by T. S. Joyce
Cameras flashing, cameras flashing. This was the buck of his career. Two Shots was airborne again, this time lower in the air, but using his power to spin hard to the right. Hatchet was holding on for dear life, but his legs were barely over Two Shots’ back anymore. He was on his way down.
Milliseconds were ticking off.
Buck him, buck him, buck him!
Her heart was in her throat.
Two Shots slammed to the earth again in an explosion of dust, twisted hard, and Hatchet was jerked to the side before he could re-balance himself. He yelled as he went flying through the air.
Cheyenne couldn’t drag her eyes fast enough to the stopped clock hanging above the crowd. 4.2 seconds. The clock had stopped at 4.2.
She threw her hands in the air and yelled as loud as her heart wished. The crowd was going crazy with cheering and booing. The arena was deafening, the camera flashes blinding, and Two Shots was still bucking.
A man on a huge black horse charged up beside him and released the rope from his waist. He gave a few last bucks before he trotted around the arena, head held high and proud. As he passed where his father was leaning on the rail, he charged it at the last second and slammed into the gate, bending the metal and knocking his father backward. He looked furious, eyes solid black as he straightened his spine and glared at his son.
Two Shots backed up a few powerful steps, then dragged his hoof through the dirt, kicking it up in a cloud across his ribs.
Oh, God, he could get over that fence so easily. He could jump it. The high bucks had proved that, and his idiot father was challenging him. He could hurt everyone sitting around his dad just to get to him. He would to. She could tell the rage had him swollen with power. He would never forgive himself.
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.
The bull was tensed, the cowboy on the black horse was speeding for him, rope swinging above his head. Another cowboy was right behind him, also racing for Two Shots. Yep, they saw what she saw. The risk. The fury.
Say the word, and I’ll stop whatever is happening.
Heart hammering, she gripped the railing she was sitting on and screamed, “Dalton!”
His head was down, ready to go right through that fence, but Two Shots snorted and jerked his head to her. The second their eyes locked, she knew it would be okay. There was understanding there. “Don’t,” she murmured, shaking her head. “He’s not worth it.”
She didn’t know how good a bull shifter’s hearing was, or if he could hear her over the roar of the crowed. Around the echo of the commentators announcing Two Shots’ score. Around the screams of panic from the spectators fleeing the seats around Denim Dodger. But he understood.
He jerked at the last second, and the rope loop missed his head by an inch. He bolted away and did his lap. Fear and excitement trilled through the air, and she smiled at her Two Shots. He was magnificent.
Something flickered in the center of the arena, and she squinted as a familiar form came into focus. “Tarik?” she whispered to herself.
She scrambled down the fencing into the chute, took a tentative step out of the open gate. “Tarik?” she asked louder as he stood still in the middle, just staring at her. He was wearing the clothes he’d died in. Same blue plaid shirt, same black cowboy hat, same Wranglers, same dirt-covered boots, same protective riding vest.
He couldn’t be here. Couldn’t be.
The crowd was screaming something. Screaming, but she couldn’t understand the words over the white noise roaring in her ears.
Beside her, Quickdraw was slamming against the gate, and down the chutes, Dead of Winter was doing the same.
A massive form trotted in front of her, so close she could feel the power roiling off of Two Shots.
She should be scared, but she wasn’t. He was hers and she was his. He wouldn’t hurt her. He paced in front of her, eyes on Tarik.
Tarik looked from Two Shots Down to Cheyenne. “I’m sorry.”
She could hear it so clearly in her head—his apology.
Her face crumpled, and her eyes burned with tears. “It’s okay.” She swallowed hard and glanced at Two Shots who was trotting protectively back and forth in front of her. “I’m okay.”
When Tarik nodded, Two Shots charged him. Ran straight for him, and Cheyenne gasped as he went right through the ghost, tossing his head.
Tarik faded in a cloud of blue on contact and then disappeared like he’d never existed there at all.
Cheyenne stood there stunned, her own words ringing through her head.
Even she’d been able to hear the truth in her tone.
