CHAPTER 82

west

I hugged the coffee close to my chest as I wandered through the rodeo. Fuck, it was insane. All the interviews and event replays I’d seen couldn’t encompass this shit. My skin crawled painfully, and I wanted nothing more than to fucking leave. The number of people who had bumped into me, the level of shouting, and the amount of alcohol around had me fucking dying.

But I was doing this for Jackson.

I hadn’t seen him since I passed out in his bed. Hell, I couldn’t remember a damn thing past trudging into his room. Driving all day and staying up all night with horses had taken it out of me but the dealing with all the people part had fucking done me in.

I didn’t understand ninety percent of the shit going on around me as I made my way over to the stands. I just wanted to sit down away from it all to watch the bull draw, but Jackson sent me to a specific stand. I did it because I wanted to make him happy.

And it would’ve been okay if it wasn’t for the six young-as-fuck women sitting where I was supposed to sit. Glitter, itty bitty cutoff shorts, and cowboy boots. Jesus fucking Christ. He sent me to hang out with his buckle bunnies.

“You must be West!” a tiny blonde thing exclaimed. When she got to her feet, I took an instinctive step back in case she tried to hug me. She looked like the kind of girl who used hugs as a way of greeting. There was no way in hell I could handle that—not even to be nice to Jackson. “Jackson told us to expect you!”

“Yeah.” I nodded slowly. This hadn’t been in the note. “Hi.”

“Hi! I’m Darla—Jackson’s best friend,” she said. I stared at her like she’d grown a second head because Jackson didn’t have friends let alone a best friend. Correction: I was supposed to be his best friend “This right here is Opie—her full name is Ophelia, but we call her Opie. It’s way easier. And that’s Wren, Sutton, and Willa. And the one over there lookin’ like a tiger starin’ at some sheep is Birdie. Her hair don’t move.”

That last part was said in a hushed whisper like it was a secret I wasn’t supposed to know. I just nodded again because what the fuck was I supposed to say to that. I didn’t have the right kind of people skills for her enthusiasm.

“Come! Sit!” Darla pointed to a spot on the bench and walked over to a different spot.

For a hot second, my heart stopped in my chest. Fucking hell. I didn’t want to be in close quarters with them. I didn’t even know them. But glancing over my shoulder, I realized it was either sit snug with them—people Jackson trusted and sent me to be with—or sit with a bunch of drunk as fuck strangers.

Neither option was fucking appealing .

I made myself sit down. But as I did, the six girls moved around like they’d practiced for this shit. I ended up with a wide bubble of no one in my space.

“Don’t you worry, doll face,” Darla whispered behind me. “Jackson made sure we got you.”

Those words wrapped around my heart like barbed wire, and I sucked in a sharp breath. I glanced at the space around me—more than a generous one-person space in every direction. Jackson really had fucking thought of everything.

What Jackson failed to fucking mention was how goddamn boring the bull draw would be. There were twenty-four fucking riders. Twenty-four. Both nights. Which fucking meant we had to do the goddamn bull draw three times. The first time was to determine the pecking order with each rider picking a number. But no . They couldn’t just pick a fucking number. No, it was a whole goddamn show—one the crowd ate up.

It sure as fuck didn’t help that the woman holding the fucking hat was scantily clad and damn near showing it all in her country girl pride. No one gave a shit about the pot-bellied middle-aged announcer hanging out with her narrating the whole event.

I needed a fucking drink.

By the time it was Jackson’s turn to pick a number, I’d lost count and track of what the fuck was happening.

“Well, now!” the announcer began as he clapped Jackson on the shoulder. “There’s no need to pick your number tonight, is there, Jackson? All the slots are filled and that puts you in as the twenty-fourth rider! How’s that make you feel?”

“Well, you know what they say.” Jackson grinned as he leaned in closer to the mic. Yeah, this fucker was about to say some stupid shit to piss people off. “You always save the best for last. Let me show these boys how it’s done.”

From the overdone and righteous indignation on all their faces, it worked. That was the other thing driving me insane: the fucking antics. Did they all hate each other that much? Or was it all a fucking act? At this rate, I hoped to hell they were paying Jackson as a goddamn actor too.

“You doin’ good, sugar?” Darla asked. I glanced at her, nodding. “Good! Sutton and Wren are goin’ to get us all drinks. Jackson said you don’t do alcohol, but can they get you anythin’ else?”

I almost said coffee but thought better of it. I didn’t need to be hopped up on caffeine. Not when I was dying on the spot.

“Water is fine,” I replied. “If you don’t mind.”

“Oh, honey, we don’t mind at all!” She laughed, but I failed to see her humor. “You’re important to him, so you’re important to us.”

Yeah, I would never understand it.

The night crawled on with water refills and the eventual bag of pretzels. I couldn’t sit still in my spot. My legs bounced with an insatiable need to get the fuck out of there.

Jackson’s first pick was some bull named Burger. Who the fuck named a bull Burger? That was borderline cruel was what that was.

When they started the second day, the first rider pulled a name I hadn’t heard. Though, I hadn’t been paying close enough attention to have a good grasp of what was happening.

“Are they only picking from twenty-four bulls?” I asked Darla.

“No, each bull is used only once an event,” she said. “I ain’t got a clue why, so I can’t give you that answer.”

I made a sound and filed that away as something to ask Jackson. Maybe.

The third draw didn’t go by any faster than the first two. In fact, it felt even fucking slower. It’d be rude to fucking leave. I kept that thought at the forefront of my mind to keep from bolting.

“Oooh-weee! That right there, folks, is the unlucky draw!” the announcer damn near shouted when Jackson grabbed the last piece of paper from the hat. The wild response around us was deafening. I frowned. What the hell was happening?

“Oh, no,” Darla whispered behind me. I glanced over my shoulder at her, wondering what the hell she knew.

“For his second ride, Jackson Myles will be facing down the one… the only… Rampage! ”

Anything else he said was drowned out by another uprising in cheers. Jackson ate up the excitement with such enthusiasm that it made everyone all that much louder.

“Why the hell do we not like Rampage?” I leaned back just enough for Darla to hear me.

“Honey, Rampage is the meanest son of a bitch they got,” she whispered. “He ain’t the bull that riders are hopin’ for. He ain’t no one’s Everest. He’s the goddamn boogeyman.”

“Oh…” I didn’t understand half the shit that came out of her mouth. “What the fuck does that mean?”

“Most of the cowboys who get on Rampage, they don’t walk away,” she explained. “They get carried out or…”

I didn’t need her to finish that sentence to know what the fuck she meant. The sense of dread weaving through me said it all.