Page 6 of Homebound

Always addictive. If it weren’t, I’d never ride.

The bull kicks me and kicks me and kicks me around the arena, and in this moment, I’m glad I’m able to tune out the roaring noise of the crowd. Bull riding is one of the only sports where people get a thrill out of watching you fall down, and it fucks with my head—the crowd getting more excited to see me fail than succeed.

I might not be the strongest rider in a sport dominated by men, but I’ve got delusional confidence, and that’s the secret to achieving anything.

Every time I fall down, I get back up.

Every time someone tells me I can’t do this, I give them my most arrogant grin, even if I feel like crying, and I feel like crying a lot—not that I ever cry in front of anyone. People don’t realize how much confidence it takes to be extremely vulnerable in public. It requires a give-no-shits mentality, and I’m still picking up the pieces of my broken confidence.

Hammer gives one particularly nasty jerk, and my grip loosens.

It happens that fast.

“Fuck!” I scream, scrambling to hold the rope. It’s no use—I’ve lost control.

He kicks me off, and I fly through the air, bracing for a rough impact. The ground slams into me, dirt filling my nostrils. Pain shoots up my side, but I barely notice the fire through the adrenaline. I spit and cough to try and clear the dirt.

Fuckfuckfuck.

I roll, narrowly avoiding the bull’s pounding hooves, and scan the chaotic arena for an escape. I need to get away from the charging beast fast before he comes at me.

“Shit!” I scream over the crowd’s excited cheers. They love when the bulls charge, and damn them for finding my failure exciting.

I could die out here.

“Dakota! Watch out!”

That deep voice.

His voice.

For a second, I think I’m imagining it, but when I whip my head around, that’s when I see him, right there in the front stands, looking like he’s about to jump into the arena and save me himself.

My summer boy.

My best friend.

Well, former best friend.

Wyatt fucking Patterson.

His actual middle name is Dale, but I think fucking suits him better now. The last time I saw him, he’d kissed my cheek, told me he’d see me next summer, and then hopped on a plane back to Nashville.

That was the last I heard from him.

I called and texted and FaceTimed and hell, I even sent a handwritten card when I found out he had a kid, but I never once got a response back.

Not one.

I hate how my summer boy left me, but more than that, I hate how much I’ve missed those pasture-green eyes.

His knuckles are clenched tight on the railing, those eyes locked on me. He looks older. Different. He’s still arguably just as cute as the little boy I stargazed with, but his dirty-blond hair is a wild mess around his broad shoulders, and it matches the frantic look in his gaze, like he’s been running his hands through it nonstop while watching me compete.

Staring at him feels like getting rammed by a two-thousand-pound bull, and my focus slips. Hammer lunges and the last thing I see is his snarling face barreling toward me. I jump out of the way as fast as I can, but not before his hard body hits my side.

“Goddammit!”

Shit, that really hurts.