She really was okay.
Chapter Nineteen
Two Shots bolted out of the bathroom, still tugging his black T-shirt over his head. There were only two bulls to buck between him and Quickdraw, and he wanted to see how he and Dead did.
That, and he had an awful feeling in the pit of his stomach being separated from Cheyenne right now. She’d seen Tarik. She’d gone white as a sheet and been staring right at the ghost in the middle of the arena. He had to know she was all right.
He jogged down the dirty alley toward the chutes. He could see her up behind Quickdraw’s chute. She’d been there making sure no one fucked with him before he bucked. God, he loved her. She was this caring, beautiful woman, but a savage guard dog to anyone who messed with them.
She would’ve made one helluva shifter.
She tossed a glance over her shoulder, worry in her soft brown eyes, but when her gaze landed on him, her whole face lit up with relief.
He did that to a woman. Him. Gnarly, gritty, foul-mouthed, punch-first-ask-questions-later bull shifter about seven levels below her league, but she was looking at him like he hung the moon. He didn’t know what he’d done in his past lives to deserve a girl like her, but he was gonna make sure he earned her care in this life, too.
“Hey, Dalton.”
Two Shots Down skidded to a stop at the sound of his dad’s raspy voice. He’d never forgotten what it sounded like.
“Looks like he’s about ready to go…” The commentator announced. “Quickdraw Slow Burn versus the one and only Roddy Brander!”
Two Shots huffed out a breath and turned slowly, his fists clenched at his side. “Only friends and family call me Dalton, and you ain’t either. You can call me Two Shots if you ever have cause to call me anything.”
“Now, come on, son—”
“I’m not your son. My dad is sitting by the TV with my mom right now. He’s doing the same thing they’ve done my whole career. Wearin’ their lucky Team Two shirts. He’s probably got his arm thrown around her, he’s made her all her favorite foods, and he’s probably refilling her glass of red wine right now because she gets hella nervous when I buck or when someone is close to taking my rank. My dad’s watching the other bulls right now and writing down our scores on a piece of paper, wishing to hell he could afford to take my mom to every event I bucked in. My dad’s name is Brick Stevens, not Denim Dodger. You know why? Because any man can make a baby and call himself a dad, but he ain’t. The man isn’t a dad until he’s a good one. Until he earns that name. You didn’t earn it. Brick did. He took me in when I was a little shit, spinning out of control, managing a growing bull in me. And you know what he did? He treated my momma good. He taught me how to treat a mate good. He showed me how to be a man, and he helped train the monster you put in me,” Two shots gritted out, pounding his fist against his chest twice. “A human man came in and taught me how to be a good bull shifter. Don’t that beat all? That’s a dad.”
Denim clenched his teeth and ran his hands through his graying hair, shook his head and growled out, “It was a long time ago.”
“Not long enough.” Two Shots tipped an imaginary hat. “You have a good day, stranger.”
“I’m proud of you,” Denim called after him.
Without turning
around, Two Shots said, “You haven’t talked to me in two decades. You’re only proud of me because you think I’m worth a damn now. Go get your attention somewhere else.” Two Shots turned and walked backward a few steps so Denim could see the honesty in his eyes when he said, “Next time you approach me, I’ll lay you the fuck out. That’s your only warning.”
Past behind him…future ahead of him. He left Denim there looking after him in a dirt alleyway and made his way toward the woman who had stood on the fence for him in more ways than one.
Her cheeks were all rosy and she was celebrating, cheering her head off. She saw him and came barreling at him. “Oh, my God! Did you see it on the big screen? Did you see Quickdraw?” He scooped her up, the little cannonball, before she barreled them both over.
“Nah, I had something to take care of.”
