Page 128 of Danger

This is kidnapping

Danger

Boots pretty girl

Danger doesn’t saya single word the entire drive. Not even when my booted foot keeps tapping the glove box, not when we pass the mailbox painted “STETSON” stenciled on it in white paint. He just stares ahead, one forearm slung over the wheel, his jaw set in a way that makes my chest flutter.

The truck smells like coffee, motor oil, and whatever cologne he must’ve sprayed on before I hopped in the truck. I don’t know if there’s anything he can say to soften the blow of whatever farm-chore hell he’s about to inflict on me, but I just take in the view.

He turns past the rusted sign that says “NO TRESPASSING. VIOLATORS WILL BE SHOT. SURVIVORS WILL BE SHOT MORE.”

We pull up beside a long line of whitewashed pens, steel gates gleaming like they’re polished more than most people’s trucks. Everything is solid—heavy chains, smooth-welded latches—built to hold some serious power. The bulls pace behind the rails, muscled and restless.

He kills the engine.

“This is where your fun is?” I say when I finally unclench enough to find my voice. “Are you planning to feed me to them?”

Danger huffs, not even a real laugh. “Only if you keep up with that smart mouth of yours."

He hops down and circles to my side, opening my door before I can even reach for the handle.

He walks ahead of me, boots crushing dry grass, muscle working tight under his black shirt. The pens are louder now—angry, dinosaur-sounding snorts that make the fence rattle.

He stops at the first gate and gestures for me to climb up.

“Go ahead,” he says. “You’ll wanna get a bird’s eye.”

I hop the lowest rail, then the next, settling on the third because it feels like the right mix of brave and “I’d rather not die today.”

Below me, the bull paces, huge and black and radiating violence that makes me want to apologize for every burger I’ve ever eaten.

“So, what’s the game plan?” I ask, forcing the words. “You gonna teach me to ride one of these?”

He doesn’t smile, but the left side of his mouth lifts, just a twitch. “You got a death wish? Fuck no. I’m gonna teach you to read a bull. That’s half the fun for me.”

He says it like it’s a normal thing, like most people’s idea of fun isn’t a Netflix binge and a half-bottle of moscato. He plants a boot on the bottom rail and leans close. The bull catches his scent and stops, head swinging. Danger whistles, soft and low, and the animal backs up two steps.

“First thing you gotta know,” he says, “is they’re not stupid. They get a bad rep for being the dumb animal, but you watch long enough and you see what’s really going on.”

He gestures at the bull, a flick of two fingers. “That one’s called Beast. Mean as they come, but he’s not mean for no reason. You see how he keeps his head down? That’s not submission. That’s calculation. He’s waiting for you to make the first move. Then he’ll end you.”

I nod like I get it. My hands are slick now, but I don’t dare wipe them on my jeans.

“You scared?” he asks.

I try to laugh. “Of dying? Yeah. Maybe a little.”

He shrugs, like death is just a small inconvenience. “You get used to it. You learn where to stand. When to jump.”

He walks down the line, and I skitter along the top rail, eyes locked on the animal as it watches his every step. He points out a smaller bull, brown with white splotches, chewing moodily on something that might once have been hay.

“That’s George. Don’t let the name fool you. He’s the laziest, sure, but he’ll flip a switch if he thinks he can get the drop on you.”

He gives me a look. “You remind me a little of him, actually.”

“I remind you of George?” I say, rolling my eyes, but there’s a weird sort of pride in being compared to something that could snap a man in half if provoked.

“Yes. He gets underestimated, but he’s so much tougher than anyone thinks.”