Page 33 of Eight Seconds to Ride

“Huh?”

“You just blurted out the wordokayout of nowhere,” he tells me. “Okay what?”

The distinct sound of sniggering comes from the backseat, and my back goes ramrod straight, my face heating up.

Didn’t fucking mean to say that out loud.

“Nothing, never mind,” I blurt out, locking my phone and shoving it into the cup holder. “I’m taking a nap until we get there.”

I’m still not fucking sleeping much, and it’s starting to get to me. Even last night, after everything that happened, I figured I would lie down and have no trouble falling asleep.

Nope.

Not the caseat all.

I laid there, tossing and turning, for probably close to three hours before I was able to fall asleep, only to wake up a few hours later when Cope and Sterling were waking up. I’m fucking exhausted, and we aren’t even halfway through the season yet.

Even now, with my head pressed against the glass and my eyes closed, I’m not able to turn my mind off enough to sleepat all, despite how fucking tired I feel. About twenty minutes from where we’re going, all of us stop at a convenience store to stock up on snacks. But me? I load up on energy drinks. Clearly, I’m going to need an abundance of caffeine if I want to make it through the day semi-alive.

We all decided to stop at a carnival on our way to Elder Village, our next rodeo stop. None of us have ever been to this place, but it seems like it could be fun.

After paying for my plethora of energy drinks, I head back out to the truck and shove them onto the passenger seat before pulling out my pack of smokes and lighting one up while I wait for everyone else. The nicotine at least helps give my head a little buzz, something that’s not just pure exhaustion. It’s bright as fuck out, and I’ve got my sunglasses on, so when Sterling steps outside, I unabashedly check him out from head to toe, knowing he most likely can’t see me.

He's dressed plainly in a white tee, a pair of dark denim Wranglers, brown boots, and a Smoky Boy Whiskey trucker hat. They’re one of his sponsors and sent him a bunch of merch before we all hit the road. He’s walking side by side with Daisy, and she must say something funny because he throws his head back and lets out a laugh. The sound is melodic and rich. Something bitter and clutching swarms my gut, watching them two together. How carefree he is with her.

I don’t like it.

Orange filter clamped down between my teeth, I inhale a drag as they get closer. Not that they pay me any mind. They finish whatever conversation they were having, another round of laughter, before she gets back in her truck, and he heads over to where I’m at to climb back in. The swarming in my gut only intensifies watching him get inside without so much as a single word or a glance my way.

How is he not all over me right now? I know I blew his mind last night. Why is he acting so blasé?

15

Sterling Addams

County fairs, or fairs in general, are interesting, because they’re equally tons of fun and painstakingly overwhelming. Too many people. Too many rides. Usually not enough space. Admittedly, I’ve only been a handful of times in my entire life, and they were always small, low-level townie ones. Unlike the one we’re at today, which is huge and crowded and buzzing with the juicy, potent anticipation that can only come from places like this. From the greasy, no-good-for-you food, to the rides that seem like they shouldn’t be safe to ride on, you can’t help but feel a sense of giddiness stepping foot in here.

We’ve been here for a few hours now, the weather nice and warm, but not uncomfortable. Daisy and I slipped away from the group just now to get an elephant ear and a slushie. You cannot go to a fair and not get one of these; it’s law. She got cherry; I got blue raspberry—clearly the superior flavor. The rest of the group are heading to where the livestock are at, and we’ll meet them there when we’re done. Jack, our agent, apparently set upsome publicity for Shooter, Cope, and Daisy here when he heard we were passing through; teaching kids about the rodeo—bronc riding, barrel racing, the basics, the ins and outs… that kind of thing.

Thank God, I didn’t get roped into this. Not because I don’t enjoy being around kids, but because I’m kind of awkward in front of an audience unless I’m actually bronc riding. When I’m riding, I’m so focused on doing what I need to do, making sure my body is how it should be, and being sure I’m in tune with my bronc, that I don’t have time to worry about all the eyes on me and what they could be thinking. I’m sure the only reason I’m off the hook is because I’m still technically a nobody in the pro world, even though I won last weekend, and all three of them who are scheduled to do it are huge in our world.

Daisy and I sit at an empty picnic table across from one another as we dig in. She glances at me, and I know it’s coming. I’m not even surprised when she opens her mouth and says, “So, what did Shooter want your number for?” Waggling her brows, she laughs as I roll my eyes, with a smirk tilting on my lips at her ridiculousness.

“Nothing, really,” I reply, shoving a chunk of the sweet fried bread in my mouth. After I finish chewing, I add, “Said he had fun last night, but honestly, it seemed like he was only fishing for compliments.”

Daisy barks out a laugh. “Yup, sounds like my brother.”

“I’ve never met anybody with an ego as large as his,” I say. “When he seemingly didn’t get what he was looking for, he pouted and pretended to nap the rest of the drive.”

“I think you may be the first person who’s evernotfallen all over at his feet. Probably driving him nuts.”

“Who knows, but either way, I’m really not interested in the games he seems to play. The hot and cold stuff. Part of me feelslike he’s only doing it to try to get in my head in hopes of messing up my chances of beating him.”

“Maybe.” She shrugs. “You ride better than most guys out there, so I’m sure he feels threatened, even if only a little bit, and even if he’ll never admit it. It’s not often someone so green and fresh out of the gate beats a world champ so early in their career.” Checking her watch, she raises to a stand. “Come on. We gotta get to the arena.”

When we get over there, Shooter and Cope are already each working with a group of kids. They vary in age; some small, others teenagers. Daisy leaves me to head down there too, so I sit on the bleachers beside Jessie and Colt, watching everything. I’m surprised to see how good Shooter is with the kids. He’s patient and calm, he explains everything in detail and thoroughly, and he does it with an air of lightness that I can tell makes the kids feel at ease. Especially when he has them work with the horses.

His smile is genuine, and when he helps them up onto the horses, he’s careful and makes sure to stick close by in case they need him. There’s a photographer snapping pictures here and there, but he hardly pays them any mind. The cocky, full-of-himself version of Shooter I’m so used to is nowhere to be found.

---