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“You’re disgusting,” I spit, finally ripping my gaze away.

“And you're not telling me to stop.”

The bull finally winds down, slowing into a lazy circle. My thighs ache. My pulse pounds.

We’re still for a moment too long—me, trapped between the saddle and Devon, his chest practically pressed against mine, his hand still on my dick.

I can’t breathe. And I hate how much I don’t want him to let go.

Finally, the operator kills the engine. “Time’s up! Next!”

Devon doesn’t move right away. Neither do I.

He slowly slides his hand from my crotch, but I refuse to meet his dark stare. “You gonna pretend like this never happened, too?”

I don't answer because I have no fucking clue what to say.

Slipping from beneath him, I fall to my knees in the inflatable ring, unable to stand. My head’s fucking swimming. Everything’s too loud. Music and voices crash back into my ears like Dev had me trapped in a bubble. The lights seem ten times brighter, and I squeeze my eyes against them. It hurts. My skin is too hot. Too tight, too much.

Christian whistles, shouting something I don't catch. I’m too busy clambering to my feet and blindly shoving my way through the crowd. Salem’s still near the bar, but the only thing I see is a glimmer of red hair and a shiny belt buckle.

Before I know it, I find myself falling to my knees in a grimy bathroom stall, puking everything out of my system: beer, food, Salem, Devon, the shame.

So much fucking shame.

Tears prick my eyes from the burning bile and when the nausea finally subsides, I wonder briefly what would happen if I just… left. What if I wandered out into the Kentucky night and disappeared? It’s not like anyone out there would notice my absence. They sure as shit didn't notice what the fuck just happened right in front of them. What Devon did to me. I'd probably be doing everyone a favor.

“Loge, you in here?”

Okay, maybe one person would notice.

I flush the toilet before wiping my mouth, still feeling nauseous and dizzy. Straightening my clothes, I open the stall door to find Huckslee standing on the other side, concern etched on his features.

“Sorry,” I rasp, aiming for the sink. Buzzing from the fluorescent lights makes my ears itch. “Motion sickness from the bull. I feel better now.”

My best friend is quiet for a long moment, watching me wash my hands. “Right. The bull.” There's a catch in his voice that has me glancing up into the mirror, looking at him in order to avoid my own reflection. Narrowed eyes stare back at me, his jaw tight as he crosses his arms over his broad chest. “You think I'm stupid?”

“What?” I frown, snatching a paper towel to dry my hands. “No.”

“Then why did you just lie to me?”

Heaving a heavy sigh, I shove open the bathroom door. “I don't know, Huck. It's what we do.”

“Bullshit.” He grips my arm and tugs me to a quiet corner of the club. When he lets me go, I keep my eyes down, aiming them at his sneakers. “Look, I know we have a shitty track record with the truth, but that's behind us now. Something is going on, and I'm begging you to talk to me. You don't seem good.”

I don't feel good. I'm not good.

But the words get stuck in my throat, and I stare at his pleading expression, unsure of what to say—terrified to reveal the truth.

Please forgive me, dear God.

A husky, full-bodied laugh catches my attention. I find the source in the center of the dance floor—where my wife is currently riding the mechanical bull with fucking Harper the cowboy behind her. He’s gripping her waist and nuzzling her neck, making her smile—giving her something she clearly doesn't want from me.

My knees tremble and I slump against the wall, suddenly too tired to stand. The way she looks back at him makes me physically flinch, a hole tearing wide inside my chest so violently that I’m surprised there’s no blood dripping from my ribs.

But that's what love is, isn't it? One metaphorical blow after another, leaving our marks behind. Every interaction with her takes a piece from me. How long will it be until I have nothing left?

“Logan.” Huck’s soft voice pierces through the thumping music but when I look up, I don’t see him. I don't really see anything. “Talk to me, man. Tell me what's wrong. I can't help you fix it if you don't tell me.”