Page 40 of Ride or Die

When the gate slams open, Broiler launches like a damn rocket, hind legs kicking for the sky, front hooves hammeringthe dirt. My free arm snaps back, trying to find balance, but my timing is off—half a beat late. I feel it immediately. That clean rhythm I rely on? Gone. Replaced by static and uncertainty.

I need to focus but my brain won’t listen. It’s still chirping. Still draggin’ me somewhere I shouldn’t be while fifteen-hundred pounds of fury tries to tear me apart.

The bull twists a hard left. I overcorrect. My hips slide out of position. My hand is still locked, but everything else is chaos.

Three seconds—maybe.

Another kick. Higher this time. I lose my center altogether. I’m thinking instead of reacting. That’s the mistake. That’s the end. The world snaps sideways and I’m airborne before I even realize I’ve lost him.

Then—impact. The ground slams into me, knocks the breath straight out of my lungs. Dust fills my mouth. My vision flickers. For a split second, I just lie here, staring at nothing.

Move.

I don’t. My head is still spinning, still stuck everywhere else but right here, right now.

Move, goddammit!

Too late. The bull wheels back, hooves tearing into the dirt, coming straight for me. I hear the crowd change—sharp, panicked—but it sounds far away, like I’m underwater or outside, looking in.

What the hell are you doing?

My body finally catches up. I roll just as a hoof smashes into the ground where my ribs were a heartbeat ago. Dirt sprays across my face. Another step—too close—too damn close.

Hands grab my vest, yanking me backward. A bullfighter flashes past in a blur of color, pulling the beast’s attention away just long enough.

I scramble, boots slipping, legs barely working. Adrenaline slams into me all at once, hot and violent, all-consuming. I’m clear. But my chest is heaving, and not just from the hit.

Four seconds. Not even.

I rip off my glove and slam it into the dirt. Anger surges, sharp and immediate, cutting through everything that was clogging my head a moment ago.

“Damn it!” My voice is raw, lost to the arena noise, but I feel it burn through me anyway.

Too slow. Too distracted. Too damn inside my own head. I drag a hand down my face, pacing hard, boots kicking up dust. My heart is thundering like I’m still on the bull, but now it’s just me—me and the truth. I didn’t get thrown. I checked out. And in the arena on the top of a raging bull, that’s as good as asking to be trampled to death.

“The hell happened out there, brother?” Wyatt reaches me, snaking his arm around my shoulders as I navigate my way through the trucks parked up outside.

I fucked up, that’s what happened. My head wasn’t in it, and I paid the price. Barely made it four fuckin’ seconds before I went over the ass end, slamming hard onto the dirt and rattling my senses loose to the point where the goddamn beast almost trampled me before I could gather my wits to get out the fuckin’ way. Of course, I don’t say that.

“Bull was too damn strong,” is what I say instead.

“You’ve ridden bigger and meaner than him,” Brady says with a scoff, coming up on my other side. And he’s right. I have.

“Not my night, I guess,” I say with a dismissive shrug, hoping they fuckin’ leave it at that.

“See ya in Amarillo, Dawson.”

I snap my head to the side, finding Stanley Watson grinning at me all smug from the side of his trailer, celebratory beer in one hand, buckle bunny’s ass in the other. I should teach that fucker a lesson, swoop in, put on the charm and steal his girl right out from underneath his cocaine-crusted nose. The way she’s looking at me all wanton and pouty, while her tits are pressed up against him, it wouldn’t be hard. But I don’t. Frankly, I can’t think of anything I’d rather not do. Which ain’t like me at all.

“Ignore him,” Brady mutters under his breath.

I throw Stanley a salute and turn away, continuing to my trailer, because I know no reaction will only piss him off even more. I’ll see him in Amarillo, that’s for damn sure.

“If we haul ass we might still make Webber’s birthday drinks.” Brady looks at both me and Wyatt.

“Might as well drown my sorrows,” I mutter.

“They at The Saddlery?” Wyatt asks.