by Drake, Laura
“Now, Max.”
He thrust, moaning as he filled her. But it wasn’t enough. She tightened her embrace, wanting to fuse to him as her greedy body strained for more. When she bit his shoulder, he groaned and thrust deep. This is what she wanted. What she needed. Max. Hard, brutal, fast. She threw her head back as he pumped his hips. His teeth raked her neck, sending shocks coursing to the only part of her that existed—the part connected to him. He grunted, speeding up, as she clung, the raging storm inside wiping out everything.
Her voice was husky in her own ears. “I’m here. Take me.”
Their slick bodies slid, his fingers digging in the soft skin of her butt as he bucked against her, harder, faster. “Yes.” She panted. “Oh, yes.” Her muscles clenched around him, straining to pull him closer, even as she splintered apart.
Suddenly, it was too much. Terrified she’d lose herself and not be able to find her way back, she clung to him, head buried in his neck as the orgasm went on and on. With a deep growl in her ear, he strained as he emptied himself into her.
“I love you.” It slipped out on her labored breath. On the heels of surprise, an amazing joy burst in her chest. In wonder, she whispered it again, just to test the words. “I love you.”
Bree dragged in several deep breaths and slowly, reluctantly, unwound herself, sliding down the wall and out of his arms.
He missed her arm on the way by. “Bree, wait.”
Shy, and afraid of his response, she gathered his clothes, filling his arms with them. “Hurry, Max, we’re late.”
He stood, chest heaving. “Bree, we have to talk.”
She kissed her fingers and touched them to his lips. “What we have to do is grab a shower. We are really late.” She hurried to the bathroom, leaving him naked but for his shirt and a confused expression.
Closing the door, she leaned against it, her heart trying to pound out of her chest. Lord, she’d done it now.
Hearing the outer door open and close, she was grateful that he was old-fashioned, insisting he and Wyatt room together. She needed some time. Telling him she loved him before divulging her past hadn’t been in the plan. Strangely, she didn’t feel the least bit sorry. She wouldn’t take back the words for anything.
But. She touched her throat as the happy bubble in her chest popped and icy doubts trickled in. The spigot opened on the acid bath in her gut. I still have to tell him.
Would he think she’d said it to soften the sledgehammer blow of her past? Or worse, to manipulate him? She reached to turn on the shower. Surely he knew her well enough to know the truth when he heard it? And who knew? Maybe knowing she loved him would tip the scales when the weight hit the other side of the scale.
The remainder of the day stood before her like a mountain on the horizon back home. She knew that today would always stand out on the landscape of her life.
As either a triumph or her greatest failure.
CHAPTER
25
They checked in at the coliseum and were issued laminated exhibitor badges to hang on lanyards around their necks. Max and Wyatt headed for the bull enclosures to check on Fire Ant. Since they’d been too rushed to eat lunch, Bree volunteered to buy hot dogs. There was no way her burning stomach could handle food, but she wasn’t ready for questions from Max.
Someone jostled her in passing, intruding on her thoughts. Bree glanced around, becoming aware of the changes in the concourse. The place was mobbed. People of all shapes and sizes crowded the opposing traffic lanes. Wranglers and cowboy hats were the order of the day, and light glinted off more than one massive silver belt buckle. In her jeans, boots, cowgirl hat, and hot-pink Western shirt, she fit right in. Bree smiled down at a towheaded toddler in Western garb, authentic right down to the neckerchief and tiny red cowboy boots.
The worst bottleneck formed around the beer vendor, and as the crowd moved her closer, Bree saw why. Young girls hired as booth bait were dressed in outfits reminiscent of the Dallas Cowboy cheerleaders. Only smaller—their largest item of clothing being their ten-gallon hats. The noise of the crowd echoed off the high ceiling, amplifying it to a roar. A rollicking country song blared from the speakers, and the smell of hot dogs, popcorn, nachos, and beer mingled to produce the signature aroma of any sporting event.
Bree eyed the food concessions in passing. Their lines snaked into the hallway traffic, forcing an eddy in the flow as people dodged around them. It would take a good fifteen minutes to get to the counter. Pulling her cell phone from her pocket, she checked the time. The boys were going to have to wait to eat. She fell out of the crowd at the end of the concourse and took the stairs two at a time.
