Two Shots Down (Battle of the Bulls Book 1)

by T. S. Joyce

He waited until all the whooping and hollering, cheering and clapping, settled down before he continued. “But with the new money, there are also new rules and new attention on us. We can’t be doing what we’ve been doing.”

  “What’ve we been doing?” one of the riders asked.

  “Uh, let’s see, bar fights, jail, breaking everything imaginable, wrecking entire press conferences, and in general just being shits and ruining your own reputations in the public eye. No sport in the history of sports has as much negative attention on it as this circuit.”

  “You’re talking about the bulls, right?” Roddy asked. “Because our reputation is just fine.”

  “Well, we don’t all have the luxury of having high-paid babysitters to manage us,” called out First Time Train Wreck from a few rows behind Two Shots Down.

  Tommy’s eyes went round, and he pointed to First Time Train Wreck. “He’s right. We have put funding into the agents and managers for the bull riders, but until now, we haven’t had the funds to pay a bull manager.”

  “Oh, God,” Quickdraw muttered under his breath.

  Two Shots Down could hear it just fine, thanks to his super shifter hearing. He snorted. “I can’t wait to see the dumbass who gets roped into managing a bull shifter.”

  Snorts and snickers sounded from the bulls’ side of the room.

  “Well, actually, we are only hiring one manager, and they will take care of the top three bulls only.”

  “What?” Dead of Winter demanded, pushing off the wall in the back. “I’m number two—”

  “Insert dooky joke,” Roddy muttered to the stupid laughter of the riders.

  “I’m not signing up to be bossed around by some manager. I’ll say exactly what I want to in the press conferences. I hear you dipshits when you’re under management,” he barked out, glaring at the riders. “Well…uuuuh…” he said, wrenching up his voice like a girl’s, “I just really enjoyed the ride and loved the match-up with Dead of Winter and hope to ride him again.” Dead of Winter rolled his eyes. “Fuck off. I love telling the press exactly how pathetic I think all of you are.”

  “Yeah, that won’t get us the extra funds and prize money I just mentioned,” Tommy said, rolling his eyes heavenward. “Look, this ain’t up for debate. If you want one of those top three spots where you make that big money? First off, you earn your rank with numbers, like always, but you will also travel together, stay in the same hotels, support each other publicly—”

  “The fuck we will,” yelled Two Shots Down. “This ain’t a team effort, Tommy. You know that, I know that, everyone in here freakin’ knows that. It’s us versus the riders, and every bull versus every other bull. Top three bulls aren’t a team. We bled and scratched and killed our bodies to get to those ranks. It ain’t a shackle. Top three is freedom. I’ll be damned if you take the fun away from finally, finally, getting into that top three spot.”

  “You don’t have a choice,” Tommy said. “Things are changing for the circuit. The wheels are already in motion. We have backers now who will make this huge. It means huge crowds, huge fan bases, huge venues. It means live music outside the events, fairs, and tickets selling out as fast as they are available. This will jump all of you up with attention from the public, and we aren’t leaving it up to you dumbasses to handle your own PR!”

  “Okay, who was dumb enough to attempt this job?” Quickdraw asked.

  Tommy looked right at Two Shots and sighed. Uh oh.

  “What are you looking at me for?” Two Shots asked.

  “It isn’t a man who took the job. It’s a woman.”

  The blood drained from Two Shots Down’s face, leaving his cheeks cold and clammy. No. No, no, no. The only woman manager for this circuit was the one person he avoided at all costs.

  A door behind the podium opened and in walked Two Shots’ personal nightmare.

  Cheyenne Walker was wearing charcoal gray dress pants, high heels, and a light blue, fitted button-down shirt. Her dark hair was pulled back into a tight bun, and her glasses slipped down her nose. She glanced straight at him and then back at the podium she was squaring up to. You could hear a pin drop in the place right now.

  “Why are you switching sides?” Roddy asked. “You always managed one of us. The humans.”

  Cheyenne pushed her glasses up her nose and glared at him. “I’m not betraying anyone or choosing a side.”

