Page 33 of Josephine and Clay

I lie there, ruined. Wet palm pressed to my navel, the towel abandoned. The phone buzzes, a lone black beacon, his words waiting:

Clay: I wish I was there.

I smile, wicked and small, and thumb my answer:

Josie: Me too.

More than I want to admit.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Clay

MAY 15TH

The chute hums under me, metal rattling through my bones while the bull shifts beneath me with the kind of impatient violence that makes lesser men reconsider their life choices.

I’ve never been lesser.

Maybe dumber. Maybe meaner to my own body than is strictly necessary. But never lesser.

I lean forward, settling my grip on the rope, gloved hand locked down tight while my free hand hovers loose above me.

Dust curls, thick with heat, manure, and sweat, and the whole world seems to tighten around this one moment the way it always does. The noise outside the chute is there if I reach for it.

The crowd, the announcer, and the restless movement of bodies packed into stands built to hold breath and disappointment in equal measure.

But I don’t reach for it.

I feel the bull breathe under me, every coil of muscle stacked and ready. He jerks once, a rough warning, and the motion cracks through my spine hard enough to make my teeth come together. He’s rank as hell and mean-eyed. The kind of animal men stand around talking about afterward, heads shaking, beer in hand, swearing they always knew he was trouble.

That just makes me want him more.

I roll my shoulders once, testing the pull in my arm, then sit deeper. There’s a rhythm to this if you know where to find it. It’s built out of force, instinct, and all the hard lessons your body learns after it’s hit enough dirt to stop fearing it.

The gate man glances over. I nod.

Then the latch snaps and the chute breaks open.

The bull launches out so hard the ground disappears with him. The first jump comes fast and ugly, all vertical fury, and my hips shift a half second behind it. Too slow. Just enough that I feel my weight drift in the wrong direction.

My stomach drops.

There it is.

That fine sharp edge where this goes from a ride to a wreck.

I drag myself back into line before the thought fully forms, thighs clamping down so hard they burn, shoulder straining as I pull against the rope. The bull hits the ground and twists almost immediately, spinning left in a move so quick it would throw someone greener clean off his back.

He nearly has me anyway.

The turn jerks me wide. My chest pitches out over nothing for one stretched second that feels long enough to see the whole thing ending wrong. Dirt. Horn. Boots in the air. Some medic kneeling over me while the crowd goes uneasy and disappointed.

Instead I wrench myself back, muscle and instinct, and find center again just as he bucks high enough to try and tear the seat of my jeans off with me still in them.

A rough grin drags at my mouth.

Yeah, that’s more like it.