She trotted to the bull enclosures, noting that Fire Ant seemed more alert than usual as he paced the fence. Bulls bawled and owners hustled, getting ready.
Max straightened from where he leaned on the fence, Wyatt at his side. “Good, you’re back. I’ve got to get the flank rope from the truck.”
She cocked her head. “I’ve got it, Max. Why don’t you guys find your seats? And don’t even think of getting something to eat. It’s a mob scene up there.”
“You mean to flank the bull?” Max frowned. “It’s dangerous. No place for a—”
He glanced to Wyatt’s frown. “Oh, all right. I’m evolving. I’m evolving.”
Wyatt addressed the bull. “Break a leg, buddy.” He gave Bree a quick hug, then threw an arm over his brother’s shoulders. “Come on, Maxie. Let’s let this lady get to work.”
The announcer’s voice blared from the loudspeakers, welcoming everyone to the PBR. The rodeo clown warmed up the crowd, dashing into the stands and dancing with members of the audience.
Bree listened with half an ear as she tugged her surprise from a carryall. The soft flank rope was hot pink. A young man carrying a clipboard wandered up and introduced himself as a “color man.” It was his job to get information on the riders and the bulls for the announcer to use. A copy would be given to the TV announcers as well.
He eyed the gaudy rope in her hand. “Hey, you must be the outfit with the pink sign on the truck. What’s the deal?” She explained, and he scribbled furiously.
When a bull handler opened the gate to Fire Ant’s enclosure and prodded him into the maze of alleyways that led to the bucking chutes, Bree excused herself. She wasn’t worried about her bull. The handlers she’d met were professional and gentle. Fire Ant would be put in a queue in the order he’d perform. She’d told them he bucked better from a right-hand delivery, so he’d be in one of the three chutes on the right. Bulls were like people that way, and Fire Ant was right-handed.
The mood of the tight area behind the chutes crackled with subdued excitement and testosterone. Riders in chaps and spurs spread stickum on their ropes, stretched, meditated with iPods, or joked with their buddies. Here were all the riders Bree had watched on TV every week at the ranch. God, they looked even younger in person! Thirty was grandpa status for a bull rider, and some of these kids couldn’t be more than eighteen, struggling to grow a soul patch on their pimply chins. Young they might be, but Bree was in awe of the courage it took to straddle a one-ton animal that wanted nothing more than to gore you and then stomp your guts out.
She got more than one sidelong glance, being the only woman. Or maybe it was the hot-pink rope. Bree sidled up to a group of bull owners. They tipped their hats and conversation died midsentence. Okay, so she didn’t fit in here either.
Spying Fire Ant in the alley, she walked over. Might as well get him ready. Picking up a bent metal hook, she climbed the pole fence beside him. Shaking out the flank rope, she laid it across his back to dangle, then reached under his belly with the hook to catch the eye in the end of the rope and lifted it. Centering the rope just in front of his hips, she tied it in a loose half hitch and jumped down. The pink showed off well against his dark spots.
“You look maaavelous, darling.” The bull studiously ignored her. Bree stepped back, comparing him with the others in line. He was a dwarf
among giants, and his cockeyed horns gave him an air of confusion. Add the pink rope, and even she had to admit he looked downright comical. “That’s okay, baby. It’s not the size of the dog in the fight. You hold your head up and show them what a Colorado bull can do.”
The line moved up, signaling that they’d loaded the first bulls in the chutes. She gave Fire Ant a pat on the hip and walked to the edge of the stands to watch.
The lights were doused and the crowd went quiet in anticipation. A roadie touched a torch to the fuel oil on the ground in front of the bucking chutes. A soft blue flame advanced, spelling out “PBR.”
A fountain of fireworks shot almost to the roof as the announcer’s voice boomed in the dark arena, introducing the attending past champion riders one by one. The spotlights hit them where they posed on platforms, high above the chutes. Each raised his hat in salute, and the capacity crowd went wild.
