Three Weeks With a Bull Rider

by Cat Johnson

  “Crap.” He needed to go find her. He pulled off his shorts and pulled on his jeans again, not taking the time to bother with underwear.

  Socks, boots, and a shirt, and he was ready to go. He shoved his room key and phone in his pocket, his hat on his head, and headed for the door, grabbing his truck keys along the way.

  Where the hell was he going to look for her? She couldn’t have gone too far on foot. He’d have to drive around and troll the streets like he was looking for a damn runaway dog.

  He headed out of the lot and turned toward the bar, figuring she’d walk in the direction they’d driven before, a way she was familiar with. How long had she been gone? Not incredibly long, but he didn’t see her on the main road and he’d already driven a mile. He was about to spin the truck around and head in the other direction when he saw Dillon’s truck still parked in the bar’s lot.

  Maybe she’d stopped in there. He could ask Dillon if he’d seen her. It was worth a shot, anyway. Jace pulled the truck into the lot for the second time that night, parked, and got out. He was surprised to see Dillon standing outside the front door.

  “Hey, Dillon.” Jace strode toward him. “Strange question, but have you seen Tara?”

  “Hang on, baby.” Dillon lowered the cell Jace hadn’t seen and hooked a thumb toward the door. “Yeah, she’s inside with Justin and Klint.”

  Smothering a curse, Jace grumbled something close to thanks and pushed through the door. He shouldn’t be surprised. She was nothing if not contrary. Doing the opposite of what he wanted was a perfect fit for her character. But leaving in tears, not saying where she was going and making him worry—that was unacceptable.

  He went to the table where Justin sat alone. “Where is she?”

  “Jace. Uh, hey. I thought you’d gone to bed.”

  “Is that what she told you? Forget it. I’m here. Where is she?”

  Justin swallowed hard and pointed toward the back.

  “The bathroom?” Jace asked. These weren’t difficult questions, so why was Justin having such a problem answering?

  “No. Um, not the bathroom.”

  “Justin, what the hell? Just tell me. Where is she?”

  “She’s in the closet with Klint.”

  “In the closet? Why?”

  “You know . . . for that game. Seven Minutes in Heaven?”

  Frowning, Jace pawed through his memories until he came up with what game Justin was referring to. When he finally put the pieces together, his blood pressure rose so high his scalp began to tingle.

  “She’s alone with Klint in the closet?”

  Tara could be making out, or worse. Hell, she could be having sex with Klint. It wasn’t out of the question. A young kid like that wouldn’t even take the full seven minutes before he shot off.

  “She said you weren’t together.” Wide-eyed and pale, Justin looked as afraid as Klint should be. “Jace, I swear to you we didn’t know—”

  He didn’t wait to hear Justin out. Jace was already on his way back to tear every door off its hinges until he yanked Tara out of whatever situation she’d stupidly gotten herself into.

  The choices were limited, which saved the bar the expense of replacing many broken hinges. He bypassed the two bathrooms and moved to the door between. Gripping the knob, he found it wasn’t locked. He turned it with a hand that shook with barely contained rage and yanked.

  Tara spilled out backward, with Klint glued to her.

  Jace caught her beneath the arms as she crashed into him.

  Klint was on his own. For all Jace cared, Klint could fall flat on his face—the face that had just been sucking on Tara’s.

  “Come on. We’re going.”

  “Stop telling me what to do.” She pouted with lips swollen from kissing.

  “Tara, don’t push me.” Jace rarely lost his temper. He felt close to losing it now.

  “Let go of me.”

  When she said that, he realized he held her by the back of the neck like a momma cat gripping her kitten. Too bad. It was this or throw her over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. He steered her toward the front of the bar as she tried to wiggle out of his grasp and swatted at him.

  Klint followed behind. “I think you should let go of her. If she doesn’t want to leave with you—”

  Jace spun to face the kid who dared to get in the middle of his private business with Tara. The expression on his face was enough to dissuade Klint from interfering. He stood silent and watched Jace, hand still on Tara, turn toward the front of the bar.

