my bloodstream like a drug, seizing my muscles.

A hand whips out, snatching my phone from my fingers before I have the chance to shatter into smithereens on my bedroom floor.

“Okay, that’s enough of that,” a soft, annoyed voice pierces through my haze of rage.

I lift my head, peering into my younger sister’s light blue eyes. “I needed to hear it,” I grit out through clenched teeth.

“Like you haven’t heard him say those things before?” Melanie leans against my white dresser and waves my phone around, not buying it. “Colson Payne says that same, exact thing every time they bring you up in an interview.” She glances down at the screen and clicks the power button. The voices immediately cease, the silence in my bedroom letting me hear the blood whooshing in my ears. “Besides a few words changing here and there, everything he says about you remains the same whenever someone brings up your rivalry.”

She’s not wrong. He said the same thing in an interview a month ago when my scores started reaching high enough that I was becoming a threat to the other bull riders in the minor league, and it looked like I might make it back into the PBR.

Melanie places my phone on the dresser and sighs. “The only way he’s going to put his foot in his mouth is if you stop slumping around and get your ass back out there and practice so you can kick his.” She points out my bedroom door.

It wasn’t entirely truthful when I said my coach, Aaron Jackson, is the only person who doesn’t treat me like an ember.

At times like this, when I need motivation, Melanie is the thunder to my lightning. The spark to my fuse. But she can also be the sugar to my salt. The calm to my chaos.