Page 50 of Riding the Storm
The next ride is titledBryce Raintree Rides an Unrideable Bull. The video opens with an announcement over a loudspeaker, barely audible over the noise from the audience, and him crouched on the back of a snorting bull with a killer gleam in its eyes. The crowd roars, and the announcer’s voice booms over the rumble, but all I see is him.
He’s in a black T-shirt, hidden under a protective leather vest, muscles coiled like springs under the fabric. One hand grips the bull rope; the other hovers, steady and loose. The camera pans closer, and I catch the tattoos snaking up his left arm, dark ink against tanned skin. Sweat glistens on him beneath the arena lights. His jaw is set, and his eyes are locked forward beneath the brim of his hat.
Determined.
He gives a quick nod, and the chute gate flies open.
The bull explodes out, twisting, bucking, kicking sky-high withevery ounce of fury in its body. The crowd gasps. I do too. But he doesn’t budge. His body moves with the animal, fluid and strong, every muscle working to stay centered while the beast beneath him tries to throw him to the dirt floor like a rag doll.
Eight seconds sounds short—until you watch a man fight with all he has to stay upright on an angry two-thousand-pound animal.
The announcer’s counting down; the bull is spinning so fast that it blurs. For a moment, it’s hard to tell where Bryce ends, and the bull begins. Then the buzzer sounds. He lets go, launches clear, hits the dirt, rolls, pops up like it’s nothing. The bull kicks dust as the clowns rush in, but he just stands there, in his best and chaos, chest heaving, arm raised in victory.
The camera zooms in on his face—sweat, mud, a slow grin curling beneath that beard. He’s breathing hard, adrenaline still burning in his eyes.
I don’t realize I’ve been holding my breath until the screen freezes on that image of him, larger than life.
Eight seconds. That’s all it takes to fall a little bit in love with danger.
“Wow,” they both whisper as Harleigh closes the tablet and sets it aside, flopping back against my pillows. “No wonder you’re all hot and bothered.”
“I’m not hot and bothered,” I say, but it comes out in an unconvincing squeak.
“I am, after watching that,” Harleigh says.
“Me too,” Shelby quips. “If I were you, I’d be riding the boots off that cowboy right now.”
I cut my eyes to her, narrowing them. “Time for you two to go to bed,” I snap.
Harleigh laughs. “Nope. Not bothered by him at all.”
I growl at them both.
“Fine. We’ll go,” Shelby says as she stands, tugging Harleigh up with her. “By the way, I can see his cabin from my bedroom window. The lights were still on, in case you were considering taking a little midnight walk in the woods.”
She waggles her eyebrows at me, and I pull the pillow from behind my head and launch it at her as they sprint to the door.
The room’s dark again, quiet, except for the ticking alarm clock and the soft rustle of wind outside the window.
For a split second, I consider how nice a midnight walk sounds.
I tell myself to forget it—to forget him.
But when I close my eyes, I can still feel his hands on me.
Still taste the faint trace of whiskey on his lips.
Still hear that low, teasing whisper.“Sweet dreams, Chuck.”
God help me.
The cabin feels too damn quiet when I get back.
I drop my keys on the counter, toe off my boots, and drag a hand through my hair, still smelling faintly of whiskey and stale smoke.
I’m hungry and exhausted. But after getting a whiff of myself and with the lingering taste of Charli on my lips, I decide that my stomach will have to wait and head for the bathroom.
The shower hisses to life, and I strip down, stepping under the freezing cold stream until my skin prickles and my teeth chatter. I need the shock—something to rinse the night off and all thoughts of her out of me. Every time I close my eyes, I see her again—hair wild, cheeks flushed from dancing, that spark in her eyes when she knew I was watching.
