Two Shots Down (Battle of the Bulls Book 1)

by T. S. Joyce

  “Remember at the meeting last night how we talked about having more manners?”

  “Please get out of the way,” he called without turning around.

  “Don’t forget you have interviews on Thursday night!” she yelled back as the elevator doors opened. Oh, hang it, what was she doing? She high-kneed it to the elevator just as the doors were closing and shoved her suitcase in between the sliding doors to stop them.

  She’d never seen a look of more deep disappointment than on the face of Quickdraw Slow Burn.

  “Thank you for holding the door for me,” she said sarcastically.

  “I didn’t.”

  “I’m aware!” She poked the lobby button and continued what she needed to tell him. “I’ve put us all on a text loop—”

  “Just took myself off it,” he muttered, looking down at his phone and poking buttons on it.

  “Well, it’s important I can give all three of you the same information at the same time and not have to repeat myself.” She typed his contact in the loop. “I added you back. You’re welcome.”

  “Took myself out again.”

  Mother fucker. Don’t scream, don’t scream, don’t scream. “Anyhow, I need you to be on time for your Thursday flight because, as soon as you land, you will need to book it to the hotel for your interviews that start at six.”

  “Not doing them,” he said in a bored tone.

  The elevator dinged before she could attempt to strangle the beastly man.

  Plastering on a smile, she said, “I’ll text you your itinerary. Please don’t make me chase you all over creation. I’m your agent, not your mother.”

  He ignored her like a pro, shoved his phone in his back pocket, and moved toward the door. Only she’d thought he was a gentleman who would let her go first, so she’d stepped forward just in time to get stuck in the doorway with his stupidly big frame. Both of them struggled and spilled out of the elevator like a bowl of gravy. She stumbled and nearly went down.

  “Please tell me the entire event circuit won’t be like this,” she growled out as she straightened her spine and fixed her wrinkled shirt.

  He didn’t answer. Just moseyed on down the hallway to the hotel lobby, duffle bag thrown over his shoulder, looking like a model in one of those cowboy magazines. He would be a handsome man if he wasn’t so damn rude.

  Personality always trumped looks.

  She shook her head in disapproval until he was outside the front doors, and then she turned for the gym. It was just down a short hallway, past the entrance to a pool that was apparently closed for repairs according to a handwritten sign on the window. The butterflies went to flapping around in her chest as she pulled on the gym door, and when she got inside, she saw something she hadn’t expected.

  Two Shots Down wasn’t lifting massive weights or chugging a protein drink near the minifridge. He was running on the treadmill.

  Huh.

  He grinned at her and gave her this charming-boy wave that he’d probably learned from romance movies or something. It worked. She was swooning. That’s what this was, right? Like in the old days when women would feel faint, get all hot and flustered and need to fan themselves ? That’s how she felt.

  He was wearing a pair of gray sweatpants. Gray. The sexiest color of sweats a man could ever wear. His white T-shirt was damp with sweat and clung to his flexing six-pack as he jogged. Each stride was powerful and graceful in a way she’d never seen on a man before. Big shoulders, round like boulders, muscular pecs, fists lightly clenched as he swung them with his gait, hair damp from exertion, powerful legs that looked like he could go for days. He wasn’t even breathing heavy. If she was running like that right now? She would be gasping for breath and holding onto the rails, questioning every decision she’d made for her physical fitness journey. And she was no slouch! She’d been a barrel racer.

  “Morning, sunshine,” he said.

  “I thought you left.”

  He shook his head. “I wake up at five every morning to work out.”

  “Aaaah, gym rat. I like it.”

  He chuckled. “Gym bull. Any bull who is worth their salt is training every day. Especially during event season.”

  She frowned and looked around the otherwise empty gym. “Quickdraw said Dead of Winter was down here with you. Or as he called him, ‘Tweedledumb.’”

  “He was,” Two Shots Down drawled out, “but he had an attitude that needed adjusting.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Two Shots held up his hand and opened the palm. It was covered in dried blood!

