Page 45 of Buckin' Around

My hold hand rubs up and down the rope, the resin over it warming and creating the stick I want to make sure I last the eight seconds. Sliding my hand into the handhold, I curl my fingers over and slam them down tight with my free hand.

Carefully, I lower my legs on either side of the two-ton beast I am about to send into a rage.

One can only hope.

Making the eight and a clean getaway are next on my wish list tonight. It all counts to a great score.

I take a lung-stretching breath and then, “Alright boys!”

The gate flies open.

Pulling to the right straight off the bat, the bull dips.

Bucking out, his legs are airborne a second later.

Hand high, I lean back.

Grip tight around the hold, I hold my seat to the bull as he lands and spins before shooting up again.

He sets into a pattern.

Too fucking easy.

The arena spins as we move, the crowd’s cheers and hollers whipping past me.

The grill on my helmet has them a blur with set lines as I try to glance at the clock on the next go round.

6.48

So fucking close . . .

Carnivore drops his right shoulder.

My seat leaves his back.

Fuck.

I try to right myself.

Resisting the temptation to stabilize myself with my free hand, I haul my weight back up.

It’s not enough.

Carnivore jerks the other way.

My hand tugs before releasing from the hold.

I’m weightless for a second . . .

My ass hits the dirt, pain spiking up my spine as my vision wobbles.

The dirt in front of me is empty.

My gut sinks.

Fuck!

A heated snort hits my back before a hard skull slams into the small of my back, and I’m lifted off the ground, arms and legs flailing as I grapple with being tossed like a rag doll. Hollers start up behind me and to my left.