Page 25 of Bull Riders Don't Swoon

“I didn’t think I’d see you so soon.”

“I’m hoping you can help. My buddy broke his arm yesterday, and we’re not prepared for tonight. Would you have some duct tape and some plastic we could borrow?” The man’s bushy eyebrows pop up, and my cheeks burn as I replay how that sounds. “To cover his cast so he can shower.”

The man snorts and holds a finger up. “I think I can help. Give me a minute or two.”

When the man leaves, I thumb through my messages on my phone.

Jackson asked if Griff was okay and congratulated me on my high score. Funny, I haven’t given myself much time to think about the score until now. My biggest concern was making sure Griff was okay.

After answering Jackson, I reply to Carson, the other bullfighter, and ask him to spread the word that Griff broke his arm but is otherwise okay. When Carson asks if Griff will work the coming events, I pause. That’s probably not a question I should answer, but if I know my best friend, he’s working if he can function.

“Here you go. This should help.”

Shoving my phone in my pocket, the man from the motel hands me a baggie with rolls of clear tape and several small garbage bags.

“Oh, thank you so much. I probably don’t need thismany.”

“You’ll need it for a while. The tape is surgical and waterproof. I had some leftover from when I had my foot cast last year. Just keep it and take it on your way. Your friend will appreciate that better than duct tape.”

When he says the word friend, he makes it sound like something else. Something intimate.

“Um, yeah, he probably will. He has fine hair on his arms. You can’t always see it, but it’s there. It’s super blond.”

I don’t know where waxing on about Griff’s arm hair came from, but the man smiles.

“There is a lot we don’t always see at first. Little things often sneak up, and then you wonder how there was a time that you never noticed before.”

This feels like a bizarre conversation to have in a motel lobby with a stranger while my arms clutch medical tape and plastic bags to my chest.

Clearing my throat, I nod and hold up the bag of supplies.

“His arm hair thanks you.”

Jesus Christ, Jamieson.

The man wishes me a good night, and I exit the lobby back down to our room. When I open the door, Griff sits, head hanging, with his cast forearm against his stomach.

“Griff?” After the door clicks closed, I flip the inside deadbolt and security chain. “Good news. Waterproof medical tape so it won’t rip the hair off your arms.”

“What magic did you work for that?” he jokes, but when he lifts his head, there’s more than just the tiredness from the last twenty-four hours. A sadness I’ve only seen a handful of timeswhen he spoke of his parents creeps at the edge of his normally smiling eyes.

“My normal charming self, I suppose.”

“Probably.” He rolls his eyes, and we both laugh.

“Here. I’ll help you.”

He yanks his arm further into himself. “I can do it myself.”

“I know you can, but I want to help you.” Griff’s chest heaves as my hand takes his cast arm away gently. “You don’t always have to do everything yourself, Griff. Let me help you this time.”

Griff relaxes and allows me to place the bag over his arm. He watches as I wrap the tape and press it all together around his arm.

“I’ll turn the water on for you. You go first. If you need me to help, just yell for me.”

“Kay.”

When I emerge from the bathroom, Griff is struggling with removing his pants with only one hand, so without asking, I grab the other side of his pants and help him out of them.

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