Page 19 of Buckin' Around

No buckle bunnies until after I’ve ridden.

And no hangovers on a bull. Period.

The arena spins and I grip the rope tighter, moving with the bull’s erratic movement the best I can. He dips his head, diving for the dirt, and I arch backward, hand held high.

Give me your worst, motherfucker.

His hind legs fly up into the air and my back meets his.

I spur his shoulders and hone all my weight into my seat.

Stirring up the manic beast in time to hit the dirt and be at my most vulnerable.

On my damn feet.

The one time I forget my helmet, I get a nutcracker like this guy. My white Stetson is shoved down hard on my head. It will be useless if I end up in the dirt under a bull.

The rows of seats whizz by as we duck and spin to the left.

Fuck.

I readjust, strong-arming my ass back onto the back of the bull.

The buzzer screams overhead.

My gut flips.

With a quick glance at our position to the rails and the bullfighters, I release my grip, letting the bull cycle through another buck before I slide off the left side.

My boots hit the ground.

The bull bucks at my back. Dirt flies up with his next kick out. He tosses his head, and snot flings from his muzzle.

Warmth runs down my cheek and neck, but I let it slide—literally—as I make a beeline for the rails. Hot puffs hit my back, and I push my legs faster, jumping up onto the rails as a horn scrapes up the back of my right hamstring.

Scrambling higher on the rails, I glance back to find the bull’s attention now on Logan and his crew.

Thank fuck for that.

The second the bull is secured in the return gate, I jump down and turn for the score screen.

87.75

Hell. Yes!

I toss my hat into the crowd and wave my arms up as the crowd cheers at my new score. When I turn back to the crowd, a blonde is walking slowly toward the rails, pressing my hat onto her head as she holds my gaze.

And just like that, every one of those eight seconds was worth it.

As I reach the reel, she dips my own hat at me.

“Hey, cowboy. Nice ride,” she purrs.

I chuckle, rubbing my jaw like I’m contemplating the ride, not whether the buckle bunny in front of me is what I want.

“Next up, ladies and gents, is one of our Alberta favorites, Brady FAWK-NERRRRRR!” The announcer hollers.

That’s my cue.