Page 1 of Jack of All Trades
Chapter 1 - Jack
I duck under the railing of the bull pen, boots landing heavy in the dirt. The late afternoon sun stretches my shadow long across the rodeo yard, and the familiar smells of hay, leather, and livestock fill my lungs. Home.
"Morrison!" A voice calls from behind me. "You ready for tomorrow?"
I turn to see Travis, one of the other riders, a cocky grin plastered on his face as he approaches.
"Born ready," I answer with a wink, adjusting my hat. "Just finishing up some practice."
"Eight seconds on Devil's Spite?" Travis whistles low. "That'll be something to see."
"If anyone can make it look easy, it's me." I flash him my trademark smile, the one that's gotten me just as far as my riding skills.
The truth is, nothing about bull riding is easy. It's eight seconds of pure hell, but it's my hell, and I've carved out my name in it. Jack Morrison, youngest of the Morrison brothers, and the only one who chose dirt and danger over respectability.
Travis claps me on the shoulder. "Well, good luck tomorrow. I'd stick around, but I've got a date."
"So do I," I say, though mine involves birthday party planning, not romance. "See you tomorrow."
As Travis walks away, I pull out my phone and check for messages. Sure enough, there's one from Maya Torres. Rex's little sister, who I've somehow never met despite knowing Rex since we were kids throwing rocks at the abandoned Miller barn.
*Are we still meeting at 6? I don't have all night.*
Her text has no emoji, no exclamation point, nothing to soften the edge. I've been messaging her for a week about Rex's surprise 30th birthday party, and every text from her reads like she's annoyed I exist. If she weren't Rex's sister, I probably would have stopped trying after the second message.
*On my way now,* I type back. *The Rusty Nail in 15.*
I pocket my phone and head to my truck, a dusty blue Ford that's seen better days but still purrs like a kitten when I turn the key. The engine roars to life, and I pull out of the rodeo grounds, tipping my hat to the security guard as I pass.
Pine Haven looks the same as it always has – small, comfortable, and predictably unchanging. It's why I stayed when my brothers Michael and David left for bigger things.
Well, that and the fact that someone needed to keep an eye on Ethan, though he'd hate to hear me say it. My oldest brother might be built like a mountain and tough as nails, but he's been fighting demons since his last tour overseas.
I drive past the Morrison family home, my home now, a modest two-story that sits on the edge of town. Ethan has his cabin in the woods, but I wanted to keep our parents' place alive. It's where we all learned to be men after Dad died, where Mom worked herself to the bone to raise four wild boys. The place holds memories in every cracked floorboard.
The Rusty Nail comes into view, its neon beer sign flickering in the early evening light. It's not much to look at. Just a small-town bar with wooden tables scarred from years of use and a jukebox that only plays country, but it's where everyone in Pine Haven ends up eventually.
I park and step out, dusting off my jeans more out of habit than necessity. The boots I'm wearing are my everyday pair, not the shined ones I wear for competitions. My white T-shirt is clean but worn, and I've thrown a plaid button-up over it, sleeves rolled to my elbows. I'm not trying to impress Rex's sister. This is just planning a party, after all.
Inside, the bar is relatively quiet for a Thursday. A few regulars sit nursing beers, and Maggie, the owner, waves at me from behind the bar.
"Jack Morrison," she calls, "your usual?"
"Not today, Mags," I say. "Meeting someone."
Her eyebrows shoot up with interest. "A lady someone?"
"Rex's sister," I clarify quickly. "Just planning his birthday."
Maggie nods, but there's a knowing smile on her face that I choose to ignore. I scan the room, looking for someone who might be Maya, though I realize I have no idea what she looks like. Rex never had many pictures around, and social media isn't exactly his thing.
I check my phone: 5:58. I'm technically early, which is rare for me. I'm about to text Maya when the door swings open, and a woman walks in who immediately captures my attention.
She's curvy in all the right places, with long dark hair that falls past her shoulders in thick waves. Her eyes are scanning the room – sharp, green, and utterly unimpressed with what they see. She's wearing jeans that hug her hips and a simple black top that somehow looks anything but simple on her.
There's something in the way she holds herself: chin up and shoulders back that suggests she's ready for a fight before anyone's even spoken to her.
Our eyes meet, and there's a flash of recognition in hers. She walks straight toward me, and I find myself standing a little straighter.
