2. Royal

Chapter 2

Royal

When it came to rodeos, things rarely went as planned despite how well they practiced. Bulls were unpredictable, venue owners dicey, and weather temperamental. Rolling dice or reading the best gunpowder tea leaves imported from Sri Lanka often yielded better odds than gambling on how a ride would go. For several days, ever since learning of this show, a pit had developed in Royal's stomach. And it wasn't because of Easton's rumblings about the location. Royal had heard the stories and listened to the old hands tell their tales. He'd wandered through the corridors and felt the cool breath of death skate over his skin. These weren't stories created to add character to the place or pique tourist interest. These stories had teeth, or more accurately, the whole damn skull. There was a body count.

Inside the arena, he couldn't see the night sky, but he knew a new moon hung there bright and bold, beckoning for the extramundane that lurked a cat's-whiskers-length beneath the surface on any given day and inviting that capriciousness into a place exactly like the one he was standing in. Frankly, it gave him the heebie-jeebies. Of course, he couldn't let on to anyone, especially not Easton, that he knew the myths weren't myths. What many defined as myths were merely deniable truths and circumventing renunciations of the uncomfortable—all the prickly mess people didn't want to accept. And he couldn't allow anything to distract him. He needed to study these bulls—not their film but them in action. They reacted to more than the chute and the rider. Animals were keenly more aware of atmospheric weirdness than humans. In fact?—

Clank!

Royal snapped out of his thoughts and stared at the bovine charging into the center of the arena. He'd ridden that mean son of a bitch, Caldera, two weeks ago in Belcourt, North Dakota—another odd night filled with…. Royal didn't even know how to explain that night or even if he wanted to. One minute, he'd been enjoying a cold brew at a local choke-and-puke, and the next, he was storming down the highway on foot in the rain to a motel with a janky AC. It all had happened quickly—so quickly, in truth, that Royal didn't know what was happening and felt transported to another realm. A handshake of introduction between Easton and the newbie had been all it took to zap every particle of cheer out of Royal's night.

Although Maddox Pyrite had arrived on the circuit three months ago, Royal had never met him. Oh, Royal had seen him ride, and Maddox's technique was damn spectacular. The boy had skills, but he'd come out of nowhere. Poof! There he was. No one seemed to know anything about him, and he pretty much kept to himself. He showed up just in time for the lineup, tipping his hat as acknowledgment, and slipped out—sometimes with a curt wave—seconds after the final results were announced.

It had been a pattern until that night when he'd shown up at the bar with his shiny gold hair, sparkling blue eyes, skintight jeans, and hot body-ody that screamed Instagram model and looked yummier than a Scooby Snack. Of all the empty chairs in the joint, he'd strolled over to the table Royal shared with Easton and their usual crew and had asked to join. Everything red—red flags, red carpets, red curtains, red rover, red M&Ms—had flown like banners in Royal's head. However, before he could turn the uninvited intruder away, Marcel cheerily agreed and scooted over to make room. To make matters worse, instead of dragging a chair to the end of the table, Maddox had squeezed in beside Easton. Just plopped his ass down like he was supposed to be there.

Royal sensed it immediately. Maddox's gaze. His smile. The way he'd shaken Easton's hand. It wasn't the way one should react toward a comrade. But if Maddox thought he could waltz in and…. And what? Well, for starters, he could kick rocks wearing open-toe shoes.

Royal refocused on the action in the ring, shifting his weight and attempting to convince himself that he wasn't bothered by the likes of Maddox Pyrite, who obviously had a thing for Easton. Well, the joke was on Maddox. Easton wasn't into men, and Royal should know. Not only had he known Easton forever and had watched him hook up with oodles of women, but Easton had also been unresponsive to Royal's advances when they were younger and coming into their own. Sure, at one point, Royal had thought there was a possibility that Easton's pendulum swung in the opposite direction, but he'd been wrong. He'd allowed those fantasies to drop long ago… sort of.

