Page 14 of Eight Seconds to Ride

My personality in a lot of aspects is soft-spoken and quiet. I don’t like to cause a fuss about much, or have confrontation more than necessary. But when it comes to rodeo, all that goes out the window. I’m confident and proud. I go out there and give it my all every single time. Competing in the PRCA can be cutthroat. A lot of men are competing for the very same spot I now have, fighting their way to the top. Money is on the line… life-changing money. Not to mention bragging rights. Sure, Shooter is cocky as hell, but he earned that right. He didn’t get to where he’s at by being nice, docile, and modest, and I sure as shit am not going to get there by embracing those qualities either.

I made it here, I earned my place, and I’ll be damned if I don’t give it my all every single night and show Shooter exactly what Sterling Addams is made of.

A little while later, I’m out back behind the arena, working on stretches. Dave Henry is about to go out. He’s the second bareback rider, and I’d rather not watch him. I’ve never really considered myself superstitious before, but something about watching your competition before going out yourself seems like bad luck. I’ve just never done it, for as long as I can remember.

We all have our weird quirks when it comes to competing. Even cowboys and cowgirls who swear up and down they don’t. Shooter and his sister, Daisy, both have lucky hats theyhave to wear during shows. If I’m not mistaken, their dad was that way too back when he was in the circuit. Both have talked about it before in interviews. Boone is ambidextrous, but he refuses to hold the bull rope with his right hand—the hand he predominately writes with. I can’t think of any more superstitions any of the Copper Lake crew has, but I’d be willing to bet my life savings they have some.

I’m just about finished with my stretching when I hear footsteps in the grass approaching. Glancing to my right, I watch as Shooter rounds the corner, his eyes finding mine, widening a little, clearly not having known I was out here. A nearly empty Coke bottle hangs between his fingers at his side, a barely-there smirk curving his mouth.

“Well, look who it is,” he rasps as he draws closer. His bottom lip looks a little lopsided, but as he approaches, I can tell it’s just chew.

Chewing tobacco is a disgusting habit—worse than smoking—but there’s something so inherently sexy about it. It makes no sense. Like, if you think too hard about it, it’ll gross you out, but seeing a rugged cowboy with dip in his lip and the outline of the can in his back pocket just does something for me.

“What’re you doing out here?”

He nods his chin toward me. “Same thing as you.”

“You know that’s a terrible habit,” I mutter, nodding toward the glob of tobacco.

Shooter huffs out a laugh. “Don’t remember asking you, Addams.”

“Have you seen the pictures of people who lose like half their jaw due to cancer from chewing tobacco?” Amusement dances in his eyes as I continue. “You need your jaw. Otherwise, your already ugly mug will be even uglier.”

That causes a full-blown laugh out of Shooter. He takes the two steps it takes to find himself directly in front of me, so close,I can smell the spearmint from his chew. “You didn’t seem to find me so ugly when you were on your knees for me, begging for my cock, now did you, Addams?”

My pulse races, and suddenly, it’s a whole lot hotter out here, sweat lining my brows and coating the back of my neck, the hair under my hat. I swallow thickly, unsticking my tongue from the roof of my mouth before I manage a half-hearted smirk and a lazy shrug.

“Lapse in judgement. Blame the alcohol.”

Shooter’s gaze shamelessly rakes down the frame of my body before skirting back up to meet mine, his bottom lip between his teeth. “Whatever you gotta tell yourself, man.” He brings the Coke bottle up to his mouth, spitting some dip before running his tongue along his bottom lip. “Better get in there. You’re up next.”

We stand there, neither of us breaking eye contact, heartbeat echoing in my ears as Shooter looks calm and completely unfazed. Idoneed to get in there, but something about the weight in his stare has me rooted in place, unable to move. Stepping even closer, giving me no choice but to back up until I hit the side of the building, he smirks before bringing his lips right to the shell of my ear.

“Good luck out there,” he rasps, deep voice taunting. “Wouldn’t want you to choke up and embarrass yourself in your first rodeo.” His chest presses into mine, all blood rushing south at his proximity. His smell surrounds me, intoxicating and masculine, with a hint of spearmint. “But don’t worry, I’ll try not to gloattoomuch when I kick your ass.”

Scoffing, I say, “Yeah, we’ll see about that.”

I bring the palms of my hands up to his chest, shoving him away, and without another glance, I head back inside. The next bronc rider is about to go out, but I need to get into the bucking shoot and ready myself. I refuse to let Shooter get in my headand fuck this up for me. He’d love nothing more than for that to happen. I deserve to be here just as much as he does.

Climbing on the bronc, I slip a hand underneath the rigging and make sure I have a tight grip on it. It takes a couple of tries until it feels the way it should. After making sure my feet are marked out, I nod to the guys, and they yank open the gate. All thoughts of Shooter leave my mind as I bust out of the chute.

Big & Rich’sSave a Horse (Ride a Cowboy)plays through the arena as I focus on nothing but me and this beast beneath me. Making sure my core is tight, my shoulders are back. The bronc writhes and bucks, going this way and that, but I anticipate it all. My body moves with hers, my mind focused again and again until that eight-second buzzer sounds. When I’m out here, those eight seconds feel both like an instant and an eternity all at once. My adrenaline is pumping, my heart hammering in my chest, and by the time the pick-up man pulls me off the bronc, I feel proud. Without even knowing my score yet, I know I killed it.

Throwing a quick glance inside the chute Shooter is in, I catch his eye and send him a smirk because, yeah, asshole, I did that.

The campground tonight is packed,nearly every site taken, music blaring, fires roaring, alcohol steadily pouring as we all ride the high from earlier. I’m sitting in front of the fire with Daisy to my left and Cope to my right. Shooter is on the other side of him. I’ve got a pretty good buzz going already, but I’m not trying to get hammered tonight. We still have another rodeo tomorrow night.

I didn’t win tonight, but I did score high. Shooter won, but I trailed not far behind him, and for my first ever professional rodeo, I’m damn proud of that. Not many newbies do that well on their first few go-arounds.

“How’re you feeling about tonight?” Daisy asks as she glances over at me. She looks eerily similar to her brother. They have the same icy-blue eyes and dirty blonde hair. She won the barrel racing competition tonight. Anybody who knows anything about professional rodeo, knows the Graham family and their insane talents.

“Pretty freaking good,” I mutter, bringing the beer up to my lips, letting it fill my mouth.

She smiles warmly, her features brightened due to the fire. “You should. You kicked ass for it being your first event.”

“She’s right,” Cope says. “You’re good, man. Giving our boy over here a run for his money.” He tips his head in Shooter’s direction as Shooter rolls his eyes.

“Yeah right, bro. Let’s not forget who the realwinneris tonight.”

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