Bree smiled at the Hollywood dramatics, but her body reacted anyway. Anticipation fizzed like champagne in her veins and spread to the entire building. She was swept up and carried along on a wave of gut-tightening excitement.
As the lights came up, the safety roper galloped into the arena on a flashy Appaloosa. Like the bullfighters who ran in the arena after him, he’d be there to help protect the downed riders.
After a prayer and the national anthem, the announcer called the crowd’s attention to the first chute on the left, where a tiny cowboy straddled the chute, his head dwarfed by his hat. He settled on a tall, rangy, slab-sided bull with a wicked twist to his long horns. Bree leaned against the rail, heart in her throat. How could the kid’s mother stand to watch this?
The little cowboy nodded, and they swung the gate open. The bull lunged into the arena, kicking almost vertically. The rider was thrown immediately, and the bull stopped bucking when he spied the vulnerable target scrabbling on the dirt, trying to get away. Bree stopped breathing as the bull put his head down and charged. One of the bullfighters “shot the gap,” running between the bull and the downed rider, offering a better target. It worked. The bull charged after the bullfighter instead, who scooted to the edge of the arena and jumped to safety on the fence.
Dirt that flew from the bull’s hooves pattered the front of her shirt as he galloped by. When the clown threw his hat at the bull from the safety of the shark’s cage, the laughter of the crowd broke the tension. The safety roper cantered into position behind the runaway and herded him to the exit gate.
A guillotine-style gate lifted and a huge red bull squeezed into the chute next to Bree. She looked across the arena to see Fire Ant trot into the last chute.
It was time. In fifteen minutes Total Bull would go from dream to reality.
Or dream to nightmare.
She crossed the back of the chutes, half wanting to run to the nearest exit.
A fat man with a clipboard barred the steps to the catwalk. “Sorry, missy. This is for owners and riders only.”
She lifted the laminated badge from her chest. “I’m flanking my bull.” The man squinted at her badge, then reluctantly stepped aside, disapproval apparent on his pudgy face.
“I may have happened upon the last pocket of prehistoric men on earth,” she grumbled, wending her way through the riders and TV cameramen.
The rider directly above Fire Ant’s chute bounced on the balls of his feet, pulling at his gloves, blowing deep breaths. Bree took her position at the bull’s hips. Surprise dawned on the young man’s face, but he reached to shake her hand. “Thanks for the opportunity, ma’am.”
She flushed, a bit in awe to be meeting the number-three bull rider in the world. “Good luck, cowboy.”
The cameraman took it all in. Bree leaned over the bars to snug up the flank rope, measuring fit by sliding the width of her hand under the rope. Just right.
Her ears perked, hearing her name. The announcer broadcast, “The next bull is new to the Built Ford Tough Series. The Total Bull outfit has made a stir this weekend with their female owner and pink logo. Let’s see what the little guy can do.”
The cowboy straddled the fence and lowered himself onto Fire Ant’s back. Several riders offered advice and encouragement as he jerked his hand along the rope to warm the stickum. A cowboy on the arena side of the chute pulled the rope taut, then passed it to the rider, to wrap his hand in the rigging.
“This is going to be a piece of cake, little dude like this,” one of his friends said.
“You get bucked off by a bull this small, you owe me dinner,” said another.
Bree’s voice sounded loud in the sudden silence. “You kick butt, Fire Ant!” The cowboys sniggered. She didn’t care. She kissed her fingers and patted her bull’s flank. “You show ’em, baby.”
Time seemed to slow as Bree studied the young man’s profile. A muscle worked in his jaw, his face hard and focused. He bore down, then nodded.
As the gate opened, Fire Ant exploded, leaping high out of the chute and landing with his signature bone-jarring thump. He started his usual fast spin to the right. The rider was caught a bit behind at first, but shifted his hips in a brilliant move to catch up and negate the strength of the spin. Bree held her breath and glanced quickly up at the clock: 3.45. The numbers whizzed by. If something didn’t happen soon, the rider was going to make the eight-second buzzer.
Fire Ant stopped dead, hesitated and spun the opposite way. The rider wasn’t ready; he lost his balance first, then the grip with his spurs. Centrifugal force caught and cartwheeled him into the dirt. The bullfighters moved in, but they needn’t have bothered.