  As they neared the exit, the door opened and Dillon walked through. “Jace, what’s—”

  “Not now, Dillon.” Jace pushed past his friend and out the door into the parking lot. Still holding Tara by the back of the neck, he steered her to his truck’s passenger door, tugged it open, and waited for her to climb up. If she didn’t, he’d pick her up and toss her in himself.

  Lucky for both of them, she got in under her own steam, though she did shoot him a dagger-filled look as she reached for the grab bar and hoisted herself inside.

  Once she was firmly closed inside the cab of the truck and he was pretty sure she wasn’t going to bolt, Jace made his way around to the driver’s side and got in. She didn’t look at him again, or say a word, but her silence was the loudest thing he’d heard in a while.

  Jacqueline had never been one for the silent treatment. She’d been a yeller. She’d shout at him long after he’d slammed the front door, then call his phone and scream at him some more on his voicemail.

  This—Tara’s stony silence—was almost harder to handle. He glanced at her. “You gonna say something?”

  Nothing. She crossed her arms and stared straight ahead.

  Wonderful. How long would this shit last? He’d feel better if she did yell at him a little. The angry silence punctuated by the occasional deadly glare would make for a lovely drive to the next venue. Real cozy roommate conditions, too.

  Oh well. It wasn’t the first time Jace had pissed off a woman, and he was certain it wouldn’t be the last. It didn’t change the fact he’d been totally in the right. Seven Minutes in Heaven with a guy she’d known for what? An hour? What the hell had Tara been thinking? She hadn’t been, obviously.

  How much had she drunk, anyway? She hadn’t even been gone that long, but her eyes were glassy and unfocused—when she looked at him long enough for him to see them. Jace refused to believe it was the effect of Klint’s kisses, so he was going to attribute it to whatever alcohol those guys had given her.

  Thinking of that kid with his hands on her had Jace clenching his jaw. More than his hands were on her. Jace didn’t miss how the bastard had scraped the skin around her mouth raw. How the hell rough had he kissed her? Jace’s anger built.

  “You have to be more careful, Tara.” He tried to keep his voice even and calm. He failed.

  They reached the hotel lot. He hadn’t even shifted into park yet when she flung the door open and jumped out of the truck. She was going to be the death of him, if she didn’t get herself killed first.

  “Dammit, Tara.” Jace got out, slammed his door, and strode after her.

  Tara had taken her key. By the time Jace reached her, she was glaring at him from inside their room. Right before she slammed the door in his face.

  Gritting his teeth, he dug in his pocket and took out his copy of the key. If she chained the door, he didn’t know what he’d do. Probably kick it in, given his current mood.

  Thank goodness, she hadn’t. When he turned the handle and shoved, the door swung open. He drew in a bracing breath and went inside.

  He found her standing by her bed, pawing through her suitcase. “Going somewhere?”

  “The bathroom. Is that okay with you? Do I need your permission to do that, too?” Jaw set, she stood, holding the oversized T-shirt and sweats that functioned as her pajamas. The same items that made her look like a little kid swimming in someone else’s clothes, which Jace found in direct contrast to her razor sharp p
ersonality.

  At least she’d talked to him, though she might not after he’d had his say. “No, you don’t need my permission. But that’s because there aren’t a couple of bull riders intent on getting into your pants in our bathroom.”

  “Maybe I want them in my pants! Ever think of that?” She slammed the bathroom door hard, as if shouting hadn’t already gotten her point across.

  “Nice. Real nice,” he yelled through the laughably thin door. “That’s not happening on my watch, so you can just forget about it.”

  He heard the sound of the lock being turned. Hell of a lot of good that lock would do her. If Jace wanted in that room, he’d be in that room. Lucky for her, he didn’t see the need to break in there. With no window in the bathroom, there was nowhere for her to go. Tara could sleep in there for all he cared. At least he’d know where she was.

  This felt familiar. He was back on level footing. He’d had plenty of experience with screaming and door slamming. Fighting was as natural as breathing to him after all his time with the master—Jacqueline. Tara had no idea who she was dealing with.

