1. Easton

Chapter 1

Easton

"Good evening from Laran Arena, home of the Piranhas, in the City of the Violet Crown. Tonight will be electric, as the best of the best go head-to-head in a feeding frenzy for a seat in the finals. Fifteen of the grittiest cowboys pair up with the toughest bulls on the circuit for the final Titanium Bull Rider regular season tour stop. There's no mistaking that every rider here has made it this far for a reason. However, the most anticipated ride of the night is no doubt the two-time back-to-back national champion Easton Faucheaux's matchup with the national champion bucking bull, Onyx Alpha.

"Easton, who hangs his hat in Tifton, Georgia, is a native of Maringouin, Louisiana, and is one of those cowboys who makes riding look deceptively easy. We've seen him consistently put up big numbers all season and have highlight-caliber rides against ranked bulls. Tonight is his first time back after his Sioux Falls matchup with El Diablo, a bovine known to wreak havoc on the most skilled cowboys and that showed him no mercy. Something that people don't consider is how smart these trained animals are, and this is what intensifies the challenge for riders. These bulls separate the men from the boys.

"At the end of that ride, El Diablo turned right into Easton's wheelhouse, loosening him up and leaning him back right where the bull wanted him to be. That was all that was needed to buck him off, hooking him in the left side with that massive horn as he went down. Many speculated the injury would sideline Easton for the season. But the naysayers always forget these bovine athletes understand the definition of pain well. What they don't know is relinquishing and fear. Easton's here tonight to conquer this arena and show this audience why he's a national champion. He's been riding well in practice, but let's see what he brings tonight against Onyx Alpha.

"Onyx Alpha is the hardiest bull on tour with fifty-four straight buck-offs and the highest marked rides of the season. He's only five years old but has learned the ropes quickly. In his last appearance, he scored a monster forty-eight points, with fifty points being perfection. Riders have averaged less than 1.6 seconds on him. That's because this beast has the entire package—agility, power, and speed. He weighs over twenty-four-hundred pounds of muscle but bucks like a seventeen-hundred-pound bull. That amount of bulk and weight becomes exceedingly heavy on the extension of a rider's arm in a hurry. What we've seen with this bull is that he bucks high. He has a lot of forward movement, makes right turns with a lot of whip, and folds up. From the second the gates open, it becomes a matter of survival for the rider as they put their body and existence in peril. And it's all happening now."

Easton swished water in his mouth before swallowing. Being the last rider always put him on edge. Royal, his best friend and fiercest competition, claimed riding last was an advantage by having the bar set for the score to beat. However, Easton preferred setting the bar and not chasing it. He needed to focus on the ride and not be distracted by the score. It was daunting enough watching the others, regardless of their performance. These were both his friends and his adversaries—people he wanted to succeed but needed to beat. From a stall, he watched their triumphs and failures. Yet it wasn't only the riders he watched.

Each bull seemed to get meaner and more tenacious as the night progressed, and he'd be damned if he hadn't drawn the meanest one of the lot. He needed a big number to maintain the number three spot, but more importantly, he needed to punch the clock to remain in a position to win overall. A buck-off now would put him on the bubble. Even so, his mind drifted to….

"How you feeling?" Marcel, his uncle, flankman, and coach, asked, slapping him on the back. "You ready for this?"

Ugh! That question again. Did anyone truly expect him to say he wasn't? Did they doubt him? As if he needed doubt from anyone other than himself. But that was another monster entirely. Had all people lost faith in him? His sponsors? His crew? His fans? He couldn't honestly say he blamed them.

" Oui ." Easton nodded, his tilted Resistol obscuring most of his face and all of the concern glowing in his eyes. Shards of pain streaked through his side, the medication having little numbing effect. However, there was no need to complain. At this level, most of his rivals were dealing with some sort of pain, and his was not unique. Conversely, he knew he shouldn't be riding, and the Association medic knew it too. It had taken some finagling (a.k.a. a bottle of aged Cacha?a he'd won in a game of Texas Hold'em) to get the lowdown on how to manipulate and trick the computerized evaluation system into granting him the approval required to return to competition. What the commissioners didn't know wouldn't hurt them. Truth be told, Easton didn't think it was any of their business. Who were they to tell him what he was capable of? Well, medically, they were supposedly experts, but that wasn't the point. They didn't know his core, his determination. Besides, it wasn't the injury that made Easton hesitate. On the contrary, it was the strange energy in the arena.

