The Wildest Ride--A Novel Page 8

  Security let her through to the chute without any questions, and she momentarily marveled at the absurdity of the world she loved so dearly. The way a rodeo behaved, you’d think her ability in the saddle, or bareback for that matter, disappeared when she took her braid out.

  Weaving her way through the crowd of cowboys bunched up at the chute, she arrived just in time to watch it pop open.

  For a stomach-sinkingly long time, nothing happened. Then the bronc, with AJ on top, stumbled out and staggered to a standstill.

  Lil’s heart thudded.

  This was bad.

  AJ would never make score with a dud of a draw.

  Something was wrong with his horse, which simply stood, almost meditative, even as AJ’s spurs dug into its haunches, and a stadium of people shouted at it.

  In any other sport, they’d stop the clock, but AJ’s seconds ticked away. Lil’s heart beat fast in her chest, and her breath came short.

  The horse wasn’t doing anything, and in what was about to become the biggest upset in recent history, AJ Garza, rodeo’s greatest champion, was about to be disqualified.

  7

  The blood thundering in AJ’s ears was louder than all the sounds of the arena combined. Staring at failure in the face for the first time in over a decade, time as inert as the beast below him, a part of him was dumbfounded.

  There had been no question that he would qualify.

  Before it was announced he was coming on board, all of the current top rodeo pros had snubbed their noses at the Closed Circuit, calling it a publicity stunt for novices. The announcement of his participation lent the whole thing credibility. Yes, he had retired, but there had never been any question as to whether or not he’d make it.

  So there was an extra sting to the fact that while the seconds bled away, it was becoming apparent, in front of seventy thousand people and his first time riding for something other than himself, that he would not qualify.

  He hated to be the man who blamed his tools, but something was wrong with his horse—something beyond bad luck and a poor draw. It had been obvious as soon as they’d come out of the gate.

  And the horse was half the score.

  He’d be lucky if he earned over 40 points at this rate. Silence began to creep its slow way through the crowd as the time ticked away.

  And then a high-pitched whistle, as screeching and terrible as nails on a chalkboard, tore through the air like a missile targeted at his horse’s ears. The horse twitched, taking a few staggering steps to the side.

  But if the horse was only mildly impacted, AJ saw the light, the sound ripping down his spine and setting off a storm of neurons firing.

  Time was short, but he had a bull bell in his front vest pocket. He would have to let go of the riggin’ entirely in order to get it because he wasn’t allowed to touch anything on his person with his left hand, but considering what a dud his bronc had turned out to be, it wasn’t like he was betting it all.

  He went for it, his motions quick and practiced as if he’d trained for just this occurrence.

  He hadn’t.

  Then, bringing the bell so close to the horse’s ear that it was nearly inside the thing, he rang it hard.

  His bronc came roaring to life. The bell flew out of AJ’s hand. He swung his right hand back for his riggin’ but couldn’t catch it before his upper body snapped backward toward the horse’s haunches. By sheer force of will, coupled with iron muscle memory and years of practice, his left arm remained curved upward, touching nothing, while he gripped the horse with his legs, praying they didn’t give out.

  Head and back whipping toward the horse’s rear, his focus zeroed in on what came next: catching the riggin’ the next time he flew forward or flying off and getting stomped.

  Easy.

  All of it took less than a second—thankfully, as he didn’t have many of those left. When his body lurched forward, he grabbed the loop, fingers sticking like a slap, and that was that.

  His right hand once again in place, cemented into his custom riggin’, he held on tight while his horse made up for its slow start by bucking and twisting like a maniac now.

  His right shoulder screamed, angrier than it always was at having had no time to brace for the force of his body’s momentum against the horse’s power before the storm of bucking began.

  But AJ’s grip held.

  The crowd went wild.

  For the rest of the ride, the horse fought for its life, and AJ held on for his.

  The judges let the seconds tick past eight, extending the spectacle to allow a full eight seconds of thrashing before sounding the buzzer.