  “What happened?” she yelped, rushing to him. She tugged it to her, but he swatted her hand away.

  “Woman, stop fussing! You’re gonna yank me off this. It ain’t my blood!”

  “Whose blood is it?”

  “Tweedledumbass’s.”

  “Why was he bleeding?”

  “Because I stabbed him.”

  “You stabbed him!” she shrieked.

  “He stabbed me first!”

  “With what?”

  “With his knife, so I whooped him and stabbed him back.” He frowned. “Stop looking so worried. It wasn’t a kill shot. I just wanted him to bleed a little so he would leave.”

  “Bleeding someone isn’t how you make them leave, Two!” Fire in her blood, she made her way to a small sink near the minifridge and poured water over a paper towel. “Where did he stab you?”

  “In the back.”

  And sure enough, when she turned around, the back of his white T-shirt was covered in red that had dripped and soaked the fabric from shoulder blade to hip. “I don’t understand what is wrong with you bulls.”

  Two Shots Down slowed the treadmill and then stopped it completely. He leaned on the two bars on either side of the machine and canted his head at her. “Question. How much time have you really spent around bull shifters?”

  “Lots. Loads. Tons of hours.”

  “Do you have any friends who are bulls?”

  “Yes! Of course!”

  “Excluding me,” he said.

  Pursing her lips, Cheyenne made her way to him. She pulled his bloody hand to her and started cleaning it off.

  “No answer is still an answer, Cheyenne. You signed up to manage three bull shifters, and you don’t know how we work, do you?”

  “It seems I stepped in a pond that is little over my head.”

  “Nah, you stepped in the middle of the ocean. Rule number one with bull shifters, especially the dominant ones: Blood is normal. Fighting is normal. Violence is normal. Breaking stuff?”

  “Let me guess. Normal.”

  “Exactly. But I won’t hurt you. The boys won’t either. We are all hyper aware of our bodies and how much space we take up. Maybe we look like big ol’ lugs out there in the arena, bucking with no rhyme or reason, but there is rhyme. There is reason.”

  “I know that part,” she said softly. “I’ve watched every ride you’ve ever done on the circuit.”

  His eyes sparked with something deep. “You have?”

  She nodded. Cleared her throat. “I mean, I had to research you. All of you. I’ve watched all the game tape of Dead and Quickdraw, too. So…you know. Not just you. Because that would be weird.” She laughed nervously and finished cleaning his hand.

  When she was done and looked back up at him, he was studying her with this soft look in his blue eyes. The color there was utterly human. She could imagine him as just a man right then, a normal moment between a boy working out and a girl tending to him.

  “Thank you for washing the blood from my hands. I usually do that for myself,” he said, darkness tinging his tone.

  And there it was. He wasn’t normal. And her being widowed so young wasn’t normal, and nothing she felt in this moment made any sense.

  “I have a flight to catch,” she said low. Why did she want to stay? She had a life. She needed a break from the chaos of the last few days. She needed to check on her coffee shop and organize the travel and food an
d meetings and interviews for the boys for the next event.

  But…

  Standing here, looking up into his clear-blue-sky eyes, she wished she could put off real life for a little longer.

  “What happened last night can’t happen again, Cheyenne,” he rumbled.

  “I know,” she murmured, dropping her gaze.

  His finger hooked under her chin and lifted her attention back to him. “Rule number two: Never show submission.”

  “To bulls?”

  He shook his head slightly. “To any man. You hold their gaze, you grit your teeth, and you stay in the moment. You’re good, Cheyenne. You’re gonna make a name for yourself as a bull agent. You’re the first. You’ll be the legend, and it’s gonna look like you stormed in here and took everyone on, no cares given. It won’t always feel like that, but it’ll look like it. I’m gonna make sure of it.” He repeated, “You’re good,” before he gave her a small smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “The world don’t know it yet, but you have a bull behind you. No one will mess with you anymore. I owe you protection.”

