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“Was Dev good in bed? I heard a rumor that he's got a pierced dick.”

With a noncommittal shrug, I return to the show, lifting my camera to capture Taylor's twist into a flawless Nac-Nac. “Not a rumor. And he's okay, I guess.”

He let me peg him without feeling guilty afterwards, at least.

Unlike my ex who would constantly beg for it over the course of two years and then spiral out of control.

My eyes find Logan automatically where he sits at the end of the bleachers, his head bent over a laptop. He's been busy all day doing who knows what. When I glanced at his screen earlier, all I could see were spreadsheets. It's almost like he's obsessing over this business manager shit. Using it to occupy his mind… or escape from it. Either way, something is bothering him.

And I swiftly remind myself that it’s not my fucking problem. Caring about him is what got me into this mess in the first place.

A dirt bike revs loud enough to shake the ground, and I snap to attention, lifting the camera just in time to catch our final stunt—the two-person flip. Taylor is in front, Christian gripping his shoulders from behind as they speed toward the ramp. The crowd leaps to their feet, everyone holding their breaths. My heart lurches in into my throat.

The guys launch into the air, bodies twisting together, the bike flipping once, twice. They land with a cloud of dirt, a deafening cheer drowning out their screams of pure joy. I snap rapid-fire shots, my hands shaking from the adrenaline coursing through my veins, but my eyes drift back to Logan, even with all the chaos around me.

He's still on the edge of the bleachers, tapping away at his keyboard. His lips are pressed thin.

I know that look.

He’s not focused on work, he’s… disappearing into it.

I grit my teeth and lower the camera, tearing my gaze away.

It’s not my job to fix him. It's not. My mother tried fixing a man throughout my entire childhood and look where that got her.

Miserable. Angry. An addict, unable to function on her own.

I can still remember the sound of glass shattering against the kitchen wall; her voice slurred as she screamed at her husband for leaving again.

I sat under the table, clutching my knees to my chest and counting how many pills she took to decide what kind of night we were having.

She'd looked me right in the eye and said, "Why do you have to be so fucking difficult to him? Is it really so hard to see me happy and in love?"

Wiping my face, I told her that if this was love, I didn't want it.

She'd just laughed.

“You will. And I'm telling you right now that if you act like such a fucking bitch all the time, you'll only end up alone. Men don't want girls like you."

Good, I'd thought. Because maybe I don't want men like that.

I won't be like her. Logan made his bed, and now he can lie in it.

Caring only leads to disappointment. I’ve had enough of that to last a lifetime.

Logan Peterson is not my responsibility, and I refuse to let him be my downfall.

Chapter

Twelve

Salem

Another cowboy gets launched like a rag doll, making everyone scream.

I wince as he hits the ground hard, kicking up a cloud of dirt. The bull he was riding bucks wildly in the ring while rodeo clowns rush in to distract it. Dust hangs in the air, the scent of sweat, leather, and testosterone clinging to everything. My camera stays glued to my face, snapping shot after shot, heart hammering in time with the announcer's voice blaring overhead.

This isn’t my scene, not by a long shot, but there’s something mesmerizing about watching men try to conquer the unconquerable.