Page 40 of Eight Second Hearts

“Of course. I’m the glue,” Beau says, but he looks at me and whispers, “it’s really Ram, but don’t tell him that.” As if Ram can’t hear what he says.

By the time we get in the truck to head to the fairgrounds, Tripp is significantly more perky, and that’s saying something. Because his perky is just him standing taller and taking the sunglasses off. Tripp Savage isn’t someone I would call perky onthe regular, but he’s come a long way since Ram dragged him out of bed this morning.

The fairgrounds are as bright as ever as we step inside, the dirt lit up red and ready. There are only two days left of this rodeo before everyone heads out to the next one. From my list I made prior to chasing the circuit, I see that we’ll be heading to Nebraska. I don’t think I’ve ever been to Nebraska, so it’ll be interesting to visit a new place at least.

Before any audience is allowed inside the arena, it feels more like a worksite, the tractor milling around the dirt, smoothing things out, people making sure the fencing is good, competitors preparing for another day in an otherwise long week. I don’t know how these people do this day in and day out, go to another location, and do it all over again.

When the stands fill up with people and the arena comes alive, it becomes a whole different beast. The sounds of the tractor are drowned out by the sounds of the audience looking for their seats, getting refreshments, and screaming when they think they see one of the cowboys they’ve been looking for. When the lights turn down and the spotlights come on, the crowd goes wild. Especially when the announcer starts his routine.

I’m in the press box with the others today, mostly because I’d like to get more pictures and also because Frank is expecting another article centered around the rodeo circuit, so I need some good pictures and content for that. It’s the least I can do, since I’m getting nowhere with the interview. I’m not even stressing about the interview at this point. Which is bad. That should be my primary focus.

Not the men who perform out on the red dirt.

When Beau comes out halfway through the event, the crowd goes wild as usual. I can’t help but smile at him as he struts around and puts on a show. He looks over to the press box andgrins at me, making a few of the other women standing with me gush and think he’s looking at them. When he starts running toward me, I straighten in confusion.

“What are you doing?” I ask as he leaps onto the small railing. “Beau! They’re about to release the bull!”

He grabs my arm and tugs me to the rail. I drop my pen and notebook. “Do you trust me, little outsider?”

“Yes, but?—”

“Then get your ass over this railing,” he growls and pulls harder until I’m forced to climb onto the railing.

“What the fuck are we doing?” I growl, but I climb the railing. I’m not really sure what’s happening, but I wasn’t lying. I do trust Beau.

Someone shouts at us as I drop to the dirt on the other side. “Get her off the dirt!”

“What the hell are you doin’, Rogers?”

“Stop the gates!”

My adrenaline skyrockets as more people shout at us, as the crowd goes wild with excitement as they try to figure out what’s going on. Beau Rogers doesn’t bring people onto his stage. He doesn’t perform with others. I don’t blame them for their confusion. I don’t know what the hell is going on either.

“Beau!” I say, breathing roughly. “What the hell are we doing?”

He drags me to the middle of the dirt where he usually performs and turns me to face him. “You said you trust me.”

“I do,” I nod. “But they’re telling us to get off the dirt! They’re gonna send security out here after me.”

He grips my chin and plants a kiss right on my lips, right there for the entire arena to see. “Don’t worry, little outsider,” he purrs. “I won’t let them or the bull touch you.”

My eyes widen. “What do you mean?” He doesn’t answer. “Beau Rogers! What the fuck do you mean?” My voice is shrill, panicked, but I don’t get time to really settle into that panic.

He turns me so that my back is plastered to his front. His arms wrap around me, holding me tightly, comfortingly, as I stare at the gates in front of us.

Oh god. I’m going to throw up.

Put me in a war zone, and I can figure things out. Put me in the ring with a bull, and I don’t know what the fuck to do. Surely, they won’t open the gate. Surely, all the screaming is them trying to stop it.

When one of the gates fly open, I tense, grabbing onto Beau’s arms.

“Don’t hold me,” Beau says. “Let me hold you.”

I immediately do as he says, letting him go, trying my hardest to keep my arms at my sides despite the massive black bull that rushes out of the chute. He’s angry, as all rodeo bulls are. He’s damn near steaming from his nose as he paws at the dirt and trots in a circle, looking for a target, before spotting Beau and me in the middle.

“Someone get her fucking out of there!”

“Rogers! You’re gonna get her killed!”

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