Slow Hand (Hot Cowboy Nights, #1)(85)

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 body jerking in all directions at once, Dirk countered the frenetic and frenzied fits of jumps, kicks, dives, and spins in the battle of domination with the bull.

With his right arm ever reaching for that precarious sweet spot of equilibrium, Dirk rose into his riding hand on each kick, and pushed 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 kicked up with 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, but a millisecond later when he grabbed the rope tail to release himself, the bull dropped his head and ducked off into a hard right that threw his body hard left. And in the blink of an eye he was cast into the middle of a slow motion nightmare. Time seemed suspended as Dirk flailed for balance—completely at the mercy of a raging bull.

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.

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 that he needed to free it, jerked helplessly in the air in rhythm with the bucking bull.

The first bullfighter appeared in the periphery of his vision, but with his feet dragging and scrambling for purchase, Dirk was powerless to help himself. With his attention now fixed on the bullfighter, Mag whipped around the other way to harrow the fighter across the arena like a super-charged John Deer.

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 ribcage. 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 ribcage. 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.

“Eighty-eight,” his buddy answered with a scowl. “But that motherf*cking bull did all the work. He scored forty-nine of it.”

A grin broke over Dirk’s blood and muck-smeared face. “Beat your last ride by two points, didn’t I? Looks like you’re gonna be buying the drinks.”

“I still have another go, but even if I don’t out ride you on the next one, you owe drinks to the whole damned team for that dinked up performance.”

“A bet’s a bet, Grady.” Dirk tried to sit up and hissed with pain.

“Hold on there, cowboy.” A hand landed firmly on Dirk’s shoulder. “Gotta check you out first.”

“Says who?” Dirk tried to look up but a foam cervical collar restricted his movement.

“Says me. I’m Josh, the chief medic here. It’s good that you’ve revived so quickly, but a loss of consciousness suggests a concussion. How do you feel?”

Pretty f*cked up. “Fine, except my shoulder,” Dirk lied. He knew for a fact that was screwed up, but the bone-jarring pain that jolted him with every breath told him he’d probably busted a couple of ribs too. He hoped he hadn’t punctured a lung but wasn’t about to volunteer anything that might put him on an ambulance.