  The drama was up there with the debut of rodeo’s first female rodeo pro in terms of the perfect reality TV kickoff for the PBRA Closed Circuit.

  Pickup men appeared at his side, flanking him in order to take control of the still-wild bronc. AJ slid free of the saddle, his own roar of triumph drowned out beneath the stadium’s avalanche of sound.

  Opening his arms to the onslaught, he circled the arena once, letting out wild whoops and whistles in response before he threw his hat to the crowd and made his way back to the gate, blood thundering in his veins.

  This was it, the greatest feeling in the world—a reason to live.

  He couldn’t remember a ride like that since his first time riding in a pro rodeo at eighteen.

  The thrill of it singing in his blood stoked the hunger for more. There wasn’t a feeling like it in the world—the reason men were willing to die for it—as addictive as heroin.

  He was still hollering as he swung the gate open, nearly knocking off the petite woman who stood on it, her boots hooked on the bottom bar, before he caught it.

  She wore all black, long curls cascading down from under her hat, too conservatively dressed to be a buckle bunny, but too alternative to be a rodeo queen.

  She had a nose ring, warm brown skin, and smoky-gray irises that swirled like a hurricane, dangerous and mesmerizing, twin eyes of the storm, lit up with stars, which were ringed by thick pitch-black lashes. Her lips were full and stubborn looking, begging to be tamed, or at the very least ridden hard. They parted as he stared, and the triumphant rush in his blood abruptly reversed course, thundering powerfully in other directions.

  Somewhere in the distance, his score was being announced over the PA system, but as their eyes remained locked, her mouth took on the shape of a silent Oh, and that breathless syllable suddenly became the most important thing AJ had ever witnessed.

  Almost imperceptibly, she leaned forward. It was as if the cord that connected their gazes compelled her. As if the draw was about more than bright lights and the thrill of the ride. As if she was trying to hold back but losing out.

  And though The Old Man’s frown flashed through his mind, the small motion was an encouragement he couldn’t ignore.

  He drew the gate to him, closing the distance until only the metal gate separated them. With his free hand, he tilted her chin up before sliding around to cradle the back of her skull.

  Her hands came to his shoulders with a firm grip as she lifted up to her toes on the gate, offering exactly the angle he needed to capture her mouth with his own.

  She tasted like late springtime: warm, sweet, and a little naughty.

  Sighing into his kiss like she’d been waiting for this moment her whole life, she stoked the fire that had driven him to kiss her in the first place, thickening into something more possessive, urging him to take more. He pressed closer, and she leaned in.

  “AJ Garza!” The Old Man’s slightly raised, slightly outraged voice somehow cut through both the single-minded haze of his focus and the astronomical noise of the arena.

  Reluctantly, he pulled back from the kiss without taking his eyes off her.

  Around them, he realized the arena’s applause had morphed into playground whistles. Vagu
e recollections of strict rules about keeping his personal life outside of the arena pestered the back of his mind, but he ignored them.

  “I trust you realize you’re fraternizing with the enemy?” Diablo asked, voice dry as ever and lazy, even as he stepped into the spontaneous combustion of age-old arguments.

  And then Diablo’s words sank in.

  He was staring into the same stormy eyes he’d clashed with not once, but twice, already—even if at the moment the swirling cloudiness in her tempest gaze had nothing to do with temper.

  Still kiss drunk, her full lips even fuller, emphasized by her lipstick and the swollen plumpness that he’d kissed into existence, she had no idea of the unheard-of effect she was having on his behavior. Was it any surprise that rodeo’s first female star would inspire unprecedented behavior in him? Either way, he’d answered a question he hadn’t even realized he’d been dying to know the answer to.

  Lil Sorrow could kiss as well as she could ride.

  He wondered what else she was good at.

  She shined up well—not that he’d thought she wasn’t fine-looking before, he realized recalling his earlier images of her, he just hadn’t been looking at her as a woman. He’d been looking at her as a cowboy, he realized.

