CHAPTER 89

west

W atching a bunch of guys get flung around like fucking rag dolls and knowing Jackson’s turn was coming did nothing for my nerves. I knew what he did for a living. Fuck, I’d watched him on TV. But nothing could prepare me for watching it live and in person. My heart was in my throat and Jackson hadn’t even gone yet. Watching every other idiot get thrown around only made the anticipation of seeing Jackson do the same was anxiety-inducing. My leg bounced violently in the bleachers, getting worse with every rider.

“Calm down, ponyboy,” Darla said from behind me. “Your man’s damn good at what he does.”

“Why do some of them wear helmets?” I asked her. More than half of them were, but a few wore only their cowboy hats.

“Anyone born after ninety-four has to,” she replied. “Anyone born before can pick.”

“He doesn’t wear a fucking helmet does he?” Because it was a very Jackson thing to do to not wear it and choose that stupid hat. I never actually hated his love for that hat—until now.

“Jackson?” She made a sound of frustration. At least I wasn’t the only one who felt this way. “I fuckin’ wish he would.”

“Does he wear any protective gear?” With the way these fucking idiots were getting tossed around, it felt like protective gear should’ve been mandated. Fuck, I’d have Jackson wrapped in fucking bubble wrap if it’d help.

“All of them wear ballistic vests,” Willa said, joining in the conversation. Fucking hell. Ballistic vests? Why the fuck did Jackson think this was a great fucking career? “They help protect their vital organs.”

“Fucking lovely,” I muttered.

“Better than the alternative,” she quipped. “I’ve seen lots of pictures.”

“Why the fuck would you look that shit up?” I demanded as I glanced at her. She sat on my right in the same spread-out position they had been the day before. She was completely unfazed by the sentence she’d said. Who the hell would want to look at pictures of cowboys being trampled by bulls?

“I’m going to school for nursing.” Well, that explained that.

“What do all the numbers mean?” I asked because again, I didn’t understand shit about what was going on around us.

“Like how they’re scored?” Darla hummed. “You really don’t know a damn thing about bull ridin’, do you?”

“I know there’s a bull and there’s a rider,” I snapped with a little too much sarcasm.

“Jackson told me you were a sassy one,” she commented, earning a laugh from the other girls. “See those two over there? They’re the judges. They judge things kind of like you do.”

I held my tongue before I lost it on her, my anxiety almost getting the better of me.

“The two of them individually judge each rider based on a few things: how well he controls the bull, how well he stays centered, and if he throws a bit of style in there, y’know?” No, I didn’t fucking know. How the hell did a cowboy have fucking style while being thrown around like a goddamn toy? “And then there’s the eight-second rule.”

“The eight-second rule?”

“Their big goal is to stay on that big boy for eight whole seconds—one hand free,” she told me. Jesus fucking Christ. That sounded impossible. “They train real hard to make that eight seconds, y’know? Still, it’s real fuckin’ hard to do with how rough those bulls are. ”

“Only maybe forty percent of riders hit the eight-second mark,” Sutton chimed in.

“Then what’s the fucking point?” I asked. All the girls responded at once in an overwhelming way.

“To be able to say they did it.”

“The adrenaline rush.”

“It’s hot.”

That last one was Birdie—to no one’s surprise.

I returned my attention to the event and wondered what Jackson’s reason was. I knew that for him he was meant to be a bull rider but why? Maybe I’d add that to the actual list of late-night conversation topics he kept just in case. The little things Jackson did still floored me.

By the time it was Jackson’s turn, the atmosphere was electric. Four riders had made a qualified ride—with pretty damn good scores too. While I was still a little lost on shit, I was catching on to a few things here and there. The only thing I did know was that Jackson would have to do real fucking good to win the night.

My whole body was a livewire as I watched him climb in the chute and mount the bull. I could hear his laughter as the bull reacted, practically slamming him into the metal.

“Fuck,” I let out. He hadn’t even started yet and I was drowning in fear for him. Darla hopped over the seat to sit next to me.

“May I?” She held out her hand. I eyed it warily for a moment before accepting. When I took it, she said, “First time is always the worst—for you, not him. Jackson’s fuckin’ magic. You’ll see.”

I hoped to hell she was right.

I lost sight of everything as the chute opened and the bull lurched out, bucking violently. Jackson held on with one hand in the air.

One.

Two.

The way he leaned and swayed with every abrupt twist of the bull was fucking mesmerizing.

Three.

Four.

My heart lodged in my throat as I held my breath.

Five .

Six.

Jesus fucking Christ. Time never moved so fucking slow in my life.

Seven.

Eight.

The crowd went wild, and I cringed at the sheer volume of the noise. Nonetheless, I was on my feet with everyone else, clapping hard.

Jackson threw himself off the bull with a kind of grace that shouldn’t have been possible. Two pickup men were right there to herd the bull in a different direction while Jackson lived up the excitement.

When his gaze zeroed in on me, he winked. And me? I fucking smiled because I couldn’t help it.

Jackson was magnetic. The look on his face and the high that followed was damn near addictive. I stood on the sidelines as he ate up the compliments and talked with everyone. I was good where I was at. I didn’t need anything else, and I sure as fuck didn’t want to take away from his moment.

I caught the way he occasionally glanced in my direction. Each time, I offered a tight smile and did my best to look reassuring. I was fucking overwhelmed. Words couldn’t begin to express how fucking proud of him I was, but I wanted out of the goddamn rodeo. Too many people. Too much noise. Just too much everything.

When another person tried to talk to him, he dismissed them, striding right on by with a quick response and making his way toward me. I pushed away from the fence and opened my mouth to say something. Before I could, he wrapped an arm around my waist and kissed me hard. It was short-lived as he smiled all over again.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” Jackson whispered.