He knew the story of eight construction workers who died five years ago when the south side of the building collapsed. Anyone who came into the city limits for more than ten minutes was told the legendary tale at least a half dozen times by gossipy locals. The owners alleged that the building collapsed due to an earthquake. That would make sense, except no earthquake had been documented to have occurred in the area on that date—or before or after, for that matter. Sure, maybe the appropriate equipment that documented such activity malfunctioned. The possibility could be valid. But wouldn't other buildings have had damage? Wouldn't people have felt the tremors in their homes? Or were earthquakes capable of isolating themselves to one spot?

Easton wasn't beyond believing a conspiracy theory of a governmental meteorology cover-up. After all, there existed the whole UFO situation that the media never seemed to want to discuss. And also, what the heck was going on in Area 51 and the Bermuda Triangle? Where were those stories, those answers? Nowhere, because strange occurrences happened and were promptly muted. However, a more plausible answer for the collapse of the arena's south wall was shoddy materials and cheap shortcuts by the multibillionaire corporate owners. But the locals didn't buy into that theory either. Instead, the arena was said to be haunted, and, oddly, there seemed to be evidence to support it. At every event held here, someone died—be it an athlete, coach, staff, fan, or an emergency shelter overnighter.

Maybe Easton would have downplayed the rumor, but someone had the audacity to blast "Black Sabbath" by Black Sabbath over the PA as the riders were lining up for the introduction. Why the hell would anyone play a song about Emperor Evil himself at this place unless it meant something? He inhaled, swallowing a wave of excitement drizzled with anxiety. More than animal musk and pine wafted through this air. Beneath it all lingered a hodgepodge of what-the-fuck.

"You're freaking yourself out," Royal had whispered during the lineup in another attempt to convince Easton that ghosts and gris gris didn't exist. "You're letting anxiety created by your overactive imagination best you."

Ha! Easton knew better. When he was four, he'd had what some would call a nightmare but what his South Carolinian mawmaw claimed was an encounter with a boo hag tugging at his skin. He'd awoken soaked in sweat with thick red welts covering his body, chills, and a fever. The doctor sputtered some snake oil garble about an allergic reaction to insect bites, but that diagnosis didn't stop his mawmaw from having a coat of haint paint slapped on both the porch and his ceiling before the sun set that day.

"Ain't no damn bugs left those kinds of marks," she had argued as she handed him a cup of Asosi tea to drink. "Them doctors with all those fancy degrees don't know diddly squat."

He wondered what his mawmaw would say about all of this.

Marcel wagged his finger at Easton. "The devil sho' 'nuff lying. You got that same bahbin as Ma."

Tuning back into his present, Easton grunted. "You're one to talk, Nonc. Have you looked in a mirror lately?"

Marcel shook his head, unconvinced, and shoved a pinch of Skoal between his gum and cheek. "All right. Just remember, that's a lot of animal to be straddling if your head isn't where it needs to be."

Easton sighed. Marcel wasn't wrong. Easton needed to lace up his chaps and pull his shit together. His turn to ride would be sooner than not. Atop a thousand-pound beast wasn't a place to allow nerves and other matters to overtake. He drew another deep breath, inhaling the familiar odors of greasy foods, leather, sawdust, and pyrotechnics—the familiar smells of his world.

Marcel continued, "If you're hurting too bad?—"

"He's fine," Royal stated, approaching from behind and sporting a pompous grin—as he should, having the lead score for the night. With his middle finger, he plucked Easton's brim. "He's too ornery to not ride and let me win by default."

Easton laughed. "Cocky as always. I'm not the only person who can whoop you."

"But you don't care about anyone else beating me other than you."

"And you assume that I prioritize you enough to care."

" Ack! Don't you two ever get enough of bickering like two hens?" Marcel hooked his thumbs in the front pockets of his jeans.

"You love it." Royal beamed.

Grunting, Marcel spun and headed toward the chutes. "I'm going to check on Upton. He's probably setting up."

Royal waited until the older man moved out of earshot and leaned against a gate. "The guys want to hang out tonight, and you look like you could use a whiskey. Apparently, there's a watering hole not too far from here that gives a discount to eventgoers if they present a ticket stub. Since we're the talent, they'll probably waive the door fee altogether. I tried to ask Iznar about it, but it didn't go too well." He shook his head. "I really have to learn Portuguese."

"You've been saying that for years."

"Yeah, I know, but it seems like a betrayal, though."

Easton pressed his lips together. They'd had this conversation more times than he liked to recall, and it never went well. "Your mama was being spiteful."

The muscles in Royal's face strained, and Easton raised his palm to stave off Royal's protest.

"It doesn't make her a bad person, only human," Easton assured. "You shouldn't feel guilty about your heritage and grown people's choices."

"Heritage is history. Past. Duchess is present."

"It's still a part of you, but you insist on sectioning yourself off to be a single unit and deny all the rest."

