Page 39 of Buck This
“Up for what?” he asked, confused.
“You’ll see!” Quickdraw had disappeared around the corner again but could be heard over the noise of whatever was happening outside.
Buck chugged a vanilla flavored protein drink, and in a rush, he pulled on a pair of jeans and his belt, then his boots before Quickdraw was rushing them out of there. There was no damn shirt in the bag Quickdraw had brought so fuck it.
He grabbed Torrey’s hand and led her out to meet whatever chaos Quickdraw had organized but halted in his tracks when he saw all the cameras and onlookers gathering on the other side of the Changing space.
“What the hell?” he murmured.
“Dude, where is your shirt?” Tuff Enough asked from where he and the others stood off to the side, keeping a group of pretty girls in cowboy hats back.
“There wasn’t one in the bag.”
“This is good,” Dead of Winter said with a nod. “Real good. Hey, I used to do interviews shirtless, and it did me well.”
“Interviews?” Buck This demanded. “I’m not doing those. Never have and never will.”
“Torrey, can you go grab him a T-shirt at the merch table?” Quickdraw asked.
“On it!” she said and started walking away.
Buck This pulled her back to him. “We could just leave.”
“I think you’re supposed to stay and work that crowd,” she said, scrunching up her face as she gestured to the gathering media.
“I would rather get bit in the dick by a snake.”
“What kind of snake?” Dead of Winter asked.
“What?”
“It matters! Are we talking rattlesnake or run-of-the-mill garden snake? Venom or no venom?”
“If the interview questions are anything like this, I’m not doing it,” Buck griped, getting pissed.
“Ignore him,” Two Shots Down said as he started walking toward the cameras. “You’ll be fine.”
“You look hot,” Torrey said, looking him up and down. “Go work your magic on the masses.”
“I don’t have any magic! My magic is three shots of Jack Daniels after I buck terribly and then I usually just start a fight in some hole-in-the-wall bar somewhere.”
“Not tonight!” she called behind her, pointing her finger to the sky.
He watched her leave and hated every step she took away from him. “Pink T-shirt, or lime green,” she asked, turning around and walking backwards just to gauge his reaction.
“Black with a black logo or I’m not wearing it,” he ground out.
“Shirtless it is!” she teased.
“Heaven help me tonight,” he muttered. But his words lacked vitriol on account of her little sashay as she walked away in those little wrangler cut-off shorts. God, she was pretty, but more than that was the way she’d made him feel when she’d hugged him after his buck, and the excitement he remembered on her face after he’d bucked off Rawling Cummings.
She’d been proud of him.
God, how long had it been since he’d made anyone proud?
Ninety-four.
He bit back a smile as he followed the guys over to the media.