The minute the rider was off, Fire Ant stopped bucking. He stopped still, looking as if he were posing for the cameras. Everyone scrambled out of the way as Fire Ant strutted slowly to the exit, head held high, as if to say, “Don’t waste my time.”
Bree finally remembered to breathe, taking in a huge lungful of air as the announcer came on. “The judges score the bull 46.25 out of a possible 50.” The crowd cheered. “People might not want to laugh at that little guy’s pink flank rope. I think it ticks him off.”
Bree bounced on the balls of her feet and looked to the stands. Her partners were both standing. Wyatt tugged on his neighbor’s arm, pointing at the arena and jumping up and down. Max pumped his fist in the air and sent a smile for her alone. Bree put her hand on her mouth and giggled. “He did it!” She turned to the cowboys. “Did you see that? Is that bull amazing or what?”
She jogged down the stairs, darted under the girders holding up the catwalk, bent over, and tried not to throw up.
Max and Wyatt got to the bull enclosure first. Fire Ant paced the small area, looking ready to take all comers.
Bree trotted up. Wyatt lifted and spun her in a circle, laughing. He put her down and backed away, frowning. “Are you feeling okay? You look a little green.”
“How could I not be fine after that?” She turned to Max. “Are you mad about the pink flank rope?”
Max was so proud of the bull he could kiss him. He settled instead for kissing Bree. “Honey, you can dress him up in a tutu if it’ll make him buck like that.”
He watched as Wyatt and Bree chattered, reliving every movement of the ride. In her pink cowgirl getup, you couldn’t tell her from a country girl.
Maybe she’s earned the right to be called a country girl. She’d certainly taken to the duties. Maybe her attitude wasn’t traditional, but he was learning to live with that. Bree’s admission this afternoon had brought him up short. He’d been so busy enjoying her the past month or so, he hadn’t thought about where it would lead. He should have realized she would.
He smiled. She may be a liberated businesswoman, but she’d be wanting to build a nest and settle down soon. It was how women were made.
Well, that was fine with him. Traditional or no, he loved this feisty woman. He’d let her make the arrangements, but he was looking forward to a long winter, snuggling with her in his bed as the storms howled outside.
He broke into their babble. “We’re
going out to celebrate tonight, at the fanciest steak restaurant this town’s got.” He rolled the hideous pink flank rope and returned it to the carryall. “You put on that pretty dress, honey, and Total Bull will show Denver what a party looks like.”
“We can dress up, but we don’t need to spend a lot of money.” Bree frowned. “I saw a Denny’s on the way in.”
Wyatt’s mouth dropped in horror. “Denny’s? That will not do. I’ll choose the restaurant, and it’s on me. I’ve got more than Total Bull’s success to celebrate tonight. On this trip, I’ve found my way back to my brother.” He nodded to Max. “So no arguments.” He put his arm around Bree. “Besides, I want to see you in those stilettos.”
Leaning over the bathroom sink in her underwear, Bree brushed on mascara. She’d decided not to put her hair up. Instead she caught the sides in matching tortoiseshell combs and left the rest to tumble to her shoulders. Not sophisticated, but the style more fit her new life. She adjusted the black lace halter bra and turned to check her butt in the matching high-rise underwear—sexy, but she hoped she wouldn’t be tugging them out of her crack all night. They were a bit skimpy.
She grabbed the pastel silk scarf for her neck. She looped it over her head, but then hesitated, taking a close look in the mirror. The scar seemed less red than earlier in the summer.
Could I?
Going without a scarf would feel like strutting through Walmart in her underwear. Tilting her head, she studied her neck from different angles. A thrill of daring shivered through her. In twenty-four hours, Max would know how she’d gotten it anyway.
Maybe it’s time to accept that this is who I am now. On her way by the bed, she let the bit of silk slip from her fingers.
No more hiding. Starting tomorrow, what you see is what you get with Bree Tanner—I mean Madison. No. Tanner.
She realized she didn’t want to be Aubrey Madison any longer. She was leaving that name behind along with the memories of who she used to be.