Royal's stubborn jaw clenched. "I've never denied being half Brazilian."

"You've never embraced it either."

"You're confusing ethnicity and bodily fluids. My donor never did anything for me other than his initial deposit. I owe him nothing."

"No one said you do. But your mother knew he had a family, and she chose to be with him anyway. I'm not excusing his not manning up to his responsibility, but half of you is his DNA."

Easton figured it was the dominant half because Royal looked nothing like his mother. His sultry mint-green eyes beneath indignant eyebrows contrasted her inky black ones and wispy lashes. Likewise, his short, straight toffee-colored hair differed from her long ebony curls. Even his olive complexion didn't resemble Salethia's bronze skin. As far as Easton could tell, the only trait Royal had inherited from her was his full lips that were even on top and bottom and puckered into a kissable pout—a feature Easton tried his damnedest to ignore. However, lately, those lips had been Easton's focus each time Royal spoke, which made no sense. Who obsessed about their best friend's lips? Or eyes? Or everything else about him being a delicious morsel to sink his teeth into?

He dragged a lingering gaze over the long lines of Royal's lean frame and wet his lips. These pervasive thoughts hadn't always been a thing. Nonetheless, over the past several months, Easton couldn't shake them, and his stomach somersaulted in Royal's presence. What's wrong with me? A streak of guilt barreled through his body. He'd no business to be thinking of Royal that way. Concentrate.

"She shouldn't be offended if you learned some things, especially not a language," Easton continued. "You have siblings who you've never met."

"Half."

Easton shook his head. "I've never met a half-person."

"That doesn't say much, considering the shitty company you keep."

"Present included, no doubt."

"Listen, I didn't walk all the way over here for your lip."

" Pff ." Easton snorted, mocking Royal's feigned affront. "You pranced from two chutes down to gloat on your way to the locker room. I could spit that far."

Royal smirked at the accuracy.

Clang! A chute door burst open, and the crowd roared as a feral bovine rocketed forward and into a spin, scarcely clearing the fence. Its rider was flung frontward toward the broad head, then snapped back like elastic onto the sleek hide before being hurled to the dirt. One point six seconds. Bullfighters sprinted to distract the animal while the rider rolled clear of the dusty hooves.

"Damn, Brown needed that ride," Easton commented, watching the rider scramble to his feet.

"We all do," Royal replied with a sigh. "So, are we going out later or no?"

A wicked grin crept across Easton's lips. "Assuming I'd want to be seen in public with you."

"Who wouldn't want to be seen with me? Face it, I'm the best thing that ever happened to you, baw ."

On point. Shuffling, Easton turned his profile to Royal to prevent his expression from revealing the truthfulness of the statement. Unfortunately for him, he hadn't been quick enough, and Royal's brow quirked.

To cover, Easton added, "And all this time, I thought it was the bull manure I've been smelling."

"Not an answer."

"Fine. It's a date."

Royal chuckled. "I'm the best date you've had in months."

Also true. Easton's cheeks flushed . "Ass!"

"Yeah, you can watch it as I walk away. Swish, swish."

The lines in Easton's face scrunched with concern. Does he know? No, he couldn't possibly. He'd wallop the fire and brimstone out of Easton and then stomp him in the mud if he did. And with Royal's recent winning, he had more than enough to make bail—not that either of them needed another run-in with the law. It wouldn't be threats of juvie hall this time. But honestly, what teenage boys didn't go joyriding in a "borrowed" pickup, sneak a few bottles of shine, skinny-dip at the lake, roll a lawn or two, and occasionally moon a passerby? Besides, they had filled the tank up with gas and run it through the Soapy Suds carwash before returning it. But this would be different because Royal would beat him—as in for real mud stomp him to hell with a rocket in the crack of his ass like the Fourth of fucking July.

Hollywood could produce and film all the Brokeback Mountains they wanted, but it didn't change the fact that there was no such thing as gay cowboys—total myth. Well, maybe they existed in some remote closet in a desolate, alternative universe but definitely not in professional bull riding—the superlative of masculinity. He'd have better luck milking a unicorn.

However, what was this malarkey being conjured in the indentions of his subconscious brain anyway? Just because he sprang a boner at the thought of his male best friend and fantasized about being the zipper on his jeans didn't mean he was gay, did it? It was purely coincidental that he'd never been attracted to women, right? Sure, he'd dated a few, but just to cease his matchmaking mother's nagging. Besides, it only made sense that he felt drawn to Royal. They had been best friends since their sandbox days and grew closer each year. Royal had helped take care of him during his recent recovery, taking time off from events and risking his rank. No one knew him better, and they shared everything. So what if they once had jerked off together after watching porn? They had been kids then. Nineteen. A couple of bayou boys blowing off steam. Plenty of guys did it. Right? It wasn't like they had jerked each other off.

