Page 2 of Eight Seconds to Fly

I reached into my back pocket and pulled out a hundred bucks. I’d paid Mickey to sign up for me because he had two advantages I didn’t. One, he was eighteen and you had to be eighteen to ride at this event. Two, and the one that peeved me off the most, was that he was a boy. The misogynistic old bastards who ran this league didn’t care that he was so weedy that he’d basically be a toothpick for a bull likeBlack Hurricane. As long he had a dingleberry that could flap in the breeze and the brass ones to sign up, he was good.

“Branch is right though, Tessa May. It is dangerous.”

I rolled my eyes at him as I headed towards the livestock trailer that Daddy had brought the bulls in. In my duffle I had everything I needed to ride. It was time to prepare.

“I know how dangerous it is, Mickey. I’ve been sitting on top of bulls since before I could walk.” Mickey followed along behind me, stuttering out protest after protest.

“I’ll give you your money back, ya know. You don’t have to do this.”

I whirled around, smiling at Mickey because no matter how annoying his protests were, they were kind of sweet too.

“Thanks, but we had a deal, and an Everett never backs out of a deal. Just go home or hide or something Mickey, so you don’t get spotted and all this is for nothin’.’”

Mickey looked like he wanted to protest more, so I do the only thing I can think of that would guarantee him leaving. I started undressing. By the time I pulled my shirt over my head, Mickey was gone.

I slipped on the clothes Mickey had loaned me. Ariat jeans that didn’t cling to my ass too much and a loose chambray shirt that hid my boobs which I’d strapped down tight. Not that you’d be able to see them under my protective vest, but better safe than sorry. Between the vest and the helmet, I hoped no one would know I was not Mickey.

I attempted to strap on my chaps, wishing I hadn’t sent Mickey away so fast when I had to basically twist like a pretzel to get the buckles at the base of my asscheeks done up. I put my plainest boots on, then slipped on the spurs I stole from Daddy. My vest and helmet went on last.

I looped my rope over the rail in the trailer and pull it tight so I can rosin it up. I’d practiced this a thousand times, hidden away in the barn. I knew every step back to front. I’d been goofing around with Branch and the other ranch kids for as long as I could remember, wrestling and riding young steers. I had this.

I huffed out a breath. I pinned my number, well Mickey’s number, to my chest, and stepped out of the trailer. I stuck to the shadowy areas of the arena, and headed to the back of the chutes. I kept my head down, not even acknowledging the other riders as they paced and talked shit about drinking beer and getting laid at the bar later on. Because everyone wanted to ride a bull rider, right?

My height wasn’t so out of place, because riders in general weren’t too tall. They were usually 6’1, like Branch, or under, and I was tall for a girl.

“Next up we have a local boy. Branch Watson. We gotta watch this kid, Earl, because if I’ve ever seen a contender for goin’ pro, it’s Branch,” the announcer said over the PA.

“I agree, Tom. This boy has been riding bulls since he was in diapers. What he doesn't know about riding bulls probably ain’t worth knowin’,” Earl fired back.

They’d say that shit about me too, if I had a dick.

People bustled around the chute, there were at least four at all times, as Branch settled in. I had to watch, stepping out of my darkened corner for a second, seeing Branch sitting atop that ball of muscle and meanness.

He slammed his hat down on his head a bit better, and nodded to the latch guy. The bull bursts out of the gate in a twirling, twister of fury.

“Vickery,” someone yells, but I don’t take my eyes off Branch as he rides the bull like he's on the coin slot pony in front of the grocery store. So much damn natural talent. Fuck, I hated him.

“Vickery,” someone yells again, and my eyes snap back to the Chute Boss when I realize he’s calling for me. I’m Mickey Vickery, for today at least.

I raise my hand and the overweight and obviously stressed man waves me over.

“Your bull has been stalled. Get your rope on him.”

I’d fixed my rope already. The joy of being the daughter of a stock contractor was that I knew these bulls, these athletes on four legs, just as good, if not better than anyone. When girls were going crazy over the cowboys, I was always judging and appreciating the performance of the bull.Black Hurricanewas one of ours, sired byDark Storm. I’d watched him be trained, knew his moves, knew how he liked to spin, and what direction he liked to do it in.

I had this.

I tilted my hat lower as I stepped up to the chutes and a grizzled old cowboy helped me secure my rope overBlack Hurricane’sshoulders, pulling it tight. Hurricane didn’t mind. He knew it wasn’t time yet. He’d been around long enough to know he had to save it for the arena.

The crowd was going wild and I thanked the cowboy for his help. I saw Branch walking back, a grin on his too pretty face that gave him dimples as deep as wells.

I hid behind the chutes unashamedly. The bulls got corralled through into their chutes and my heart started to thud hard against my ribs.

This was it. A small, sane part of my subconscious told me that it wasn’t too late to back out now. No one knew it was me. I wouldn’t lose face.

Instead of running away, I squared my shoulders and slammed my helmet down on my head, obscuring my face. I tugged my vest, checking that it was strapped on tight.

I headed to chute one, my turn was coming up. My destiny fucking awaited, and I was going to take it with both hands and my head held high.

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