Page 6 of Tame Our Wild

I take a step back, letting her slip between Matt and me. She’s cute. At least two feet shorter than I am, with brown hair tied into a knot on her head and golden skin highlighted by the subtle light above the table.

“I’ve got those six shots and IPAs.” She lowers the tray, picks up each drink, and slides them onto the table littered with empty beer bottles and glasses.

I tip my hat toward her. “Thank you, darlin’.”

The waitress reaches into the pocket of her shorts, giving me a suggestive smile as she holds out a torn piece of receipt paper. “In case you need anything later, too.” She winks. Without another word, she turns and struts away, and suddenly the cigarette smoke wafting through the air is replaced by the pure jealousy radiating off the buckle bunnies.

Glancing down, I smirk at the numbers scribbled across the paper below her name. I can’t say I’m surprised. Throw on a pair of Wranglers and a buckle, and some women will instantly drop to their knees to discover what’s under them.

When the sides of my face start to burn, I look up to see nine pairs of eyes boring into my head. What? Have they never seen a woman hit on a man in a bar before? For us, it’s common, especially during the season.

“She’s a little young for you, don’t you think?” Jax Bowman grills from across the table. He reaches for one of the beers, his narrowed eyes searching my face for a response. Several of my competitors are wearing expressions that mirror his. “She has to be in her early twenties. Maybe even freshly twenty-one by those bright eyes and tight fuckin’ shorts.”

Ah. That’s what those looks are for.

Dicks.

Dragging my hand over my jaw, amusement pulls at my features. “Apparently, she doesn’t think so.” I shrug off their opinions—they don’t matter to me. “Must like older men.”

“Why don’t you be a good wingman and give that to me?” Matt says, plucking the paper from my fingers. The alcohol dulls his focus as he struggles to register the name. “I think I’ll give Savannah a call.”

Matt and I have been best friends since my sister and I competed against him at the Copper Lake Rodeo over seventeen years ago. While my concentration was zoned in on bettering myself to work toward the professional league, he was driven for the love of bull riding. Matt still rides occasionally, but it wasn’t until I made it to the PBR that he hung up his bull rope and followed me, becoming a bullfighter instead. When a rider dismounts or is bucked off, he is one of the few men on the dirt who distracts the bull so a rider like me can escape safely.

A part of me believes that he sticks by my side each year I sign that contract because he knows I was never meant to be here alone.

I snatch the paper back from him. “Because she didn’t give it to you. What do you think will happen when you call and she expects—”

The following words evaporate on my tongue as something bright and unmistakable pulls my attention to the bar. The conversation around me about the waitress fades, allowing the erratic beat of my heart to pulse in my ears.

Her blonde hair is like a goddamn beacon, always drawing me in.

Harlow. Fucking. Hartt.

To everyone else, she’s PBR’s Sweetheart. To me, she’s a cactus thorn in my ass I apparently can never get rid of. A drop of Arizona sunshine on my turf that is hell-bent on proving she belongs here.

Enduring this sport was already difficult before she came along. Now all I can focus on when I look at her, since she’s the only female I’ve competed against at this level, is that she’s not Paisley.

She’s not my sister.

If that isn’t enough of a reminder, Harlow’s injury from two years ago is.

I gave her the nickname Dust Bunny because, unlike the buckle bunnies chasing cowboys on the circuit, Harlow isn’t afraid to get down and dirty with us. She floats around like she owns the goddamn place.

The nickname suits her, and it thrills me even more that she hates it when I call her that.

You would think I’d have a lot of rivals in this sport, but you’d be dead wrong. Out of all my competitors, she’s the one who holds the power to unravel me and pull at my sanity with those delicate fingers. Fingers that are rough like mine from years of riding.

Suddenly, I’m disinterested in Savannah’s contact info and slap it on the table in front of Matt. Any other night, Savanah might have been one of the lucky ones I take back to my hotel room. Now, my interest has shifted to the buttery-blonde at the bar who isn’t as soft as everyone thinks she is.

“Have at it,” I tell him, earning a wide-eyed, skeptical look. “I need to go get another beer.”

“For who?”

My brain scrambles, taking its sweet damn time to find an excuse. The moment I come up with one, it’s too late.

Matt glances over his shoulder, releasing a flurry of curses under his breath. “Fuckin’ hell, Colson. You think that’s a smart idea right now? Do you not remember the last time we found ourselves in a bar with her?”

Fuck. He’s right, I should leave her alone. If I go over, all I’d do is add more fuel to the raging fire of hatred that’s blazing between us—toxic flames that should’ve disintegrated us both by now.