Page 42 of Danger
I don’t know what he’s up to, but I’ll figure it out.
They announce Charming’s name as we line up to ride. He pushes off the rail ahead of us, rolling his shoulders like he’s walking into a fistfight.
He points at us. “Don’t eat shit out there, boys.”
He jogs toward the chute, disappearing behind the pens just as the crowd starts to stir. A gate slams. The arena explodes with dust and noise.
Trouble and I stand there listening when Rogue goes next—the seconds always feel longer when it’s your blood out there. Then the buzzer screams, the crowd roars, and eventually Charming strolls back through the gate, helmet swinging from two fingers.
He flashes a grin. “Eighty-nine.”
I grin. “Showoff.”
I climb the rail. The bull I drew is a mean bastard called Red, two tons of muscle and attitude as bad as they come. Someone slaps my back. “Lock in, Danger!”
I swing into the chute. All I see is the space between my knees and the bull’s back, the shape of the rope in my hand. The gate swings. Everything after that is a blur.
Red bucks straight up, ass over end, tries to launch me. I hold on, white-knuckled, focused. The world tilts and resets, tilts and resets—the only rhythm I know—until the buzzer blares when the ground hits me like a wall of cement.
I’m up before the dust settles. The crowd loves it, and all I feel is the pain in my ribs, the rest is adrenaline. I look up at the scoreboard, and there’s my number, and it’s higher than I thought. A ninety-two.
Charming finds me first. “You fucking psycho, that was insane.”
Rogue and Trouble are behind him, both smirking.
“You still got teeth?” Rogue asks, dusting me off.
“Most of ‘em.”
“Always gotta show us up,” Trouble adds.
I roll my shoulders and suck in a careful breath. My ribs are still stinging, but nothing feels broken. My neck works. Legs work. Good enough.
Dusting dirt from my jeans, I head for the fence, grab my phone from where I'd left it on the rail, and text Mama.
Danger
Fisher still up?
Mama
No he’s out
Don’t bother him either
Let him sleep
Another second, and there’s a photo—Fisher covered in three blankets, an army of stuffed animals lined up next to him.
Charming elbows me. “You coming to celebrate?”
“No.”
Rogue snorts. “Man, you gotta celebrate a score like that. Mama and Fisher are fine.”
“Last time I went out with you idiots, I broke a man's knee cap.”
Trouble shrugs. “And?”