  She was a damn fine cowboy. As a woman, she was mesmerizing.

  Enough so, that, like Clark Kent, all it’d taken to fool him was a slight change in hair and accessories—a fall of curls and a nose stud—and he’d completely missed the things that were unmistakable about her: her clothes, the way she carried herself, and those one-in-a-million eyes. Eyes which even now threatened to yank him back into their private world—circumstances be damned.

  Dawning awareness of their situation, however, rolled over her like a deadly wave of molasses. He watched it happen. A part of him was glad to know that getting all dolled up didn’t make her face any less transparent, though why that would make him happy, he didn’t know.

  First came shock. Shock which he was honor bound to avenge, as it appeared that she had not considered the fact that she had been fraternizing with the enemy until Diablo had said so, and, more importantly, might have gone on doing so.

  Next came shame. Heat radiated off her body that had nothing to do with him, and she came spurring to squirming life, jumping off the gate like it was lava. She landed as if the dismount were a routine they’d been working on, and his heart beamed a little in pride at her balance.

  Finally, came horror, as she turned to realize that the entire enterprise had unfolded on the jumbotron, broadcast on the big screen to the delight of the audience.

  Angling to shield her face with his body from both the camera and The Old Man and Diablo, he was the only one to see the sheen of tears glistening in her eyes as she tucked her face down, hiding it in the shadow of her hat, and dashed around him, trying to get lost in the crowd.

  He watched her go, knowing she wouldn’t make it far. Not now, and probably never again at a rodeo. She was a star now, whether she knew it or not.

  The Old Man didn’t approve of cowboys “taking up with strange women,” as he was famous for saying. He had drilled it into his boys as youths and demanded it from his pros as an example for those coming up.

  AJ was respectful enough to be circumspect. Usually.

  And so, though he wanted to go after her, even though it would only add fuel to the fire their very public kiss had undoubtedly just stirred up, he didn’t.

  Instead, when The Old Man clapped a hand down on his shoulder and said, “You know the drill. Check-up time. Especially after a stunt like that.” AJ let himself be led away.

  Respect for The Old Man might have him willing to let Lil Sorrow go without chasing her down to at least say something about their kiss, but respect wasn’t enough to keep the grit of irritation out of his voice when he replied, “Had no choice. You saw what I was working with.”

  On The Old Man’s other side, Diablo nodded. “Looked like you were out of it for sure this time.”

  The comment brought the cowboy in him to the surface, and he gave a lazy grin. “I always have a trick up my sleeve.”

  The Old Man frowned. “That was a damn fool thing to do. You’re too old for those kinds of tricks.”

  “Still around to get older.”

  “Don’t make me be the one to deliver bad news to your mama.”

  AJ frowned. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard the line. Henry Bowman had no qualms about hitting below the belt. But there was a new weight to it. A truth to the statement that demanded he take his mentor seriously. He could get hurt out there.

  “Honestly, I didn’t think it’d even work.” AJ nodded toward Diablo as he echoed his words. “I thought I was out of this one. There was something wrong with that horse. More than just a bad draw.”

  The Old Man shrugged. “They’ll find it, if so. Let’s get back to the hotel.” He was never one for wasting time in speculation.

  AJ raised an eyebrow. “Maybe I got plans with Lil Sorrow.”

  Henry snorted. “Not while you’re riding for CityBoyz, you don’t.”

  Diablo laughed, “Uh-oh, AJ. Under The Old Man’s rules again.”

  Henry shot Diablo a sharp look out of the corner of his eye. “You’re too old for that nonsense, too. A couple of geezers acting like little boys, if you ask me...”

  AJ laughed this time. “You would deny me my shot at true love?”

  Henry’s slap stung AJ’s back, reminding him that The Old Man wasn’t too old to lay him on his ass. “Don’t see any evidence of true love anymore, do you? Besides, you’ll see her again soon. She’s going to be right above you on that podium in the next half an hour or so. In case you missed it.”

