Page 1 of Ace of Spades
Chapter 1
HAILEY
There’s a flow of energy between a horse and a rider. Not seen, not spoken—but felt in the bones. It thrums through the reins, coils down the spine, flickers in the twitch of an ear, or the slight shift of weight in the saddle. It’s a silent language, built on trust and instinct.
I can feel my mare beneath me now—every breath, every tremor, every threat of fire that passes between us. Our adrenaline rises in tandem, wild and electric.
Casino dances beneath me, her nostrils flaring and every muscle coiled with the need to run as I hold her back, slowly advancing down the alley. The crowd is a living thing tonight—loud, massive, and the biggest I’d ever raced in frontof before.
I wait for that click between us, the moment when everything feels in sync. A calm washes over me, dissipating any remaining nerves as I settle in my seat.
And then we’re flying.
“I thought you guys were gonna stay around to watch my run?” I ask, finding Ava and Brad sitting at one of the bar tops. The stockyards were lined with various honkytonks and saloons, but the rodeo crowd tended to stick together, usually landing themselves at the rowdiest bar in whatever town held the rodeo. That was my understanding, at least, so I wouldn’t have had any issues finding the place even without the help of Ava’s text.
“I was totally going to, but I really wanted to beat the traffic getting off of the rodeo grounds before it got too bad,” she tells me, offering me an apologetic look.
“You know I wanted to, babe—I swear, but the team roping was right before barrels, so I couldn’t make it there in time,” Brad says.
“Tie-down was right before barrels…”
“Oh. Well, next time, I promise. There are plenty more rodeos this season. Besides, I’m sure you did great.”
“I placed first.”
“Damn, girl, way to go!” Ava cheers.
“That’s amazing, Hails!” Brad chimes in. “Here—let me buy us a celebratory round of shots.”
“I’ll pass, I plan on getting out of here early tomorrow morning.”
“I’ll take one!” Ava tells him.
I take the seat beside Ava’s, hanging my purse over the back of the barstool as I allow myself to take a better look around now that I’ve found my friends. A sea of cowboy hats fills the bar; the air resonates with the clatter of pool balls cracking against each other, the creak of barstools, and thethunkof cowboy boots on the worn wooden floors.
Neon signs light the place in a dim glow, the cigarette smoke wafting in the air even with the very obviousNo Smokingsigns strewn about. After all, good luck telling a cowboy what to do.
“Well, here’s to our first rodeo of the season!” Ava tells me, lifting her beer bottle into the air before taking a swig, her dark corkscrew curls bouncing under her hat as she slams it back down onto the bar top.
“Don’t you just love the rodeo crowd?”
“It’s definitely nothing like the college rodeos,” I admit.
“Right? I mean, just look at all the cowboys. We’re hot, we’re single, and my bestie just placed first in her first-ever rodeo in the circuit—we can practically take our pick of any of the guys here.”
“As if Brad would let that happen,” I mutter. Brad was… I didn’t know what Brad was anymore. We grew up in the same hometown, and I guess you could say that we dated for a period of time before college—If you could even call it that. He took me to prom, drove me to local rodeos, and took my virginity in the back of his pickup our senior year.
Our families were tight, considering that our dads were business partners. But other than that, things hadn’t been the same since I got back from college. It was as if a few years in the rodeo circuit and a couple of championship wins had gone straight to his head.
“I don’t think he’d even notice, he seems pretty busy entertaining some of the buckle bunnies from back home.”
I turn towards the direction that Ava’s head nods. Sure enough, the man in question is standing at the bar, getting all close and friendly with one of the girls from Canyon Springs.
“At least be my wing-woman,” Ava pleads. “So, who are we going for? I’m feeling a little wild tonight, I’m thinking maybe some roughies. You know what they say—date a roper for the money, and have a roughie on the side when you want a good lay. Well, we’ve already got the money in the bag, so I’m thinking we go with the latter.”
“No thanks,” I tell her. “Not really my type.”
“Come on, don’t tell me you’re too clean for the roughies. It’s fun to get a little dirty sometimes. You’re a cowgirl, after all.”
