Page 35 of Josephine and Clay

“Ninety on Black Mercy,” Brandon says, appearing at my side with the kind of grin men get when they’re half impressed and half pissed it wasn’t them. “You smug bastard.”

I glance up at the number, then back at my beer. “Yeah, that’ll play.”

He barks out a laugh. “That’ll play? You looked like you were one blink away from eating fence.”

“Didn’t though.”

“Only because you’re too stubborn to die in public.”

He isn’t wrong.

I grin despite myself and tip the bottle back again. The ache in my body is settling now, turning from sharp to satisfying.

That’s the thing about riding. It isn’t just the win. It’s the closeness of it. The fact that for a few ugly beautiful seconds the whole world strips down to whether your body can answer what the moment asks of it.

By the time we hit the bar, the whole place is already humming.

It always is after a good rodeo night. Music loud enough to shake the glasses on the shelves. Girls in cutoffs and boots crowding the dance floor. Men reliving their rides bigger and better than they really happened. Beer sloshing over rims. Neon buzzing through cigarette smoke and heat.

The minute I step inside, a cheer goes up from somewhere near the back, and somebody yells, “McCoy!” as if they’ve known me my whole life.

Brandon steers us toward the bar. “First round’s on you.”

“Thought winning bought me some goodwill.”

“It bought you the privilege of being robbed by your closest friends.”

“Touching.”

I order anyway, sliding cash across the bar while the bartender gives me a smile that says she’s heard every version of this same conversation a hundred times before.

“Big night?” she asks.

“Decent,” I say.

Brandon snorts beside me. “He means he damn near flew off and still scored a ninety.”

“That sounds less decent,” she says, amused.

I lift one shoulder. “Depends how much you like staying on.”

The whiskey lands in front of me, and I knock half of it back before the room really settles in. The music presses against my skin. Laughter blooms and shifts around me. There’s the usual current running under it all too, easy and familiar, the promise of whatever kind of night I want. Company. Trouble. Someone warm in my bed for a few hours before morning turns us back into strangers.

Usually I know exactly what I want from post-rodeo nights.

Tonight it all feels just a little off.

A redhead drifts over before I’ve finished my second drink, all glossy lips and confidence, and leans one elbow onto the bar close enough for her perfume to cut through the whiskey.

“You sure as shit tamed Black Mercy today,” she says.

“Thanks.”

“I saw the whole thing.” Her eyes move over me slowly. “Didn’t think you were gonna save it there for a second.”

I grin because that part is easy. “Me either.”

She laughs and leans in a little more. “I like a man who knows how to hold on.”