  AJ started. In all that had happened since the chute had opened, he had missed his score.

  He couldn’t recall that ever happening before.

  Implied, along with a mild cackle, in The Old Man’s words was the fact that he hadn’t beat Lil’s score. AJ’s ride had been the finale of the night. He had time for a quick post-ride physical and to spruce up before it was time for announcements and closing up.

  If what The Old Man said was true, it would be the first time he wasn’t at the top in over ten years. The knowledge had a familiar thrill surging through his blood, even as the pathway was rusty. For the first time in a long time, he had some real competition.

  With an unrepentant grin, AJ asked, “So what did it all come down to?”

  The Old Man sounded amused, a joke hiding in his smooth baritone: “Ninety-six points.”

  One point less than Lil Sorrow.

  CityBoyz was out rodeo’s one and only Lil Sorrow as a coach. For now.

  Because, just like her place in the number one spot, things at the rodeo had a way of changing quick, and AJ wasn’t known for giving up.

  8

  Lil tried to push through the crowd since crying and self-immolation were neither in her nature nor scope of abilities, but as she navigated toward the exit, the crowd pressed her back, coagulating from an amorphous blob into a sea of people pointing mics and cameras at her.

  Each and every one of them wanted to know one thing: “What’s the story with you and AJ Garza?”

  She could ask the same thing and, in fact, had been on a manic loop since running away, which made her both a fool and a coward. That she had no more idea of the answer than the reporters surrounding her didn’t make things any better. What in the hell had she been thinking, kissing AJ Garza in front of God and everyone?

  That she’d been caught up in the moment—thrilling and thunderous after the unexpected agony of watching his near miss—that it had swept her up in a whirlwind of the sounds of the rodeo swirling around them and the thrill of the ride still high in both their veins, each of them keenly invested in the other’s rush, in the other’s utter union with everything that was rodeo, their bodi
es pulsing as they met, crashing into one another head-on like two raging bulls, that was unconscionable. Completely unacceptable.

  “Are you friends?”

  “Lovers?”

  “Enemies?”

  Shaking her head, Lil tried to sift through the battering of questions, grasping for something she could hold on to, anything, so she didn’t blurt out something disastrous like, No, I’ve just idolized him since I was fourteen.

  Anything other than that, because it couldn’t be that. That was worse than wearing a junior champion buckle to a pro rodeo.

  It was the intensity of the night—the brawl, her own ride, her wildest dreams coming true, AJ’s dramatic ride—all of it had carried her away in the moment, swept aside her steady clear sight and common sense. It could not have been the fact that, as impossible as it seemed, when their eyes had connected, her blood still singing with his incredible turnaround, the entire arena had melted away, leaving them in a world of just two.

  It couldn’t be that because that was absurd. Almost as absurd as the questions still flying at her.

  “Are you his protégée?”

  Thankfully there were journalists in the crowd more interested in her skills than her personal life.

  “You’re the first female rough stock rider in a PBRA rodeo to score higher than 67. Do you see yourself as a pioneer?”

  A voice in her head snorted at the question. To her way of thinking, pioneers were the feckless sorts who left their homes and families to heed the siren call of the sea. Same as the folks that got scared away by a little dust.

  She came from steadier stock than that.

  The tide of questions had shifted, though.

  “Where have you been hiding?”

  “How long have you been riding rough stock events?”

  “How tall are you?”

  “How old are you?”

  “How much do you weigh?”

  “Now, y’all know you can’t ask a woman questions like that!” Sierra Quintanilla’s voice was citrus and vanilla, pure, unadulterated, orange Creamsicle, as she sidled up beside Lil, one jean jacket–clad arm coming to wrap around Lil’s shoulders, while the other drew her own mic into the intimate circle she’d created between the two of them. Smoothly, she steered Lil away from the crowd of reporters and greenies toward her hostess’s lounge that was set up between the arena exit and the stage.