Page 21 of Eight Second Hearts

“Damn, there’s just something about that man that makes everyone lose their shit, ain’t there?” one of the journalists beside me says. I haven’t seen this one before, haven’t talked to her, and I’m slightly surprised she bothers to speak to me.

“Yeah,” I nod. “It’s the daredevil nature of him. I think it just sends people into a frenzy.”

“That makes sense,” she nods, smiling at me. “I’m Vanessa by the way.” She holds her badge up. “ProRodeo Weekly.”

I hold up mine. “Indie Chen. Saddle & Spur.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Indie,” she says, smiling. The corner of her eyes crinkle. “You know, you look very familiar. Have we followed the same circuits?”

I shake my head. “We haven’t met before.”

Her brows furrow. “Are you sure? I swear I’ve seen you before.” She taps her lip with her pen. “And the name?—”

Fuck. I’d thought I’d escaped it in this industry.

“It’s a pretty common name,” I try, looking away.

Her face lights up. “No! I know you! I remember now! You’re the one who’s dad?—”

“Sorry,” I interrupt, turning away. “I gotta go. I’ll catch you later.”

Which is a lie. I won’t. In fact, I’ll avoid her like the plague the rest of the rodeo. I haven’t run into anyone who knew my history, not in this industry, but clearly, it had been silly to think it wouldn’t ever catch up to me.

I glance back only to see Vanessa leaning over to another journalist. My worst fear hits when she points over to me, clearly explaining who I am. Motherfucker. I’m already the outsider. Now I’ll be the freak, too.

By the time I get out of the arena, I know the rumors are already spreading, evolving, growing worse. There’ll be no escaping it. Not anymore.

My phone rings. The same caller as always. I hit the red button angrily and shove it in my pocket before storming back to my shitty motel to rot.

Chapter 15

Ram

Indie left early, before Tripp went on stage. I don’t know what happened, but I’d seen her storming out of the arena looking angry. I can’t necessarily chase after her like I normally would, and when I get a good look at Tripp, I’m thankful she left anyway.

He can barely stand on his own two feet.

“What the hell did you do?” I growl as I help him get his vest on. “Hijo de su madre,” I mutter under my breath as he stumbles again.

“I’m fine. I’m fine,” he says, but his words are slurring a bit and he’s weaving on his feet as he prepares to go into the shoot.

Chingada madre. I know he has his problems, but he usually at least waits until after the event. Now he’s fucking trashed and he’s due on his bull. There’s no getting around this.

Lucky for us, he’s ridden in worse conditions.Pinche Cabrón.

“You gotta get on that fucking bull,” I tell him, pushing him toward the chute. “You’re on in a few minutes.”

He grunts and lets me push him toward the chute, clearly annoyed at being ushered like the cattle back home. He trips over his boots a little and I scowl at the clear evidence of hisdrinking. I’d thought he’d been slowing down, but clearly, I was wrong.

“You promised this wouldn’t happen anymore,” I hiss at him as I help him climb the fence panel. The bull he’s set to ride today is a mean one with a sixty percent throw rating. If he doesn’t have a good hold, he’ll get thrown and nothing brings attention to someone like getting a terrible score that sticks out. Tripp Savage doesn’t get bad scores. He just gets different ones, and the future of Fairview Acres rests on his goddamned performance. Ain’t no one buying rodeo bulls from an alcoholic cowboy.

“I can do it,” he growls at me, jerking out of my hold and climbing the panel himself. The bull jerks around in the chute, clearly agitated, eager to rush out onto the dirt like any good rodeo bull. I climb up beside him, knowing I’ll have to help him get the proper hold. Beau is out on the dirt, and I catch his eyes when he turns to check on our progress. I make the symbol for hang ten, and anyone would think it’s an innocent gesture, but Beau understands what it means.

Get him off the dirt. Make sure the bull doesn’t get him. If the bull knicks him, we’re at risk of being out the season, and we can’t have that.

Tripp can barely handle being at home for short spurts, let alone a whole season.

“You smell like a brewery,” I hiss as I get him situated and the rope wrapped around his gloved hand. “Try not to puke everywhere.”

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