  “You don’t owe me anything.”

  “I took your protection from you, Cheyenne. Tarik ain’t here anymore to push you through a man’s world. That’s a man’s job, to back his lady up while she rises. And to lift his fist or his voice to anyone who disrespects her along the way. And there will be disrespect. Tarik ain’t here, and I’m not your man, but I’ll protect you quietly just the same. You get in a spot? You call me by my real name. Just one word. Say the word, and I’ll stop whatever is happening.”

  She was so choked with emotion she could barely speak. “I thought your real name is Two Shots Down.”

  “That’s the name everyone else knows. My family calls me something different.”

  “What is your name?” she whispered, feeling the weight of the gift he was about to give her.

  “Dalton. Say that word, and I’ll fix it, whatever it is.”

  Chills rippled up her arms, and she nodded. “I won’t tell anyone your real name. Your secret is safe with me.”

  His smile stretched his face and finally reached his eyes. “I know. Go catch your flight, go back to your life. I’ll see you Thursday.”

  She wasn’t ready. Wasn’t ready to leave and not see him for four days. Wasn’t ready to say goodbye, which didn’t make a lick of sense because she barely knew him. Right? Barely knew him. But…it felt like she did. It felt like she had this connection with him because of what they’d both gone through. Tarik had shaken both of their worlds.

  But it wasn’t just the tragedy that bound them. The more she got to know about him—the real him, not the monster in the press—the more deeply she wished to know more.

  She’d been dormant for years, and Two Shots Down was the one who had shaken her shoulder.

  He was the reason she was waking up.

  Chapter Eight

  Leaned back against the porch railing, Two Shots Down stared at the horses running in front of the sunset and took a long drink of his cold beer. This was the part of his life he’d always enjoyed the most—the quiet.

  Oh, the crowds were fun, the attention, the fire that burned in his blood when interviewers pried too deep, the girls watching him, the men wanting to be him or kill him. The rage of the bull.

  But this? When he and his bull could agree on something. When they were at peace. This was the most important part of his life.

  His phone lit up beside him, and he jerked his gaze to it, feeling a stupid wave of hope that it was her—Cheyenne.

  She’d done good for three days. No texting him outside the loop she’d set up for him and Dead and Quickdraw. And he’d done good to ignore the itinerary and professional talk about what needed to happen this weekend for the first leg of the Battle of the Bulls events.

  The big TV stations were showing up now with the new funding, the new attention, the rumors he and Cheyenne had accidentally dredged up. His plan to bring in Noni and take the heat off Cheyenne hadn’t worked, but manipulating the media never did. The media was too good at playing games. They were the only winners. Now he looked like trash, two-timing both girls, breaking hearts when he’d broken neither.

  Cheyenne was probably catching so much heat, but she hadn’t mentioned it.

  Good girl.

  He’d said the kiss couldn’t happen again, and she was distancing like a pro.

  Good girl.

  It wasn’t Cheyenne on the text. It was Dead. He’d sent a picture of a mole on his calf and asked the loop, Should I get this checked out?

  Two Shots Down hated the loop. Those assholes were obnoxious. Even Quickdraw, who seemed to hate answering texts as much as Two Shots Down. The only responses he’d given so far were the middle finger emojis every day at two in the morning. It was like he was setting an alarm to do it. Damn response always woke him up in the middle of the night. Probably that’s what Quickdraw meant to do.

  His phone lit up with a text again. And there it was, that little wave of hope. Again. So annoying.

  You’re definitely dying. Oh, look, Quickdraw did know how to respond after all.

  Two Shots Down couldn’t help his smile and took another pull of his beer.

  The phone lit up, and this time his hope was rewarded.

  Cheyenne’s message read, Dead, once again, this isn’t what this loop is meant for. Professional stuff only.

  Can you take a look at my mole in person tomorrow? Dead asked.

  No! No one on the planet wants to see your GD mole. Whoo, Cheyenne was feisty today. Sexy.

