Page 55 of Josephine and Clay

His mouth twitches, but he still doesn’t look amused. “Clay.”

I yank my hat down a little lower. “I’m riding.”

He watches me, measuring whether to push harder. Then he nods once. “Alright. Then wake up before you get on him.”

I tell myself I will.

I stretch, walk, roll my shoulders. I sip coffee so bitter it feels medicinal, splash more water on my face, go through every small familiar motion that usually clicks me into place.

None of it sticks.

By the time they start calling names, my pulse is too high and my thoughts too slow, which is a hell of a combination. I can feel the edges fraying, that split between body and mind where one of them wants to perform and the other one’s lagging because it missed the cue.

Still, when they call me, my body goes.

The chute is hot and alive under me once I climb up. Metal rattles beneath my boots while the bull shifts in tight, angry bursts of muscle. He’s a big red brindle son of a bitch with murder in his eye and foam stringing wet from his mouth. The kind of animal that doesn’t just want you off. He wants to make a point about it. Normally I love that; the danger clears me up.

I settle my hand into the rope and try to find the center of myself. The place that always shows up at the gate. The place that knows what to do.

It’s there, just dimmer than it should be.

The bull slams one side of the chute, jarring me hard enough that pain bites through my shoulder. My hand slips for half a second.

Half a second.

I catch it again fast, but the miss is enough to send ice-cold darts through my gut.

Focus.

I bend forward, set my grip, and squeeze my thighs in. Dust bursts up around us. Men shout above me and beside me. The gate man glances over, waiting for the nod.

I close my fist tighter around the rope.

This is still mine.

It has to be.

I nod.

The gate snaps open.

The bull explodes out from under me with a force so violent I’m sure I’m getting hit by a truck. His first jump is all height, launching me up and back before my seat’s even settled, and I come down crooked.

Too far to the outside, too slow, I know it instantly.

My body tries to correct, but the signal has to fight through mud to get there. My hips lag. My shoulder pulls late. The bull hits the ground and twists hard to the right, then fires his back end high enough to pitch my chest forward over empty air.

I’m chasing the ride before it’s even started.

“Come on,” I grunt through my teeth, though whether I’m talking to the bull or myself, I couldn’t say.

He bucks again. The motion rips through me, and for one second, I almost find it. That old rhythm. That hard beautiful place where all the violence starts making sense.

Then I lose it again.

The crowd, the announcer, even my own thoughts, it’s all just noise.

Too loud. Too late. Too slow.