Page 8 of Tame Our Wild

Fuck, she is spicy tonight.

If her riding is as hot as her mouth, she might give me a run for my money this season.

She lifts the beer glass to her lips and speaks over the rim. “Between your age and your sex life that’s plastered all over the internet, I bet your dick is already shriveled up like a deflated balloon.”

“Want me to take you into the family bathroom so you can find out? Then, after you apologize, I might be nice and let you swallow something else besides your words.” I throw it out there the second she takes a sip.

I should know better than to get in her head after what happened last time, but she’s infuriating. I can’t help myself when it comes to her.

She chokes, little droplets of beer spraying out of her mouth. The silence that follows is satisfying—so is the splash of pink that floods her cheeks and cascades down her neck. The color is vibrant against the dark green tank top she’s wearing, which is tucked into her cutoff shorts that gave me a glimpse of her ass before she turned around. Harlow’s getup is topped off with her usual brown hat and cowgirl boots. Her lightly curled blonde hair pours over the swells of her breasts like a champagne waterfall. My eyes linger there for a moment.

Has she always had breasts like that? Because goddamn, they look like they would mold perfectly against my pecs.

She sets down her beer, wiping the back of her hand across her mouth and chin. “No, I know I’m right,” she quips confidently. “It would just be embarrassing for you. Then you would have to run away with your dick tucked between your legs.”

My mouth lifts wickedly as I lean against the counter. “You watched my interview with Kickin’ Up Dust.”

Her eyes widen like she didn’t mean to let it slip that she keeps an eye on the newest interviews I’m doing. We always seem to be aware of each other, even when we don’t want to be. I won’t lie, I’ve stalked her on social media, keeping up with her recovery over the last few years. Each time I saw a picture or a new video, my blood felt like acid coursing through my veins.

She shifts uncomfortably, glancing down at her boots before meeting my eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself, cowboy. Heather Ellis is right; I’m going to give you a run for your money this season. The bulls may toss you on your ass, but I’m going to be the one to kick it.”

She looks behind her, scanning the crowd until she sees her sister at an empty high-top table, gesturing her over.

Harlow slaps me on the shoulder like the guys do when they’re being friendly. From her, I know it’s anything but. “Have a good evening, Colson.”

I can’t help but watch her walk away. Briefly, along with several other men in my vicinity, my eyes drop to her perky ass in those tight shorts that show off her toned figure and Arizona tan, right before my focus locks on her left leg.

The mental picture of a quiet and dark arena with Harlow in the center plays before my eyes. Her screams of agony penetrate my mind, blending with Paisley’s as both memories begin to collide—images of them lying in the dirt, slashing across my vision like a strobe light.

One memory, and then the other.

My stomach roils, threatening to release all the alcohol I’ve consumed on the floor.

Harlow’s lucky she walked away, and here she is again, trying to prove herself. As talented as she may be, if her fear of that night still lingers, she doesn’t belong in the PBR.

She never will.

THREE | HARLOW

Nerves crackle under my skin, my body vibrating with impatience to get out there for my first ride of the season. The stuffy smell that’s unique to only an indoor arena lingers in the air, carrying the scent of dirt from the floor and the faint odor of manure where the bull stalls are stacked behind me. Cowboys, chute crew, staff members, and media hustle around behind the chutes, where all of us athletes wait for our rides.

I’ve been in this sport professionally since I was twenty, and it still astonishes me that they can transform a hockey rink into a bull-riding arena overnight.

It’s pure magic if you ask me.

It’s been a long road to recovery, but I’m here, and I’ll be damned if the past repeats itself.

I won’t allow it.

There’s a massive weight on my shoulders this year. Ever since I signed that first contract a few years ago, I’ve carried the nickname PBR’s Sweetheart. I won’t disappoint them this time. No matter what shit spills out of Colson Payne’s mouth, I’m proving that women can keep up with men in brutal sports that demand your body’s cooperation.

I may have gotten thrown down and pummeled into the dirt, but the bull’s hooves didn’t taint the grit in my core. A few women in the Women’s Pro Rodeo Circuit wrote me letters and reached out on social media, inspired by my story, saying they hope to be where I am one day.

Being here isn’t just for me anymore.

It’s for every individual who has had someone dust off their doubts onto them and say they’ll never succeed at something. For the ones who have been called a rarity or oddity and embrace the title, letting it push them to create space in the world for themselves where they thought they’d never find it.

Colson Payne may hate me as much as I loathe him, but he can only blame himself for sparking the electric current in my soul that has my competitive gears rotating on overdrive.