  Grinning, Two Shots picked up his phone to better enjoy the shit-show that was Dead.

  Why are you grumpy? I’m trying to bond with you as my agent.

  You’re trying to annoy me early.

  Early?

  I have one more day off from you before your shenanigans tomorrow. I’m relaxing tonight. Stop sending pictures of your body parts.

  A picture came through from Cheyenne, and Two Shots Down’s heart beat faster as he sat up straight and set his beer down so he could zoom in.

  It was a picture of Cheyenne’s hand, graceful fingers wrapped around the stem of a glass of red wine. Her nails were painted a different color from last week—light pink. She was sitting on a porch, and the yard behind the glass of wine was ankle high with weeds and dandelions. There was an old oak in the yard, the roots of which had overgrown and ripped up a cracked sidewalk. He could just see the back end of her Expedition parked on the street, and a row of small houses lined the other side of the street, but were so blurred he could barely make them out.

  This was Cheyenne’s home, right? Or was she at a man’s house? Possessiveness, deep and dark, roiled through his stomach, and the bull inside of him snorted. What the hell? Where had that come from? She wasn’t his.

  He chewed on his thumbnail. He hadn’t responded to the loop all week because he had a plan to keep feelings from lingering between him and Cheyenne. Talking would only make him want her more, and she deserved a better life than the one he could give her. She deserved better than the mess that always seemed to hover around him. She deserved better than the man who killed her man.

  But something deep in his gut had to know. Had to.

  Is that home? Send.

  Yes, she replied. For now. My lease is up in a month. I’m renting it.

  Dead sent a picture of a bar top with shelves of whiskey lined in front of him. In his hand was a half-full shot glass. My home, he said.

  Quickdraw sent a picture of his heavily tattooed hand flipping off a bucking chute. He must’ve been training tonight. And that drive right there is what made him the number one bull right now.

  Two Shots Down lifted his beer and took a picture of it. The horses were on the other side of the pasture, but the sunset was still pretty. Send.

  Wow, Dead messaged. The elusive Two Shots Down outs his ranch. I’m sending this to the hot reporter for KHH.

  And just like that, I’ll never share another pi
cture again. Send.

  Good, Quickdraw said. This is fuckin’ weird. I’m leaving the loop.

  I’ll just add you back. Again. From Cheyenne.

  Don’t add him back. I’m tired of his middle fingers at two in the morning. They always wake me up, Dead announced.

  Idiot. Now Quickdraw was probably gonna set alarms every hour at night to annoy them all the more. Dead was a good bucker, but he had no brain cells firing sometimes.

  Gotta go, hot chick at the bar started talking to me, Dead said.

  Make good decisions, Cheyenne advised him.

  She got the eggplant emoji back from Dead, and Two Shots caught himself grinning. Grinning. Him.

  He went and named the group The Asshole Herd and opened a new text. This time it was just Cheyenne he messaged. You need to mow your yard. Send.

  My lawn mower is broken. Stop harshing my mellow. And besides, maybe I like weeds.

  Where is home? Send.

  If I tell you, I’ll have to kill you.

  You could try. I heal fast so you’ll have to poison me or something. Send.

  I could do that with my cooking. I burned a microwave dinner tonight. She added the eyeroll emoji, and he laughed.

  Him. Laughed. Out loud. Damn near startled himself with the noise. I’m drinking my dinner tonight. Send.

  You’re drinking my favorite kind of beer. And your pasture is beautiful. That’s one helluva place to call home.

  Did you look at the picture more than once? Send.

  Why did he ask that? Why? He was breaking his rules.

  Yes. Did you look at mine more than once?

  Looking at it a second time now. Send.

  Why are you drinking your dinner, Two? You should be doing high protein today and tomorrow. I’ve been a super nerd, researching nutrition for you boys. I have readymade high protein meals being delivered to you starting next week. They’re already ordered. It won’t cover every meal, but just for the days y’all are busy and don’t have time to cook. You can freeze them and heat them when you need it.