Her frown was instant, drawing down her dark, delicate eyebrows. “Someone was messing with you? A rider?” She gasped. “Your dad? I’ll kill him. I’ll string him up by his boots and—”
He chuckled and kissed her fast to bring back her smile. And the answering grin as she slowly opened her eyes and looked up at him loosened something in his soul. Who cared about his dad and whatever intentions he had? He was ghost of his past, just like Tarik. Everything he needed was right here. “Come on, lil Pitbull.” He grabbed her hand and jogged with her to the elevated platform behind the chutes so they could see Quickdraw’s score when it came up. The massive brown and white bull was the titan of the arena, charging at all the bull fighters and cowboys on horseback. Monster.
Two Shots snorted when he slammed into a barrel with a bull fighter tucked into it. The thing went sailing and rolled all the way to the other side of the arena to the cheers of the crowd. Quickdraw sure knew how to put on a show. He always tried to fight everyone after a buck. And before a buck. Even when he was supposed to just be relaxing.
Two Shots kinda liked that about him, but he wouldn’t ever say that out loud.
Two cowboys on big barrel-chested horses had to rope Quickdraw’s neck and drag him through the gates so the next bull could buck.
“Up next is one of them South Dakota bulls. You know, we haven’t met a bull shifter out of South Dakota that hasn’t made a name for himself in this circuit. That state just produces tough-as-leather, power-house buckers,” one of the commentators announced.
“Buck yeah, it does!” the other joined in. “Now that we’re starting to get a little more interested in these shifters, we’re being handed new information. This bull is a rank one to watch with a career record of 372 attempts and only twelve eight-second rides.”
“Twelve?” the other asked.
“Twelve. A dozen. Hailing from a trailer park right outside of Deadwood, Dead of Winter is the son of a half Brahman, half Texas Longhorn bull shifter, and his mother is…wait for it…”
“What, Randy? His mother is what?”
“A human! That’s right ladies and gents! This bull is only half shifter, but he’s all brawn.”
“What in the hell?” Two Shots murmured under his breath.
“But he doesn’t like humans,” Cheyenne said, looking just as shocked as he felt.
He helped her up on the platform and gripped the top metal rail of Dead’s chute. He was still as a statue. Mayday. Oh, he was hurting. Two Shots could smell the pain wafting from him. It made the air all bitter tasting.
“Keep us together,” Cheyenne told him softly. “You hear me?”
Dead of Winter was staring straight ahead as Jack Tethers was adjusting himself on his back. The flankmen needed more space to work the rope around his waist, but Dead wasn’t fighting at all. Shit.
“Hey!” Two Shots yelled over the side.
Slowly, Dead lifted his head and locked his gaze.
Two Shots arched his eyebrows and leveled him with a look. “Prove to those assholes you ain’t no human. Buck ’em up, fuck ’em up.”
Dead’s eyes narrowed and his ears went flat, and on his back, Jack nodded that he was ready.
And when the gateman pulled that gate, all the dread in Two Shots’ stomach disappeared.
Why?
Because Dead. Went. Wild.
He rocketed out the gate and did something that was completely out of his style. He did low fast spins. There was no big bucks, but he wasn’t landing hard on that shoulder either. The crowd was going crazy, and that eight-second buzzer was about two seconds from going off. And right when Jack got some confidence in the spin, Dead popped up his back end with a massive kick and switched directions before Jack could find his seat again. He held onto the rope, but his body went flying. He hit Dead’s side, but his hand was caught in the ropes.
“Oh, my gosh,” Cheyenne whispered, burying her face in Two Shots’ shoulder.
The second Jack’s hand was free, Two Shots cupped her face against him and murmured, “He’s out, he’s out, he’s okay.”
Jack had to make a run for the fence as Dead charged at him and two of the bullfighters, swinging his horns at anything that moved within reach. He was limping on that bad shoulder, but it didn’t look like it had popped out of place. Small blessings. Right now, he didn’t look hurt at all. Just pissed off.
“He’s baaaack,” Cheyenne sang softly.
“How did he do?” Quickdraw asked, huffing breath like he’d run to get to the chutes. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, and his entire torso was covered in tattoos.
The crowd had been loud with Dead’s ride, but the second the cameras panned over to Quickdraw, built like a tank, eight-pack abs, shoulders the size of boulders and tattoos down both arms and across his chest, the ladies in the crowd upped the volume to deafening.
