Page 24 of Tame Our Wild

Dirt sits on my tongue like lead.

Adrenaline courses through my veins like a drug.

White-hot light rains down on me, making the bull and me the focal point in an arena full of fans.

Blood whooshes into my ears, mingling with the hoots and hollers from the crowd in that perfect way that mutes the relentless voices in my head—voices that whisper the same guilt-tripping anthem that rotates like a repeating record unless I’m bull riding or find the bottom of a whiskey bottle.

Dust drifts into my lungs, settling in that void in my gut that I can’t shake anymore like I used to. It’s alive, potent in a way that lingers like a bad taste in your mouth that’s determined to drive you to the brink of madness if something else doesn’t take over your senses.

In the past, I could push past the uncomfortable feeling. I could ignore the anxious bubbling beneath my skin whenever my boots hit the expanse where I compete, until all I felt was pure grit to keep setting out to do the one thing I promised I would.

But year after year, the imposter has been growing more dominant, determined to show me that it isn’t nerves or even an eagerness to get on the back of the bull.

It’s the feeling of imprisonment.

Knowing there are things I’ll never be able to change.

Still, with each second I hold onto the rope, a weight lifts from my shoulders, my body acutely aware of the finish line as time ticks down and the buzzer sounds.

My grip loosens on the bull rope the same moment a streak of blonde hair flashes in the corner of my eye, my resolve fading enough that a split second of distraction allows Marshmallow Bunny to gain the upper hand. He pounces off his front hooves, immediately changing directions as I’m flung over his shoulder and launched onto the ground.

Curses fly from my lips, my body acutely aware of the blinding pain that bolts through my hip and down my right leg. In the chaos, Matt and the other bullfighters crowd in on Marshmallow Bunny to direct him toward the open gate and lead him safely to the back pens, but it’s already too late as he charges my way.

Without thought, I sprint toward the nearest fence, vaulting to the top as fast as I can to dodge the rogue bull.

“Shit,” I hiss, though I’m not sure if I spit out the curse because of the situation or because I come face-to-face with the girl who vexes me like no one else can.

The same girl I offered to coach, as if I enjoy being tormented by her presence.

Apparently, it’s not enough that we’re forced to be in proximity a few times a week, so I’m subjecting myself to the possibility of everyday torture.

Harlow is on the other side of the fence, peering up at me. Glancing over my shoulder, I see Matt and the others crowd the bull to steer him toward the exit. When my attention finds Harlow again, she’s bent down, retrieving my cowboy hat that fell off my head from the dirt at her feet.

Her hand swipes at the brim to get the dust off, her composure carrying an arrogant weight to it. She raises a brow at me. “You should consider wearing a helmet. Your face seems to be as much of a moneymaker as your riding.” Her sarcasm is evident. “I’d hate to see it get a little scuffed up.”

Her comment increases the inferno behind my chest, boiling my blood. You’d think after this long that a remark like that wouldn’t get to me, but you’d be wrong. It doesn’t help that I hear them all the fucking time in this sport, considering we like to dance with death every time the chute opens.

My fingers pulse into the metal rail I’m grasping. I swallow down the acid searing my throat. “Aww, worried about me, dust bunny? Careful, it almost sounds like you care about me.”

Climbing to the top, I toss my leg over the fence, attempting to ignore the stabbing pain blooming in my leg. I’ll push past it. I always do. Landing before her, I struggle to take a full breath. Harlow sucks the oxygen out of the air as much as a plume of smoke.

Her hand juts out with my hat, those baby blues rolling at my quip. She doesn’t say a word, just narrows her eyes in that way that embeds daggers into my flesh.

The announcer’s voice booms over the speakers, excitement laced in his tone as he says my score into the mic, and the crowd cheers. I don’t hear the score, nor do I care; I’m too entertained by the girl glaring at me from below the brim of her hat. That one response for her alone tells me all I need to know.

“Aren’t you going to tell me how well I did?” I taunt. “I think that ride landed me in the championship round for this event.”

Her tongue darts out, wetting her bottom lip. I stare at that entrancing mouth, eagerly anticipating the sharp comeback she always seems to have when I provoke her. Luckily, I don’t have to wait long.

“Wow, I didn’t think the great and untouchable Colson Payne would have a praise kink. Is that what you want? For me to tell you how well you did?”

Stepping into her, I clear my throat. “Kind of.”

Harlow shrugs. “Too bad I’m not one of those girls who can be fooled by your charm.”

“Would it kill you to give one compliment?”

She twists her lips to the side as if she’s contemplating my request. “Drop to your knees and maybe I will.”