Page 17 of Eight Seconds to Fly

As Frankie came up behind me, putting a beer and a whiskey shooter in front of me, he completed the circle of hotness. Frankie was sensual; he looked like he knew how to play your body until you were weeping with pleasure.

So I couldn’t blame the waitress when she slipped Dylan her number. But the surge of jealousy in my chest was not a good sign.Down girl. You can’t have him, I reminded myself.

Frankie passed out more whiskey shooters, until everyone had one.

“To Tessa, congratulations on making it to the big time,” he said, his accent thick and filled with emotion. Frankie knew. He knew the hardships. The panic attacks the first time I tried to get back on a bull. Me being curled in a ball in the back of the truck when we had to travel at night. The scrimping for food and sleeping in the same flea infested beds as we traveled around to all the tiny ass rodeos trying to get them to let me ride so I could earn some money. He knew how hard this had been.

“To Tessa,” the other three men chorused, their eyes heavy on my face. I threw down my shot and gasped against the burn. I let the feeling of the warming liquor burn through my veins, then I chased it down with a beer.

We all sat in silence. It was thick and awkward, and I desperately wanted more whiskey. Naturally, it was Beau who saved the day. “Frankie, I heard good things about you from the other Bullfighters. Gonna try and go pro as well?”

Frankie looked at me, and shook his head. “No, it would mean traveling around the rodeos and I want to stay with Tessa.”

Branch narrowed his eyes. “Is it because she’s your girlfriend?”

Ugh. Here we go.

I was about to protest, when Frankie’s hand squeezed my thigh. “No, she is not my girlfriend. She is more than that. We are best friends.Ela é meu amor.”

She is my love.

I swallowed hard at his words. It wasn’t anything he hadn’t said before. When Luiz had still been traveling around with us, he’d told his brother he loved him all the time. It was just the kind of person he was. He played hard and loved hard. Until now, I hadn’t ever considered he meant it in a non-platonic way. But the way he was staring down the guys was making me second guess everything.

“Sounds convenient. I’ve been her best friend before too, and I don’t remember it involving sleeping with her,” Branch snarked back.

I threw Beau a pitiful look. He cleared his throat to cover his laugh.“So, how ‘bout them Cowboys? Gonna go all the way this year, don’t you think?”

I legit knew NOTHING about football. But for the next two and a half minutes, I pretended I was Jim Nantz and now an expert on all things pigskin. Dylan, bless his damn sexy ass, took over and drew Branch into the conversation. While he was distracted, I gave Frankie the stink-eye. “Really? Of all the times to profess your undying love, you just had to do it right now? I think there's a better time or place for that.” I couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of my voice, my face calling him out on his shit.

He just hugged me close and laughed. “With you,Querida,there is never a good time or place. But there is probably a worse time. I am sorry.”

His shit eating grin said he wasn’t even the least bit sorry, but I sighed.

Finally, the conversation shifted to work. To shit I knew. Bulls, sponsors, the best riders of all time. I settled into fries and beers and the comfort of friends, new and old. Beau told stories about me from my childhood, like the time I got stuck with mucking duty for a month because I'd tried to ride a steer. I was ten. At least I had a bicycle helmet on. Or the time I'd refused to take off my new boots, even sleeping in them, because Branch said he'd steal them and throw them in the creek. Branch laughed and I glared. I'd loved those boots.

"You were such an asshole. At least some things never change." Somehow I'd ingested about two too many whiskey shots. "Like the time you tried to teach me how to ride my bike by taking me to the top of the hill and letting me go."

Branch laughed, his dimples winking in the low bar lights. "Dad did up the old chutes. He said he's prepping it for my retirement so I can run a rodeo school. Can you imagine me teaching shit?" Branch laughed. "I'd put them on the rankest bull and say 'hold on tight'."

Those were the exact words he'd told me when he'd let go of my bike. I'd got the death wobbles halfway down the road and face planted over the handlebars. I'd had a cut up face for two weeks.

He pulled out his phone and showed me pictures of the new chutes, and homesickness like I hadn't felt in years hit me in the chest like a wave. I kept telling myself I liked the nomadic lifestyle of a bull rider. I didn't need a home base.

But I was kidding myself. It was because my home was back there. In those dusty fields. In the small, comfy ranch house that was like a well-worn pair of Wranglers.

I could imagine my Dad in that arena, training the bulls, working out the personality of each, whether they were aggressive enough to make it, or if they needed to get farmed out as practice bulls. Whether one was too ornery to even load, to be chuted, then they'd become a sire.

I felt like I was being crushed. By sadness. By guilt. Because, if I hadn't ridden that damn bull, we never would have been on the road when that trucker had a heart attack. We'd still be back at the rodeo, loading bulls into the trailer.

My breathing got a little choppy as I started to suck in breaths. Fuck. Not here. Not now. I'd been plagued by panic attacks in the early years, because I'd refused to see a therapist for my survivor guilt. That's what my aunt had called it. A misplaced guilt that I had lived and Daddy had died. But it wasn't misplaced. I was the direct cause of that accident, and it was something that would weigh me down like a lodestone for the rest of my life.

The laughter in the room seemed to intensify and the darkness started to edge at my vision. I threw Branch's phone on the table. "I gotta go to the bathroom," I murmured, pushing off my stool and bolting to the bathroom. I ignored Frankie's voice calling me back, ignored the indignant yell of a woman I bumped into. I single mindedly headed for the women's bathrooms, pushing through the door and praying there was an open stall. I swore when there was a line. Goddammit. Bars needed to put more stalls in women’s bathrooms. We couldn't whip our shit out and piss on a wall.

I pulled open the door and ran straight into a chest. Strong hands gripped my arms to stop me from bouncing back onto my ass. I reared back and looked up at Branch's concerned face. I tried to pull away, but he held tight. He dragged me further down the hall into a little alcove which probably held a payphone once upon a time. He boxed me into the spot, then pulled me into his arms. I tried to move away, but he made a shushing noise and pressed my face into his chest. "Just let me hold you for a second. I got you."

I sucked in a couple of deep breaths. Then I let myself melt into his strength. I worked through my grounding technique. It was how I would rideBushwacker,the best bull in history, if I had a chance. Sit way forward, prepare myself for his first jump which would drop me right into my hand. If he turned away from my hand, I'd twist my hips a few degrees. Gotta keep my freehand above my head, not let him whip me back.

Some point during my grounding procedure, I noticed how good Branch smelled. Like home. I counted the beats of his heart against my cheek. His breaths as they rose and fell. Then I did something that I swore I would never do again. Not since I did it in the seventh grade and a boy told me I was too boy-like to love. I cried against Branch Watson's chest. I tried to choke it back, but someone had flicked the latch on the floodgates and it all poured out.

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