In fact, Easton had read an article written by a sexologist in a reputable magazine that there was even a term for that sort of thing. Buddybating, it was called, and it was a rite of passage of sorts. No, communal masturbatory experiences were as common and old as the beginning of time, dating back to the ancient Romans and Greeks—and maybe even predating then. Experts declared it to be so. Who was Easton to question experts—ignoring the fact that he questioned the Bull Riding Association's experts? No, not hypocritical at all. He didn't have a post-doctorate in human behavior. Hell, he'd barely made it out of high school—not that he'd attended the best school district. Yet a cloud of doubt fogged his brain.

But playing the devil's advocate and assuming there was something more to the flummoxing sensibilities, Easton was sure it was all one-sided. Royal loved the ladies, and the ladies loved him. Why wouldn't they? Royal had always been a walking smoke show—one of those teens who puberty discriminatorily skipped from stinking cute to undeniably dashing overnight. Instead of zits and residual baby blubber, Royal had broken out with abs and biceps. His strong jawline had sharpened, and his playful eyes had deepened with mischief and mystery. Over the course of one summer, he'd sprung up six inches and his voice metamorphosed to 1-900-bedroom-sexy. His hands, feet, nose, and teeth had never fallen out of proportion with the rest of him. In fact, with each passing year, he became more devastatingly dashing and debonaire. In short, he was the guy all the other guys detested while longing to be in his presence. Royal was as regal as his name proclaimed.

And his rodeo skills…. Wow! They were insane. Pure natural talent, although Easton believed it had more to do with Royal's ambition than innate skills. He simply wanted to win more than others did. He was on a mission to prove to the universe that he was somebody. Because despite Royal's outward cockiness, Easton detected the truth beneath the mask. He recognized that Royal didn't see himself the same way the rest of the world did. Instead, he saw himself as unwanted and tossed away. While Easton loved Royal's mother dearly, he resented that her actions had fucked with his broski's head. As a result—at least partially—Royal sought validation in the beds of women. And there were plenty of them.

Every night, a line of precious darlings in tight jeans and thin T-shirts waited for him at the exits, and Royal didn't turn them away—well, not on most nights. Sometimes, he opted to hang out with Easton, and the two talked for hours while sipping cold beer and staring at the constellations. Stargazing was a secret passion they shared.

Growing up, Easton had had trouble reading. He'd also had a terrible stutter. Royal, as a brilliant eight-year-old, suggested Easton read Greek mythology stories aloud, since they had an abundance of big words—or big to a couple of eight-year-olds, at least. What Royal had meant was the complexity of the names. Since all their peers also wrestled with pronouncing the names, Easton hadn't been self-conscious about his reading skills. And low and behold, it had worked. Both his reading and confidence improved.

Subsequently, due to mythology being tied to the stars, it was only a natural progression that his and Royal's interests turned celestial. So, yeah, they'd sneak off to a quiet open field and lie shoulder to shoulder while finding the various constellations. Over the years, it had grown into this thing that they didn't share with anyone else—their secret.

Easton's mouth dried. They had secrets with each other but not from each other. At least that had been the case until recently.

If Easton confessed his feelings, Royal would think he was Mad Hatter crazy and laugh him so far under the stalls that even the cockroaches wouldn't be able to find him. Royal wouldn't understand this. How could he? The embarrassment Easton might could stand, but the risk of destroying their friendship was not a gamble he was willing to take.

"Hey." Royal rested his hand on Easton's shoulder, the warmth of his fingers sinking into the skin beneath Easton's shirt, and cast a speculative glance that seemed to peer into Easton's soul. "What's with that look? I'm joking."

"I know."

" T'es sur de sa? You seem… I don't know… on edge."

"It's nothing." Easton glanced down at his boots.

Royal stepped closer and lowered his voice with concern. "You don't have to ride tonight. No one would blame you. Your total is enough to push you through."

"I'm fine."

"I'm serious, Easton. I don't want you getting hurt again. Last time?—"

"Was a fluke." Or at least it better have been. Even if it weren't, he'd convinced himself that it was. Allowing fear to creep in and rent space in his head was career suicide. Pain served as a reminder to never permit his past situation to reoccur. "Besides, I know what you're doing." Easton flashed his most arrogant smile. "No need wasting oxygen to convince me to sit this one out so you'll have a clear shot. I'm so squashing your ass, so get ready."

Royal returned the hubris and waggled his eyebrows. "Apparently, you haven't recovered from the concussion. You're still delusional. This one is mine." He clapped Easton on the shoulder before heading to the locker room.