  “I’m not doing this,” Two Shots murmured. He hadn’t even meant to say it out loud; the words had just tumbled from his mouth.

  “What did you say?” Cheyenne asked into the microphone. She still couldn’t hold his gaze. She dropped her eyes as soon as she looked at him.

  “I said I’m not doing this,” said Two Shots, standing. “You couldn’t pay me enough money in the world to be managed by her.”

  Quickdraw twisted in his seat and shook his head at Two Shots Down, but whatever that beast was trying to tell him, he didn’t care. They weren’t friends.

  “If you don’t comply, I will drop you a rank,” Tommy said from his place standing next to Cheyenne.

  “So let me get this straight. My options are to be managed by the widow of the man I killed, or I lose the rank that I’ve worked for years to reach?” Two Shots Down asked.

  The room was dead silent.

  Tommy stared at him for a few seconds, then sighed. “Yes, Two Shots. There’s your options.”

  “I just want to move on,” murmured Two Shots Down. He turned and strode for the door. “Drop me to number four.”

  Chapter Three

  Cheyenne Walker watched Two Shots Down walk away and felt this reverberating hollowness inside of her chest. This was hard for her, but it was probably just as hard for him.

  The slamming door echoed, and she flinched at the sound.

  Maybe she had no right to be doing this.

  “Why?” Roddy asked. “Why aren’t you managing one of us? You earned our respect way before that sonofabitch killed Tarik. You’ve been retired for three years now, and you come out of retirement to represent that prick?” He jammed a finger at the door.

  “And Quickdraw and Dead of Winter,” she murmured into the microphone. “I’ll be representing the bulls who are in those top three spots.”

  “Traitor,” said another rider, Dunbar.

  And that was enough. Anger flared through her chest and up her throat, straight into her words. “I don’t want to represent riders anymore. Just like your agents get to choose who they do and don’t represent, I have the same right. This job came up, and it’s the first goddamn thing that has sparked my interest in three years, so yeah, I’m going to represent the bulls. And guess what? Dunbar, Roddy, and anyone else here who has a problem with it, I don’t fuckin’ care. Quickdraw and Winter, I will meet you out by the trucks.”

  Quickdraw was wearing a smirk on his face she didn’t understand, but what else was new? That bull shifter was a monster on his best days. God, she was in over her head.

  Dead of Winter stood in the back of the room with his mouth hanging open as she stomped past everyone. “Close your mouth or you’ll catch flies, Dead.”

  “’S Dead of Winter to you,” he tested her.

  “Sounds fantastic, Dead.”

  “Okay then.”

  No one else said a single word until she had her moment slamming the door behind her. She stood there for three seconds, huffing breath and wondering what the heck she’d just gotten herself into. Three seconds, and then chaos erupted on the other side of the door.

  She didn’t want to hear them arguing or fighting. She didn’t want to be stung by their “traitor” insults. Cheyenne just needed to get out of here and keep the overwhelming buzz from her head.

  Everything had been so loud since Tarik had died.

  She made her way straight to the exit and out into the cool, fresh air. She rolled her head backward and looked up at the moon for a few moments before she got a move on. Tonight wasn’t over. Not even close.

  She’d parked near
Two Shots’ old jacked-up snow-white Chevy truck on purpose. He was under the hood, cussing up a storm when she reached him.

  He looked at her and startled hard. “Geez, lady.” His eyes flashed to something behind her, but when she turned around, nothing was there but a few empty parking spots in the grass.

  “You drag ghosts with you,” he said mysteriously. “Don’t need any more ghosts.”

  She nodded and told him, “I understand,” which was a total lie because he’d just said weird stuff. Only crazies understood crazy-talk, and she had all her marbles still.

  He nodded a few times and stared at her, so she stared right back.

  It was so easy to see why the industry joked and nicknamed him Pretty Boy. He had the perfect bone structure, chiseled jaw, just the right amount of facial scruff. His hair was sandy brown and longer up top, a curl falling in his face as he stared. His eyes were a crystal clear blue, and as far as physique went? No one held a candle to Two Shots. His momma had sure made a handsome boy. He still wasn’t wearing a shirt, and his chiseled six pack flexed with every breath. No tattoos. Not a single one that she could see. His human form was such a contrast to his gritty, grungy, white-speckled, monstrous bull form that was no bark and all bite. He'd put on ten pounds of muscle, at least, since she’d begun watching his events.