  Jace reached for the top button on his jeans, about to change back into the shorts he’d been wearing before he’d had to rescue Tara, when the cell phone vibrated inside his pocket. He pulled it out and saw the expected name. JACQUELINE. He was in no mood for her. Instead of watching it ring, or hitting IGNORE and then shutting it off, Jace hit the button to answer.

  “Dammit, Jacqueline. Stop calling me.” Jace disconnected and powered off the phone. With his adrenaline pumping from having done something about the Jacqueline situation at last, he tossed the cell onto the bed.

  The sounds of water running and then a drawer closing loud and hard, brought Jace back to the issue at hand. He had to figure out how to deal with this other situation—the one slamming things around in the bathroom.

  Sighing, he changed for bed, though he doubted either one of them would rest easily tonight.

  The doc and his team, Tara included, walked past where Jace stood behind the chutes. She shot him a glare and kept moving.

  Dillon watched her go by. “Things seem a little icy around here.”

  “Yup.” Jace’s gaze tracked Tara’s progress to the medical room. She didn’t have a smile or a word for anyone she passed. At least, it seemed she was giving everyone the cold shoulder, not just him.

  “Trouble in paradise?” Dillon asked.

  “You could say that.” More like trouble in heaven caused by Tara’s seven minutes there with Klint.

  Dillon glanced at Jace. “She looks pissed as hell at you.” “Yup. She’s mad because I pulled her out of the bar last night.” Or, more accurately, because he’d pulled her out of the closet before that rookie had a chance to finish molesting her, which apparently she’d wanted to happen.

  “Well, you did kind of drag her out of there like she was a child.”

  Jace stared at Dillon. “Dillon, she’s Tuck’s little sister. She’s barely old enough to be legal to drink, and she’s traveling with me. What the hell should I have done? Handed her a condom and sent her over to Klint’s hotel room for the night?”

  That would happen over his dead body. Jace’s gaze swept the riders and spotted the bastard in question. His eyes narrowed.

  “You sure that’s all it is? You’re just taking care of her like her brother would?” Dillon asked.

  “Of course.” Jace spun to frown at his friend. “What else would it be?”

  Dillon shook his head. “I don’t know if you’re lying to me or to yourself about there being nothing between you and her. But there is definitely something between you two.”

  “No, there’s not. You’re crazy. I told you, Dillon, she hates me.” Now, more than ever.

  “If she hated you that much, she wouldn’t be traveling with you. Besides, there’s a fine line between love and hate, Jace.”

  “What are you, some sort of a psychiatrist now?” Jace screwed up his mouth.

  “Just calling it like I see it.” Dillon shrugged, eyeing Jace with a sweeping glance that traveled down to his boots. “You, uh, gonna put your chaps on? They’re ready to flank your bull. You’re up next section.”

  Sure enough, when Jace glanced over, he saw the bull he’d drawn had been brought up by the stock handlers and was ready to be flanked and put in the chute. It stood confined more or less patiently between the metal rails, waiting for him or the stock contractor to loop the flank strap around its hindquarters.

  “Crap.” Jace had been so distracted by the shit happening with Tara, he hadn’t been paying attention. He’d better start.

  Only a man who’d lost his mind would strap his hand to a ton of bucking bull when his head wasn’t in the game. Dillon was dead wrong about the love and hate thing, but if nothing else, Tara sure did drive Jace crazy.

  He strode to where he’d flipped his vest and chaps over the metal rails, and eyed the bull one more time as he swung the chaps around his hips. He didn’t know anything about Apocalypse, the bull he’d drawn. He’d normally have asked around and found out what kind of bucker he was—if he’d spin left into Jace’s riding hand, or right, away from it.

  As Jace buckled the chap straps around one thigh, he saw the handlers were loading Apocalypse into a chute with a left hand delivery.

