5. Easton

Chapter 5

Easton

Easton glanced back at the cloud of dust drifting above the arena floor. It should have settled by now but hadn't. Why was no one else freaking out about what happened? Bulls throwing riders brought drama, sure. But damn apparitions manifesting from the earth promoted drama to another galaxy. People should have been racing out of the arena, screaming their lungs out. Popular word, that— should. Was anyone counting all the shoulds that should have happened? Easton wondered.

Onyx Alpha, snorting, still evaded the bullfighters attempting to corral it into the holding pen. It trotted around the perimeter as if it was proud of its accomplishment and king of the rodeo. Easton supposed that was true—the bulls were the stars of these roughstock events and the cowboys the supporting cast—nobility but not royalty. But honestly, he was thankful Onyx Alpha was evading the pen. As long as the bull remained in the rink, the promoters couldn't set up for the awards; hence, Easton could avoid going back down there for the time being. Whatever had risen from wherever—likely the bowels of hell—had returned… at least temporarily. And temporarily was sufficient as long as it was enough time for him to clear the hell out of this place. If that made him chickenshit, then so be it.

He took a step, and pain streaked from his lower back to the base of his skull. There it lodged. Now that the adrenaline had begun to fade, the intensity of the pain started to register. It would take more than a couple of aspirins to rid him of this. He'd need a good, long Epsom-salt soak, plenty of camphor liniment, and a shot of apple cider vinegar mixed in pure cherry juice. He wouldn't smell that great, but as long as it worked, he didn't care if he smelled like a bucket of month-old striped polecat urine. He preferred to stink with Royal by his side, and if not with him, then alone. Not for one nanosecond did he doubt Royal would put his needs second to Easton's. He always did. Lately, though, Royal seemed to do that continuously, and that wasn't fair. Easton couldn't—wouldn't—ask Royal to sacrifice his night on his account. Besides, Maddox didn't seem like a bad guy to hang out with. Although….

Easton studied the blond newcomer. For some reason, he got the feeling that Royal didn't care much for Maddox. And if Royal was concerned, then perhaps he should be concerned as well. Then again, Royal was often distrustful of new people. He had a small select group of friends and an even smaller number of relationships. On reflection, Easton couldn't recollect Royal having any serious romantic relationships. The longest he could recall lasted possibly a month, and that had been years ago. And the only reason it had lasted that long was due to the girl having appendicitis, and Royal had hung around for her recovery. Royal had said it would have been shitty to dump her while she was laid up. Frankly, Easton hadn't thought waiting had made getting dumped any less shitty. It only prolonged the inevitable—sort of along the same lines as requesting an extension for filing taxes.

Easton reckoned all of this stemmed back to the jacked-up relationship between Royal's parents. However, Easton wouldn't concern himself with that festering sore at present. If having Maddox as a companion shut Marcel up, then that was how it was going to be. Doctors were not an option.

All bull riders got injured at some point in their career. The world had seen Easton face-first in the dirt before, but this was different. Gritting his teeth, Easton took another step and then another. Don't be a pussy. Eyes forward. Shoulders square. Walk. His knees buckled. Okay, hobble—but don't fall. The locker room was approximately twenty feet away. He needed to make it there on his own—not only to get Marcel off his back but to prove to the crowd that no bovine would ever get the best of him. Promoters and sponsors needed to see that he was solid. He made another step, plastered on a weak smile, and waved at the crowd. I'm a chameleon. You'll think I'm fine even when I'm not. Purposefully, he didn't look in Royal's direction. He knew his best friend would see straight through the act. And if that happened, Royal would call his bluff the minute they entered the locker room. Easton didn't have sparring with Royal in him tonight… or with anyone, for that matter. He needed to get his head together to process this shit show of an evening. He took another step and winced before he could control his expression.

" Quoi y a? " Royal asked, his brows pulling into a tight line of doubt.

Don't look at me. Please look away. "Rock," he lied, diverting his eyes and praying the fear he felt wasn't visible on his face. He couldn't admit what was truly wrong. "My boot."

"One of the bullfighters will grab it," Marcel reassured. "They have their hands full. That's one ornery bull."

"They should shove your boot under its nose," Royal joked, glancing at the arena. "That stench would chase anyone away screaming."

"Or drop 'em on the spot like chloroform," Upton added.

"They can't do that," Cody, Easton's gateman, chimed in for the first time. "Every animal rights advocacy group would hang all our asses for animal cruelty."

Easton's lips rebelliously curled into a smile. "Fuck y'all."

"Language," Marcel warned.

Royal laughed. "You're wasting your time on these barbaric fuckwads. There's no reforming them for civilization. They eat with their feet."

Marcel narrowed his eyes. "You got one more time, Royal. Just one more."

Royal laughed harder. "All right. Simmer down, old man. I'll behave."

Easton shook his head. "Heads up, everybody. Watch out for a lightning bolt. It'll be coming in hot." Yes. Distract, distract.

The lighthearted bantering removed Easton's focus from walking, and before realizing it, he'd reached the locker room. But once he hauled himself inside, the fury raging inside his body unleashed. He flopped onto the bench closest to the door and released a slow but silent breath of relief.

"Here you go."

Easton glanced up at the hand extending him a bottled water and muttered a thank you to his gateman. I could be him. Cody was one of the broken ones. Two years ago, a bovine, Rumpy, had trampled him, leaving a hole in his skull. Cody had made a remarkable recovery, healing much faster than any doctor had predicted and showing no lasting effects. Miracles happened daily. Of course, he could be like Easton and was hiding them, but Easton didn't think so. Cody seemed to function with no pain. However, the doctors had warned that another head injury could kill him instantly. That hadn't scared Cody, though. Easton knew this from the way Cody eyed the bulls, that gleam of longing mixed with sadness. He was itching to climb back on. The reason he didn't was his wife. She had threatened to divorce him and take their babies if he ever rode again. So, he'd relegated himself to coaching and helping at events, grasping to have some small part of what he'd lost.

The doctors hadn't given Easton that drab of a prognosis, but he felt they were close to uttering such poppycock drivel. Therefore, he had to be careful. He couldn't give anyone an excuse to permanently sideline him, and that meant not curling up on the bench at present and screaming in agony the way he wanted to. Suck it up, sugarplum. Now that he was seated, pain soared through his body in thumping waves. Nausea rose to the base of his throat. God, please let me make it back to the hotel.

He opened the water and sipped as the bustle continued around him—other riders inquiring if he was okay and congratulating him on qualifying, event makers ensuring he would be able to attend the closing ceremony, Marcel being Marcel. And at his side on the bench, Royal fielded all the questions, handling matters as usual.

Where would I be without you?