Quickdraw looked down at himself with the grumpiest frown in the world. “I forgot my shirt.”
“Haaaaaaaaaa,” Cheyenne brayed. She pulled her phone out of her pocket and took a picture. Why was he covering his nethers? He had jeans on. Two had never seen anyone more uncomfortable in their own skin than Quickdraw right now.
“What are you doing?” Quickdraw groused at Cheyenne.
She was poking buttons on her phone. “Updating your Instagram page.”
“I don’t have one of those!”
“All three of you do. I made them, and I post to them to make all the little buckle bunnies fall in love with you.” She gestured to a pair of signs near them in the stands that read, Dead, Dead, get in my Bed, and also Quickdraw for President. “Those fans are my doing.”
Quickdraw swiped at her phone to steal it, but Two Shots knocked his hand away.
“Ooooh, the big bad moo is too slooooow,” Cheyenne teased.
Two Shots laughed and gave her a fist bump.
“I hate both of you,” Quickdraw muttered. “Forty-two point seven five.” He gestured to the score on bottom of the big screen mounted from the ceiling on the other side of the arena. On television, there was Quickdraw, pointing.
Cheyenne cackled a laugh.
“Why is the camera still on me?” Quickdraw bellowed to the cameraman standing in the arena. “Put it on the bull who just bucked! This is Dead’s moment!” He jammed his finger at an empty arena.
“Uuuuh,” Cheyenne murmured out of the side of her mouth. “Dead already went back to change.”
God, this was amusing. Two Shots didn’t even have to say anything. He just got to witness Quickdraw slowly cover up his nipples with his fingers, back off the podium, and then bolt down the stairs toward the changing rooms again.
“He already has eighteen new followers,” Cheyenne muttered, grinning at her phone screen.
“How many followers do I have?” he asked out of curiosity.
“Uuuuh…” She poked over to another account. “Twelve thousand and eight so far. These are a way for you boys to connect to your fans and win some humans over.”
“By doing what?”
“Either showing your softer side or posting shirtless pics. I don’t care how you do it. So far, I have them balanced with both.” With a che
eky grin, she showed him her phone screen. There were five pictures of him. Two were of him as a bull mid-buck. They looked like professional pictures. One was of him shirtless, getting out of a swimming hole and smiling at the camera.”
She pointed to that one. “I found it on Google. Delicious.”
Mortified, he looked at the last two pictures. One was of him mid-laugh in one of the pictures Dead had taken of them eating. She’d cut herself out of the picture. And the last one was of him sleeping, the soft glow of the bathroom light illuminating his peaceful face.
“You took that picture last night. In the hotel room. I recognize your room.”
She nodded. “Yeah, I couldn’t help it. You looked…perfect. At peace. Happy.” That’s the one with the most likes so far. You don’t look like such a monster in that one, Two Shots Down.”
“I’m fine with all those pictures but one.”
“Which one?”
The commentators were prepping the crowd for First Time Train Wreck to buck, so he had to lift his voice a little higher so she could hear him. “Put yourself back in the picture of me laughing. That’s the real picture. The reason I’m laughing is you. I don’t like that you cropped yourself out.”
“Really? You want me on your page?”
“I ain’t there to pick up chicks, Cheyenne. I didn’t even know I had a page. If you want the humans to see the real side of me, then put you in there. Put something that matters.”
Her eyes got real big like a puppy dog’s and filled with emotion. Over a picture? “You look mushy as hell.”
“I’m not mushy!”
“It’s scary,” he joked.
She swatted him on the arm. “Boy, you give me butterflies! If you say nice things, I’m going to get mushy. I’m a girl. It’s just what happens to me.”
First Time Train Wreck came out of the gate and started a good buck just as Quickdraw, with a shirt on, and Dead, acting mighty tender with his arm, showed up on the podium with the rest of the crowd of bull riders and shifters.
Train Wreck was the one that could throw a wrench in this little team they had going.