  Hopefully, the bull would spin left out of the chute when the gate swung open on his left. But if Jace had learned anything over the years, it was that bulls were unpredictable. More than that, contrary to popular belief, bulls were not stupid creatures. They were smart and cunning and, as if they knew it was all one big game, took great pleasure in bucking off a rider. They could get real tricky as they tried to dislodge the man on their back, sometimes changing things up mid-spin. The damn animals could feel the rider’s position shift, and would react accordingly to take advantage of it.

  Jace was about to enter into a mental and physical battle with an animal ten times his size, and his head was still full of Tara’s bullshit. Not good. That could land him in the medical room, where Tara, in her current mood, would probably slip him some cyanide rather than tend to his injuries. He drew in a breath and forced himself to focus.

  Five bulls were loaded and ready in the chutes for the next section. Show time. He zipped up the front of his safety vest. He’d yet to put on his glove, or put his bull rope on Apocalypse.

  He grabbed the rope from the rail and headed for the chute.

  “Give me, dude.” Dillon extended his hand to take the bull rope Jace held.

  “Thanks.” Thank God for Dillon, always there and willing to help. On a normal day, Jace would have handled things on his own. It was not one of those days. Frigging Tara. Enough to make a man lose his mind, she was.

  While Dillon leaned into the chute and looped Jace’s rope just behind the bull’s shoulders, Jace pulled on his riding glove. He flexed his left hand inside the glove to make sure it was on good and tight. With his bare right hand, he pulled his mouth guard out of the pocket in his safety vest and slipped it between his lips.

  After clamping his hat lower on his head, he climbed over the top rail, straddling the chute above the bull’s broad back. He lowered himself onto the animal. Apocalypse responded to the weight by bouncing a few times in the chute and then leaning against the back rails, pinning Jace’s leg in the process.

  With his booted foot trapped between the animal’s side and the metal rail, Jace wouldn’t be able to get into proper position, and the damn animal knew it.

  “Yah! Move over.” Dillon was there to help once again, waving his hat as he yelled.

  The whites of the bull’s eyes showed as the animal glared at him. Scary how human the bulls could act sometimes. This one seemed to be telling them all to go to blazes.

  Just what Jace needed—a bull with attitude—although a smart-ass bull might be rank enough to earn him a damn good score. He hoped the bull bucked out in the arena as hard as he was leaning on his leg in the chute.

  Jace slid his lef
t hand into the handle of his bull rope. One of the stock guys balanced on the outside rail, grabbed the tail of the rope, and pulled. With his right hand, Jace grabbed the length the man passed to him. He wrapped the rope tight around his gloved hand, wove it between his fingers, and pounded his fist tight.

  The bull was still leaning against the back wall, pinning Jace’s leg. Reinforcements arrived on the chute to help. Justin slid a padded board between the rails and the bull’s side, forcing the animal to move over. The moment he felt the weight lift, Jace moved his leg away from the bull rope. To leave the chute with his spur hooked in the rope would mean an automatic penalty. He got his feet positioned, his butt fairly centered and that was all he could do.

  With as good a seat as he was going to get, Jace nodded to the gateman. The gate swung wide and Apocalypse spun as he’d hoped, to the left and into Jace’s riding hand.

  Years of practice and experience had put Jace in the zone the moment his ass had hit that bull’s back. Once the gate opened, muscle memory and instinct took over. The arena resonated with the combination of familiar sounds—pounding music, the cheers of the crowd, and the announcer’s amplified voice—but he didn’t really hear any of it. It all morphed together to become white noise, indistinct as it surrounded him.

  He didn’t think about his next move, or try to anticipate the bull’s. Trying to second guess a bull was a sure way to hit the dirt before the whistle. Making the wrong call or shifting in the incorrect direction was all it took.

  No, this sport was not cerebral; not one you could plan like plays on a football field. There was no time to think about a next move during an eight-second ride. It was a competition based on action and reaction, and the speed of each participant‘s reflexes, both the man and the beast.

  The world seemed to spin around Jace in a swirl of colors. Apocalypse went left, then dipped low in front while kicking high, almost vertical, with his hind legs. Jace broke at the hips, absorbing the motion, keeping on top of his rope while still leaning back enough to not collide with the back of the animal’s boney skull when it whipped up again.