Page 75 of Riding the Storm
I glance at Charli. She’s lounging back, arms stretched across the top of the couch, like she’s enjoying the show.
“Comfortable?” I ask her.
“Watching you get dressed up like a Ken doll? More than comfortable,” she says, eyes glinting.
The women laugh lightly, mistaking the sarcasm for charm. I just grunt and let them finish, even as her voice sticks in my head.
When they’re satisfied, they lead me out to the back of the arena. The late afternoon sun hits hard—thick and gold, the dust kicking up in the breeze, turning everything into a hazy glow. A photographer waits by the rail, a rigging draped over one shoulder, camera slung across his chest.
“Hey, Bryce. I’m Burke,” he introduces himself, and we shake hands. “We’re gonna start simple,” he says. “I’m just gonna have you lean against the rail for a few test shots. Give me quiet confidence. That brooding thing you cowboys do so well.”
I rest a hand on the railing, the other holding the Bull Rope bottle they hand me. The glass flashes amber in the light. Burke slings the rigging over my opposite shoulder, and I stare past the lens like I’m thinking about the next ride as he steps behind the camera.
Click. Click. Click.
The photographer circles me, shouting adjustments—chin down, eyes over here, hand higher. I fall into the rhythm easily. I’ve done this dance before. The trick is pretending it’s just you standing in the arena, alone, staring down the next ride.
Movement near the trailers catches my eye.
Charli’s standing by the fence now, her back to me, talking to a few riders. I recognize them instantly—Axle and Royce, her cousins. Beside them are Chase Braun and Porter Lane—two up-and-comers with more swagger than sense.
Porter leans in when she laughs. I know his type—the kind who thinks he can charm the pants off any woman.
The photographer’s still barking instructions, but my focus keeps slipping. My jaw tightens when Porter steps too close, crowding her space.
“Bryce, look this way,” the photographer calls.
I do, but my eyes flick back to Charli. Axle hugs her, Royce says something that makes her laugh again, and Porter leans on the fence beside her.
The click of the camera blends in with the sound of my pulse thundering in my ear.
Then Micah walks up, all tailored shirt and wealthy confidence. The owner of Dry Canyon Distilling doesn’t miss a thing. He stops beside me and slides his sunglasses down his nose as his eyes flicker between Charli, the riders, and me standing there with a whiskey bottle in hand, wearing a scowl.
“Hell of a turnout,” he says. “And hell of a view.” His gaze shifts toward Charli. “That rehab assistant of yours sure is drawing a crowd of her own.”
“Yeah,” I growl.
Micah chuckles, low and knowing. “Well, let’s see if you can draw it back.”
He waves over one of the PR women. “Go get Monica.”
The woman who steps up is all legs and confidence, jeans painted on, tank top clinging for dear life. She’s holding another bottle of Bull Rope, fresh out of the cooler, condensation beading down the glass.
“Bryce, Monica here’s going to help us sell the fantasy,” Micah explains before walking back to stand with the others behind the camera.
She hands me the bottle, then climbs the rail like she’s been rehearsing. Burke starts clicking away before she even settles.
“Stand between her legs,” he instructs.
She spreads her thighs in invitation, and I step forward, resting my hands on the rails beside her hips. The wood warm under my palms. Monica smells like whiskey and vanilla. The sun hits her raven hair as she unscrews the bottle and takes a long drink, then presses it to my chest.
“Now,” the photographer calls, “Bryce, tilt your head up. Monica, lean down and kiss him.”
She clasps my jaw, her mouth hovering over mine, while Burke snaps a few shots, and then her gloss-covered lips are on mine.
“Hands on her hips, Bryce,” he says. “Closer. Now pull her in. That’s it. Perfect.”
The camera’s shutter is going rapid-fire as Monica wraps her arms around my neck, the bottle dangling behind me between her fingers. We hold the pose, her lips lingering on mine.
