Page 93 of Riding the Storm
For a second, I just stare at her. Then I huff out a breath and look away, the corner of my mouth twitching despite myself. She’s got that same sharp tongue her sister does, but hers doesn’t hit quite as deep.
“You’re not here to tell me what you think I should do?” I ask.
“You’re a grown-ass man who can make his own decisions.”
I laugh humorlessly. “Try telling that to my team.”
“Sounds to me like maybe it’s time for a new team.”
“It’s not that simple,” I snap.
“Sure it is. You started without one. I’m sure you rode in many a rodeo without one.”
“Back when I was a broke drifter,” I say.
She nods. “If I were a gambling woman, I’d bet that you were happier as a broke drifter than you are right now.”
She’d be right.
“Take it from someone who knows a thing or two about starting over,” she continues. “It can be hard. It can bruise the hell out of your ego, but if something’s important to you, it’ll be worth it in the end. The people who truly matter will hang in there with you. And the people who don’t? The ones who walk away easily? Fuck them. You’re better off without ’em.”
I consider her words.
“Thanks for the advice. But if you didn’t come here to convince me to stay, why did you?”
“Because,” she says, stepping closer, “my sister’s in love with your stupid ass, and apparently, my father wants to go into business with your stupid ass.”
Love?
That one knocks the wind right out of me. I blink, shoving that aside for the moment. “Albert already talked to you.”
“He did.” She moves around the couch, trailing her fingers along the back of it before stopping near my half-zipped suitcase. “And I was intrigued. But I gotta tell you”—she glances at the suitcase again—“finding you here, packing up to run off, doesn’t exactly breed confidence.”
I sigh, raking both hands through my hair. My boots scuff against the old wood floor as I cross to the couch and sit down hard. The springs groan beneath me.
She doesn’t move for a long moment, just studies me with that steady Storm stare that could probably break wild horses if she wanted to. Then she sits beside me.
I can feel the weight of her gaze even when I don’t look up.
“I don’t know what to do,” I admit finally. My voice sounds smaller than I expected. “It’s like she’s trying to run me off. The woman pushes every one of my buttons.”
“Yeah, well,” Matty says, leaning back and crossing one leg over the other, “that probably won’t ever change.”
I let out a short laugh.
“But you know what would help?” she adds.
“What?”
“If you’d sit her down and tell her your plans.” She says it like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “It’s the uncertainty that’s making her act the way she is. She knows your heart isn’t in the training. She knows you’re going back to bull riding. She just needs to hear you say it.”
I stare down at my hands. My knuckles are rough and scabbed from weeks of work, my palms callous. I’ve been thrown, trampled, hit, but nothing has bruised me quite like this woman has.
“I’m not used to this shit,” I say quietly. “I’m not used to having to explain myself. Or caring what another person thinks about the decisions I make.”
Matty laughs. “Welcome to adulthood. This is where we have grown-up conversations and real relationships.”
She glances around the cabin, smirking. “It’s great. Granted, the hangovers are worse, and the responsibilities are staggeringly higher, but it’s a lot less lonely.”
