Page 8 of Secret Heart
The coordinators spill into the open space, their gazes searching the group of us to find whoever pulled first. The woman with long blonde hair pulled back in a high, slick ponytail points to Levi Remington and waves him forward.
The other one—the redhead that’s been eyeing me all weekend—cups her hands so her voice carries. It bounces off the concrete walls, cutting through the boisterous ribbing as effectively as an airhorn. I grimace as it causes another throb of head pain.
“Five minutes, y’all!” Anticipation settles over us all, a living sentiment between us. “If you’re going to be cheering on from the chutes, you need yours vests on!”
There’s a growing cheer from the arena, the crowd being egged on by the announcer as they go through the opening bits of the event’s song and dance. A couple of the alphas wave as they pass by me on their way into the arena to watch. Sean, the oldest of us, lifts his chin and claps me on the shoulder as he passes. A bit of his brandy scent curls around me, and I swallow a groan, breathing deeply as another shiver of awareness races down my spine like lightning. I don’t dare move to join them. There’s no way I’ll be able to handle standing beside any of them on the chutes while they scent in response to all the excitement and posturing the rides always bring out. Lance waits until we’re alone again, even Michael opting to watch everything from a perch on the unused chutes.
“You have a preferred Haven here?” He gestures broadly around us, referring to Oakland in general and not the immediate vicinity of the arena, though I’m sure there’s a Haven within a ten minute drive. Oakland’s big enough to have several, I’m sure. And if not, San Francisco is right across the bay, and there will definitely be multiple options there.
“Nope.” I pop the “p.” “They’re all the same at this point.”
This will be the fourth heat I’ve had since leaving Creek Falls a year and a half ago. Are the Havens designed to be welcoming and calming for omegas who need a safe place to ride out their heats? Yes. But after seeing the inside of three of them now—not including the one in Jackson—the novelty has worn off. The blankets, the pillows, the bed? They’re soft and clean, yes, but they’re notmine. And that’s not even getting into the scents of the alphas that are assigned to help you through the heat itself. One more lily-scented alpha, and I might just opt to sedate instead.
I push away the thoughts. They aren’t what needs my focus right now. I can deal with sorting through the heat tomorrowafterI secure this second place finish and a piece of bull ridinghistory. If the extra dose of suppressant I took doesn’t delay it another several months, at least.
The announcer introduces the first rider, the rookie on the circuit this year, and the arena explodes in another unbearable round of raucous cheering. I run my arm across my mouth and breathe carefully, using the bit of pheromone replacement I’ve applied to the inside wrist of the shirt to settle me as much as feasible right now. The artificial vanilla is almost as good as the memories I keep locked away for the moments when the quiet’s a bit too suffocating.
Time to shine.
Lance grabs my hand and pulls me into a quick embrace, the same as every ride I take.
“See you on the other side,” he says. “Now go get that buckle.”
I shut out all the noise best I can as I walk into the arena, passing the other guys waiting for their turn. Each of them clap me on the shoulder, offering luck as I walk by and then climb up the chute with the bull I drew this afternoon: an all black behemoth aptly named Shadow. The coaches lean over me as I ease onto the bull and get situated, tightening the strap around my hand in the same ritual I’ve done for years now.
“Shadow’s a perfect bull for tonight.” Phil—the most experienced coach—says, leaning close so he can be heard over the roar of the crowd. “He pulls to the left and has a hell of a high kick. You got that?”
It’s all I’ve been thinking about for nearly three hours. I nod once, and he claps my shoulder.
“Eight seconds, and history’s yours.” Now he smiles. “Go prove all the assholes wrong, kid.”
I blow out a breath, trying to find a calm center despite the lights and sounds of the sold out arena around me. One of the other coaches holds up a thumbs up in silent question.Adrenaline and nerves rocket through me. I mirror the signal before raising my left hand above my head and leaning forward in anticipation of the bull’s drop and first hard kick out of the chute.
The coach drops his hand. Time suspends for a long moment. Then I nod and the side of the chute opens.
Here we go.
Chapter Five
TRISTON
Another unrecognizable remix plays over the speakers in the bar, the nasal tones of the singers worse than the added heavy synthesizer, and the urge to just walk out rushes through me yet again. Instead, I take another long drink of the stout I’ve been nursing for the last half hour and allow my eyes to close. By all accounts, I should be the one celebrating the hardest given just how good of a score Shadow gave me, and yet that pounding ache is forming behind my eyes again, and my skin feels way too damn tight on my bones. I check my phone. Another ten minutes until Tyler’s mandatory celebration requirements are satisfied and I can retreat to my hotel room where there’s darkness and no horrid pop remixes.
Tyler’s convinced my social media needs to stay updated—curated but down-to-earth, whatever the hell that might mean. And while heisthe expert on those types of things and has been managing the various platforms Lance built for me at the beginning of going professional full-time two years ago, I almost told him I wasn’t up to it. Except that would require I admit to him that I’m nearly in heat. It’s a miracle he hasn’t noticed up tothis point given that he’s also an Alpha. Maybe being surrounded by a ton of them in the competition and now here in this bar whose name I’ve already forgotten is helpful. He disappeared about twenty minutes ago, wedged between two buckle bunnies.
Sean drops into the seat beside me just as I set the beer down again. He tips his hat in silent greeting and then orders a beer lighter than the belt buckle I just won.
“Good job, kid! Hell of an honor watching you earn that buckle!” He practically yells to be heard over the thumping music, and that makes my head ache even worse than the awful metal fencing at the arena.
I smile and lift my beer.
“I help with a non-profit in Nashville,” he continues. “They give at-risk kids access to training and competing in local livestock competitions. Wanted to see if you’d be up to making an appearance at one of the junior rodeos this summer with me. There’s a few in June right before the Fourth.”
I swallow the rising desire to hide in a corner and burrow into my flannel. I try to inject my voice with some measure of feigned excitement. “Sure! Contact Lance, and he’ll make sure everything gets sorted.”
Sean’s grin is even bigger. “Thanks, man. There’s a couple Omegas that will love getting to meet you. You’re an inspiration!”
I give a tight-lipped smile. Another couple minutes, and then I need to get out of here. I’m about ready to scratch my skin off like right before my ride. I’m nearly positive it’s just overstimulation, that I’m just needing calm and quiet and the artificial vanilla that’s long since worn off my shirt cuffs. Sean must be at least a couple beers deep already because he doesn’t notice my discomfort at all.
