Page 4 of Tame Our Wild

Mel said it’s only eight seconds. Only eight seconds of riding a beast whose only goal is to buck you off.

But the event in Jacksonville, when I let Colson invade my mind, all it took was three.

Three seconds of his voice swirling in my head.

Three seconds of distraction.

Three seconds before I was thrown off the bull, and the mass that landed on me weighed more than Colson's words from the night before at the bar.

I let him get in my head once, and there’s no way in hell I’m letting it happen again.

TWO | COLSON

“What do you guys say we get another round to kick off the start of the season?”

The hoots and hollers of agreement from the guys and crowd surrounding us drown out the clanking glasses and brash country music reverberating through the bar. Their vocalized excitement dies down, allowing a few grumbles in our inner circle to slip through.

Well, that’s not the kind of enthusiasm I was after.

Training my eye on each person at our table, I seek out the origins of the perturbed noises. A few riders’ lack of eye contact validates my suspicions about who the complaints came from.

I shift my attention to Brian Sanders beside me. His eyelids are half-lidded, the twenty-two-year-old kid looking like he’s about to nod off and faceplant in his beer. A goddamn beer that he’s been nursing for the last hour.

It may be a Thursday night, but the bar is packed. Nearly every table and stool is occupied as the band crosses the stage and sets up the equipment for their set. There are even standing groups, individuals scanning the space and quickly snagging a seat when one becomes available.

The exposed amber bulbs dangling over the bar clash with the neon beer lights flickering on the weathered wood-paneled walls. There is a dartboard in one corner, a pool table, a jukebox, and various vintage western posters tacked to the walls. The scent of whiskey, hops, and leather lingers in the air; the occasional wave of cigarette smoke overpowering the senses.

It’s your typical country bar, and the one we visit every year when the circuit finds itself in Tucson.

A few other professional bull riders and I, staying at the same hotel a few blocks away, wanted to celebrate the start of the season. The night started with four of us, and now ten bodies are circled around our table while fans linger, training their ears on our conversations. The buckle bunnies, on the other hand, are hovering, eagerly waiting for the moment they can snag our attention and shoot their shot.

I clap a hand on Brian Sanders’ shoulder, making him jump. He glances up, those dark eyes glaring at me from below the brim of his straw cowboy hat.

A corner of my mouth tugs upward. “Tequila isn’t going to hurt you, Sanders.”

“Yeah, a fuckin’ bull will do that before alcohol does,” my best friend Matt slurs drunkenly into his beer glass beside me.

I shoot him a disapproving scowl, and he shrinks under my gaze. Logic may escape him when he’s five beers deep, but he should fucking know by now not to push my buttons with that shit. Attempting to calm myself down, I lift my hand, dragging my fingertips across the worn braided bracelet on my left wrist.

Take a breath.

The cool touch of the metal charm that’s dangling from the chain woven into the leather releases some of the tension threaded around my ribs. I exhale a weighted breath.

Matt clears his throat. “I mean, the worst it’s going to do is loosen your balls a little. Maybe give you a hangover.”

“I have to ride tomorrow,” Brian groans. His lips twist to the side beneath his mustache. Peering around the table, his attention lands on Dalton Carroll’s empty beer bottle on the other side of him. “You guys do, too. How can you drink this much before an event?”

Snatching my beer, I down the rest of the contents and set the bottle back on the table. “I’m thirty-four. I’m old enough to handle my alcohol.”

“I’m not,” Brian grunts.

“You’ll get there,” I encourage, slapping his back.

Yeah, that’s the inspiration he needs.

“Like I said, we’re celebrating,” I repeat, trying to ignore the unsettling feeling in my chest that keeps penetrating deeper each time I sign that fucking contract to compete another year.

I wave down the cute brunette walking around with a tray, signaling we’re ready for another round. Through the crowded tables, she catches my eye and smiles instantly, pressing her red lips into a line to conceal her enthusiasm. She nods gratefully to the patrons she delivers drinks to, taking a few bills from them as she tucks them into the valley of her breasts in her tight black tank top, not letting her gaze wander from mine.