Royal scratched his chin. Okay, so maybe there hadn't been oodles of women, but there had been some. Enough. However, none ever panned out to be serious. But rodeo life was hard that way. It was difficult to maintain a lasting relationship when on the road forty weeks out of a year.

Oddly, watching Easton go after women hadn't been difficult to accept. No one could change how they were sexually hardwired. But watching Maddox make a play for Easton chapped Royal's ass. He couldn't stomach it and had chosen to storm out that night. Since then, Maddox had been finding ways to slither around Easton—always with some lame excuse that Easton either didn't see through or wouldn't. No one else did either. But how could they not? Were they all blind? Or was Royal crazy? No. He dismissed the last thought. He wasn't imagining things. It didn't matter whether Easton chose not to or couldn't see Maddox for the flesh-eating bacteria he was. Either way, Royal's duty as a best friend and wingman was to protect Easton—to always have his back, front, side, diagonal, and every other angle.

Really, what did anyone know about Maddox other than he could ride a bull (and probably more than one species)? He could be a serial killer busted from prison. Okay, probably not. The rodeo circuit would be too high-profile for someone on the lam—at least for a rider. Maybe hands would go unnoticed, but riders were constantly in front of cameras for interviews and promotions. However, he could be on parole.

Royal frowned and rested his palms on the gate rungs. He'd warn Easton later tonight—subtly, of course—over a round of J?gerbombs at whatever taphouse they ended up at after the show. For a cowboy, Easton's feelings were tender and required a delicate touch, which was precisely why some rabble-rouser like Maddox needed to keep his distance. Since he'd cropped up on the scene, Easton had been acting differently. Royal couldn't put his finger on it, but something was off. Coincidence? Maybe. Royal wouldn't bet money on it, though. That's why he'd gone to great lengths to ensure an invite to the bar tonight wasn't extended to Maddox.

The buzzer sounded, and the crowd cheered at the rider's effort, but it was ultimately a failure. He'd lasted longer than most but not long enough. Watching always fostered conflict in Royal. In his heart, he wanted his circuit buddies all to do well, but in his purse, he needed them to tank. In bull riding, being good wasn't enough to make a decent living. Anything outside of being in the top five wasn't worth rolling out of bed. And anything besides the top three had zero bragging rights. Sometimes—oftentimes—in the end, pride was all a rider had—reflection on the glory days when his body wasn't too broken to climb on a beast one more time. Sadly, no rider knew when that day would be. It didn't come at a certain age or number of years as with most nine-to-fives. The end came when the body said, "Enough."

Royal peered at Easton's chute. Medically, he shouldn't be riding tonight. Everyone knew it, but those weren't words to be spoken. However, there existed a world of difference between shouldn't and couldn't . Technically, he didn't suppose anyone in his right mind should be climbing onto animals with horns that could gouge out one's liver at the correct angle. Who does that? Maybe Hannibal Lecter for an entrée with his fava and Chianti. Yet if Easton stood a chance of having any kind of season, he had to go out there, hurt or not. That was how it worked. Welcome to the world of Pbr. So, if Easton felt confident, Royal had zero doubts in his ability.

Onyx Alpha reared in the chute. Damn that bull . Already causing trouble. Easy, he mentally reassured Easton, as if the two had telepathic abilities. Out loud, he said, "Take control, East! Handle that!"

Inwardly, Royal grunted. Control was something he should be practicing himself instead of allowing his emotions to get the best of him. He'd had a hellfire of a time explaining (a.k.a. lying about) his little hike/tantrum down the highway. He'd created some cockamamie story about having alcohol-induced dehydration leg cramps—an innovative way of saying the booze made him do it. The guys seemed to have bought it. At least, Royal thought they had. Maybe. Hell, they were all half drunk anyway. If they questioned him, he'd claim the tequila had twisted their memory.

The chute flung open, and Onyx Alpha burst out with a hard buck. Royal had said it a hundred times. That was one mean-ass bull. Its hooves pounded into the dirt, spawning a pygmy haboob, and….

Royal stiffened as a wave of discomfort shimmied down his spine.

What the actual fuck?