Rough Rider (Hot Cowboy Nights, #2)(4)

Using his gloved hand, Dirk gave a few swift jerks up and down the sticky, rosin-coated rope and then pulled it through his hand in a suicide wrap. He then sidled his hips up closer to his hand and pounded his closed fist to cement his hold.

Although he’d spent plenty of time backing broncs, nothing on earth compared to the addictive rush of a bull ride. The sensation of backing a bull was a heady shot of pure adrenaline that coursed through his body, exciting every nerve. Just like a junkie seeking the next fix, bull riders risked life and limb grasping for that elusive eight-second high.

It was balls to the wall every time the chute opened.

He inhaled deeply and then slowly emptied his lungs. In these final seconds his senses were hyperaware. Everything seemed magnified—his own heartbeat, the sensation of his blood pulsing through his veins, the noise of the crowd buzzing in his ears, the familiar smells of dirt, sweat, and manure.

Dirk shut his eyes and closed his mind to everything but the snorting mass of muscle and sinew under him. “Fuck Grady,” he murmured. “This is between you and me, Mag. It’s just us.”

Dirk opened his eyes and raised his right arm, acutely aware of the metallic click of the gate latch echoing in his ears as he gave the nod to the chute man.

The gate swung free to the last gong of AC/DC’s “Hells Bells,” and Mag exploded out of it like a derailed freight train. With his jaw set in fierce concentration, Dirk countered the frenetic and frenzied fits of jumps, kicks, dives, and spins in the battle of domination with the bull.

With his body jerking in all directions at once, Dirk reached for that precarious sweet spot of equilibrium, rising into his riding hand on each kick and pushing his fist deep into the bull’s shoulder on every rear, following the bull’s lead in the deadly dance. Hell-bent on hurling him through the air, the bull snorted and grunted with the jarring force of each buck and kick.

Heeding Janice’s advice, Dirk held off plying his heel—at least for the first five or six seconds—but with only a second or two remaining, he raked his spurs upward into the bull’s hide, hoping to score extra points. Just as Janice had warned, Mag gave a furious toss of his horned head that narrowly missed Dirk’s face. Undeterred, he dropped his heels back into position for another go—but the buzzer sounded.

Dirk fisted the air to proclaim his victory, then grabbed the rope tail to release himself. In that instant, the bull dropped his head and ducked off into a hard right that threw his body hard left. In the blink of an eye, he was cast into the middle of a slow-motion nightmare.

Mag bucked, leaped, and jackknifed in midair, only to land in a clockwise spin that pitched Dirk over the bull’s right side—into the well of the spin. He struggled to keep his wits about him and his feet on the ground long enough to free himself, but the bull had other ideas, hooking him with his horns and tossing him into the air and onto the other side…now the outside of the spin. Time seemed suspended as Dirk flailed—completely at the mercy of a raging bull.

White-hot pain seared through his arm and shoulder while Mag spun with enough momentum to turn Dirk into a horizontal propeller blade. Twisted the wrong way in the bullrope, his left hand had gone completely numb, while his right arm, which he needed to free it, jerked helplessly in the air in rhythm with the bucking bull.

The first bullfighter appeared in the periphery of Dirk’s vision, but with his feet dragging and scrambling for purchase, he was powerless to help himself. Mag’s attention now turned to the bullfighter. Whipping around the other way, the bull harrowed the fighter across the arena like a supercharged John Deere.

Horses, ropes, and two more blurry bodies appeared, but true to his name, Mag was a force to be reckoned with—bucking, charging, and dragging Dirk helplessly along with his body flailing like a rag doll. Dirk’s chest was heaving, and sweat poured off his body in his effort to prevent his complete mutilation, but he was losing it fast.

“Hang on, cowboy! Stay on your goddamn feet until we shut this motherf*cker down!” Grady’s voice was the last thing Dirk heard before the bull’s horns struck again, slamming into his head and then ramming his rib cage. Pain, blinding and deafening, exploded inside him, wiping his mind and sucking him down into its black void.

*

“Fucked that one up but good, din’t ya, cowboy?” Grady’s face came slowly into focus.

“Made the whistle, didn’t I?” Dirk grunted back through the racking spasms in his rib cage. His head pounded like hell and it hurt like a sonofabitch just to breathe. He spat a mouthful of blood and then searched with his tongue for any missing teeth. Satisfied they were still intact, he performed a tactile survey of his face, squinting at fingers that came away smeared with blood. “Holy shit! How bad is it?”

“Coulda been a lot worse. Looks like the cocksucker only broke your nose. Don’t sweat it though, Pretty Boy. It’s an improvement.” Grady grinned. “’Sides, chicks dig scars.”

“Not Rachel,” Dirk groaned. “She’s gonna be pissed.” That was for damn sure. They were supposed to have photos taken together at the after-party for her Miss Rodeo America campaign.

“Talk about *-whipped,” Grady mumbled with a head shake.

“How many points?” Dirk asked, eager to know. It had been a hell of a ride. Roughest ever, but at least he’d covered the bull. The hang-up afterward wouldn’t count against him.