  “Okay, good talk,” he muttered and then turned back to messing under the hood of his truck.

  “You bucked good tonight.”

  “I know.”

  Cocky man, but that was the shove-off. That was him trying to get rid of her with an attitude. Wouldn’t work. She’d managed enough bull riders that a tough-boy attitude was her second language now. Two Shots tossed her a pissed-off look and exhaled an animal sound. It was low and rumbled straight through her. Managing bulls would be so much different from managing the riders. She’d been researching the bull shifters. Turning her back on one was a bad idea. It was best to face off with the dominant ones and, good Lord, Two Shots was about as dominant as they came.

  “Well, go on,” he said, making a shooing motion with his hand. “I already told you I’ll get demoted a rank, so me and you don’t have to do this dance. Shoo, shoo. Go on, get. Go haunt someone else now.”

  “I took the connector to your battery out.”

  He gripped the edge of the truck opening so hard, the metal creaked. “Whyyyy would you do that?” Oh, his eyes had turned brown. They were the color of dark chocolate when he looked back at her. Eek.

  She took a step back, and then a few more, to her black Expedition. Then she hopped inside, turned on the engine, and pulled around to his truck. After rolling down the window, she held up the little cable and smiled, wiggled it in her fingers. “If you want it back, you’ll give me half an hour to pitch to you.”

  “You don’t have to pitch to me, lady. I don’t give a shit about any of this. I’m not getting in your fancy fuckin’ rig to go get schmoozed with some fancy steak dinner.”

  “I was thinking the food truck down the street. It has burgers and beer. And don’t judge my rig. I paid it off last year. Worked my ass off at a coffee shop to make my bills, and this is the only thing I kept from my old life. I love it. I named it Bruno.”

  “Well Bruno is a fifty-thousand-dollar truck. Fancy.”

  “Well Tarik had half of it paid off with rodeo winnings before he died, so buck up and stop insulting me and get your stubborn ass in my fancy rig. You can buy the burgers. I’m starving. And I want a canned margarita so don’t go getting me none of that crappy light beer you drink like water, Two. And I want extra cheese. You owe me on account of killing my husband and all.”

  His face looked like Dead’s right now, all shocked with his mouth hanging open.

  That man cussed all the way around the front of her Expedition, yanked open the passenger side door, and sat down heavy on the seat with a huff of breath. “I guess you can have all the cheese you want, lady. On account of me ruining your life and all. Guess this is my payback, right? You suffered a loss because of me, and now you’ll make my life a living hell to pay me back. Right?”

  She shook her head and pulled out of the parking lot. “You don’t know me, and you sure as hell missed on the reason I’m actually here. Thirty minutes, Two Shots. Give me thirty minutes, and then you can tell me to go to hell and I’ll never bother you again. You said I haunt you? Well, you haunt me, too, so I guess we’re even on that.”

  Chapter Four

  She stuck out like a sore thumb here. The food truck had a few picnic tables out in front, but everyone here were roughnecks, probably from the rodeo, who were eating before they drove back home. That or letting their beers settle before getting behind the wheels of their big jack-up trucks.

  The crowd was wearing a combination of jeans, boots, T-shirts, button-downs, booty shorts, and cowboy hats.

  And Cheyenne? She was still in her power-woman pant suit, wiping down the seat of the picnic table before she sat down on it.

  Two Shots rolled his eyes to heaven and prayed for the patience to get through the next thirty minutes. “I’ll get the food,” he muttered.

  Cheyenne’s soft brown eyes went round in the halo of the illumination from the streetlamp above them. “Oh. Well…thank you.”

  He made his way to the truck and put their order in. He ordered a few chicken sandwiches for himself because he’d always been a little squeamish about eating beef. Felt like cannibalism, but some bull shifters were fine with it. That psychopath Dead of Winter ate a medium-rare steak dinner every time he placed in the top three and took home money from an event, or so the rumors said.

