Page 1 of Titus

CHAPTER

ONE

TitusCole

“We’ve been on this road for ten hours. Bruh, we need to stop and get a room,” my cousin Lab says.

He’s been complaining for the last three hours and I’m tired of hearing his damn mouth. We have less than two hours until we reach our older cousin’s ranch in Millers Pointe and I ain’t stopping until then. Wasting money on a hotel for two fucking hours makes no sense and I’m a lot of shit, but senseless, I’m not.

“I’ll stop when we need gas but that’s it. The ranch is only two hundred miles from here. Chill the fuck out. You’re not even driving.”

“Phoenix needs to stretch her legs,” he adds, knowing the mention of Phoenix will likely work.

“I know that but I need to make it in time for the opening barbeque. All the sponsors are going to be in that bitch and Ineed to be all up in their faces. By the end of this season, I need my competition shirt filled with patches.”

“I know but you can’t compete if she ain’t good. We need to stop.”

“Let me worry about her.”

“Man, fuck you,” he huffs then laughs.

Phoenix is my lifeline. She’s my six-year-old mare that makes this shit all possible. To keep her happy and calm, I’ve been stopping every three hours. Her health is key. Three years ago, when I was released from a four-year bid, I really didn’t have a plan for my life. I was a hustler. All I knew was the streets and going back there wasn’t an option. I wasn’t doing shit to get me back locked up.

So when Lab got me a job with his bull riding team, I left my home in Diamond Falls and hit the road with him and his team, the Millers Pointe Mavericks. Lab and I were close as kids, although we grew up in two different worlds. While I was trapping on the streets in Diamond Falls, he was riding horses and shit on his parents’ small ranch in Millers Pointe. I was a street nigga and he was a whole ass cowboy.

When I was inside, his emails and video visits were filled with wild ass stories from the rodeos and competitions. It was a world I knew nothing about until I joined him on the road as a crew member. I definitely wasn’t riding a bull.

The Mavericks are champions and as a crew member, I made good money. It just wasn’t the money I was used to. Lab, on the other hand, was making major paper at each competition and he even made extra money by getting sponsors. I wanted in; but not as a rider. I just had to find my way.

My first year, I watched and learned so much. I found myself really intrigued with tie-down roping. I started training and that shit felt like it came to me naturally. And when my trainer paired me up with Phoenix, it was up. After eight months of training, Ientered my first competition and placed. It wasn’t first place but I won a small prize.

Right when my tie-down roping career was picking up, Lab got injured. During a Maverick competition in Houston, the minute he came out of the chute, his bull went wild, threw Lab, and pounced on him. He retired after recovering from a neck fusion surgery. Now, he travels with me as I compete. This is only my second year but I’ve found something I’m good at. I’m making good money and my past is behind me.

Currently, I’m ranked number eighteen in the nation but naturally, I’m aiming for number one. My win in San Antonio this weekend was just another step in getting to number one. Taking it all these next two weeks at the Millers Pointe Livestock Show and Rodeo will catapult me to the top ten and help earn more sponsorships.

“There’s a truck stop in eleven miles,” I tell him after reading the roadside billboard. “I’ll stop there; I gotta piss anyway.”

“Thank you. Shit. My leg’s stiff as fuck.”

“This is a big ass F-250 King Ranch. Your short ass legs are fine,” I goad him.

I’m six-three and he’s maybe two inches shorter than me. My legs are fine and so are his. Real shit, he just wants to blaze and I don’t allow that shit in my ride. Two big ass niggas pulling a horse trailer draws enough attention. I’m not trying to get pulled over and my shit smells like weed. That would be all a cop needs to rope my ass off. That’s not happening. My days of taking penitentiary chances are over.

Less than ten minutes later, I exit then follow the signs to Love’s Truck Stop. After pulling in the back area for RV and trailers, I park then get out. Lab gets out too and immediately fires up the blunt he had tucked behind his ear. I move my neck side to side to loosen it up then stretch out my back.

As soon as I start to unlock the latch on the trailer, I hear Phoenix’s hooves hit the trailer bed. She’s ready to get out and stretch her long black legs too. When I open the back, she’s waiting at the edge. I grab her reins then lead her out.

“Good, girl,” I coax as she struts.

Within five minutes of walking her around the back of the parking lot, we drew a crowd. A beautiful black horse and a big black man in jeans, boots, and a cowboy hat always creates curiosity in people.

“Can I touch him?” a young, white teenage girl asks as she approaches.

“No. She’s not a pet,” I reply quickly and the girl frowns but walks off. The others stand around, glaring and a few even rudely take pictures without even asking.

“You want something outta there?” Lab asks as he nods toward the actual store.

“Nawl. I’m straight.”

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