Beauty and the Bull Rider (Hotel Rodeo #3)(2)

“You need the money that bad?” Ty asked.

Zac snorted. “When does a bull rider not need money?”

Ty grunted acknowledgement and wrapped the wrist, finishing as the lights dimmed, signaling the start of the preshow. “Good luck, Zac. I gotta get back to Monica now.”

“Tom’s daughter?” Zac asked. “She’s here?”

“Yup. She surprised the hell out of me too. Just wait ’til you get an eyeful of her. She’s rocking that cowgirl look.”

Zac eyed his best friend appraisingly. “What’s up with you and her, Ty? If I didn’t know better, I’d think you had it bad.”

Ty started to speak and then turned away with a shake of his head.

The preshow had begun, an elaborate pyrotechnic extravaganza with shooting flames and a pounding hard rock beat. The crowd went wild when the cowboys appeared, all fifteen of them entering through circles of flames like they were some kind of superheroes.

There was a time when he’d lived for this kind of adoration, the cheering crowds, the fans . . . the buckle bunnies, but even all that had grown tiresome. Fuck, now he was just plain tired. A few minutes later, as he climbed over his bull’s chute, thirty-four suddenly felt ancient.

The announcer introduced the first rider and bull, a cowboy named Grayson Dunwoody on a bull named X-Treme Vortex. Zac looked on from the next chute as the rider gave his nod and the gate swung free. The bull’s superiority was clear from the start. He exploded from the gate kicking and bucking, his every movement whipping the rider’s body. Barely three seconds into it, Dunwoody began to falter. In anticipation, the team of bullfighters moved in. The next buck tossed him to the ground like a sack of shit.

Zac’s younger brother, Kade, had interposed himself between the animal and the fallen rider, while two others flanked the bull on either side. Waving and yelling, the three men distracted the manically bucking animal while the rider scrambled out of the danger zone. The bull spun and charged. Kade narrowly evaded getting a horn in the ass. The bull stared down the arena and snorted a stream of snot, then trotted back into the holding pens.

“No ride for that cowboy,” the announcer said. “Let’s see if Zac McDaniel’s gonna cover his bull tonight.” He elaborated on Zac’s injury from the night before but by now Zac had tuned out everything but the bull beneath him.

Stepping onto his bull, he lowered himself gingerly onto its back. Cursing his clumsiness, he fumbled to make his wrap. With only sixty seconds, he didn’t have time to f*ck around, but swapping hands was awkward as hell, and Super Spin Cycle was a twitchy son of a bitch in the chute. The bull snorted and shifted his impatience. Seconds later, Zac looked up, raised his left hand, and gave his nod to the chute boss.

The gate flew open to the chorus of Chris LeDoux’s, “Hooked on an 8 Second Ride.” True to his name, the bull busted out of the gate twisting and turning like a cyclone, but Zac sat his bull tight as a tick, foiling the animal’s every frantic attempt to unseat him.

Zac knew all the lyrics by heart, but the only sounds his brain registered were the crash of the gate, the snorting bull, the jangling of the bell on his rope, and his own pulse pounding in his eardrums as he mentally counted down the seconds.

As the whistle sounded, Zac glanced up in triumph. Even with the wrong hand, he’d made his time. Maybe his champion days were over, but at least he wouldn’t be going home with empty pockets. He moved to dismount, but his taped wrist made it difficult to free his riding hand. As he fumbled with the rope tail, the bull feinted and then threw him into the well of another spin—that became the perfect storm. Zac’s moment of victory instantly transformed into a cataclysm of chaos.

Hanging from the bull’s side, he scrambled for purchase as the animal continued to plunge and kick. Once more, the bullfighters moved in, but no one could get close enough to free him from his bull rope. The next few minutes were a blur of pain and agony as he fought like hell to keep from getting dragged under the bull, all the while feeling like his shoulder was getting ripped from the socket. He was vaguely aware that it took several men to shut the bull down. The instant he came free, Zac’s legs gave out. The bull whipped his hind end around and lowered his head to have another go at him, but one of the fighters intervened, shouting and waving his hat. Zac realized it was Ty.

Holy shit! What the hell is Ty doing in the arena?

The bull hesitated, staring Ty down, and then charged, but Ty slipped in the dirt. Man and beast collided as the bull plowed straight into Ty’s chest. Zac couldn’t see anything beyond the bull and Ty’s long legs stretched out motionless in the dirt.

Fuck! He’s not moving!

Zac struggled to his feet as the pick-up man cast his lasso, roping the animal’s horns. The bull snorted and shook its head, still fighting as horse and rider dragged it back toward the chutes. The audience watched in silence until the gate slammed shut with a resonating rattle of metal. With the bull out of the way, everyone turned their attention back to Ty.

A medic appeared with a stretcher just as Ty stirred back to life and spat a mouthful of dirt. He was still struggling for breath as the medic began poking his ribs. “What the hell happened? Did I black out?”

“Don’t talk,” the medic ordered, pressing a stethoscope to Ty’s chest. “Lung sounds are clear. No gurgling,” he said. “Can you move? How’s the pain?”