  He pulled out his wallet and kicked himself for leaving his T-shirt in his truck. He’d tossed it on the bench seat right before he’d figured out his old Chevy wouldn’t run.

  Crazy woman. Taking out his battery cable?

  He tossed a dirty look behind him as he waited for the cashier to make change.

  Cheyenne was sitting at the picnic table, eyes downcast and thoughtful as she picked at a peel of paint.

  She sure looked different. She’d put on some good weight, had curves now. She’d been a barrel racer in her early twenties and then turned to managing bull riders in her late twenties. She was maybe thirty-two now and had lost that little girl look. Now, she was all high cheekbones, glasses clipped to the low V of her button-down shirt, fancy makeup, perfume, and pant suits. Even her hair was pulled back in a tight, painful-looking bun. He’d never seen her wear a bun before Tarik had died. He knew because he’d watched them. They were the dream couple of the circuit. Everyone had wanted to be around them. Everyone had wanted to be them.

  Hell, he’d fantasized about finding a girl like her—one who followed him around the events and supported him the way Cheyenne had cheered on Tarik. That wasn’t to be his story, though. Bucking bull shifters didn’t have happy endings. They bucked until they got injured or too old to hang with the new up-and-comers, and then they washed out and ended up at bars as old creaky drunks that everyone ignored. Glory days were short-lived for a man like him.

  When she looked over at him, he looked away fast. He’d been staring. When he looked back at her, the corner of her lips turned up in this sad, beautiful smile, and she gave him a little wave.

  This had to be just as weird for her as it was for him.

  On what planet was it okay that a murderer ate dinner with the lady whose husband he killed?

  “Food’s ready, Two Shots,” a young blond with a bright white smile said from the serving window of the food truck.

  “How do you know my name?” he asked as he took the tray of food from her.

  She pointed to a television someone had dragged under an awning. Quickdraw Slow Burn was up on the screen, doing his post-win interview. What a chode.

  “Everyone who follows the circuit knows you. Two Shots, number three bull.” She looked him up and down. “You’re even better lookin’ than on TV.”

  He could have her. He could tell by the hunger in her
eyes. He could wait around until she was off work, take her back to his hotel tonight, and lose himself with a stranger. But just because a man could do something, didn’t mean he should. That young thing didn’t need him as a notch on her belt.

  “You have a good night, ma’am,” he said, tipping an imaginary hat.

  “She’s cute,” Cheyenne murmured when he returned to the table.

  “Yeah, you jealous?” He didn’t know why he asked that. It had just fallen out of his mouth. “This is weird,” he muttered, taking the seat across from her.

  “It’s weird you walking around without a shirt and all your muscles hanging out and attracting the flies?” she asked, tipping her chin at the blond who was leaned out the window, staring with a devilish smile on her face. “Yes, it is.”

  Two Shots had never felt like covering himself up before because, hell, he lived half his life without a stitch of clothing on, but suddenly he felt weird being stared at. This was possibly the first time he didn’t enjoy the attention. Cheyenne had done that, and he didn’t like that she had any effect on him.

  She pulled the cheeseburger basket over to her and ate a few fries dipped in mustard, didn’t speak. Fine with him. The clock was ticking on their half an hour, so he dug in and gobbled down two sandwiches before she pushed her basket back and pulled out a manilla envelope.

  “Oh, good Lord, is that a contract? I think you can guess what I’ll say,” he told her around a bite of French fries, not dipped in mustard because mustard was gross.

  “I have no guess what you will say to anything because I don’t really know you. So okay, what will you say if I pull out a contract and a pen right now?”

  “I would laugh, shake my head, and wonder if you got a few screws loose in your noggin. I said ‘no’ already, and I meant it. You’ll find out real quick I don’t do well with pressure outside of that bucking chute.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I can have the weight of the world on my shoulders in there when I’m about to buck. I do good with that weight. I get it off the second I throw a rider, but out here? With you humans? Tell me to do something, and I’ll do the opposite. I’ll spit on your orders, even if it guts me to do it. I’m not signing your contract.”