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DECLAN
Tonight, the desert throbbed with an untamed symphony. Each step I took crushed the gravel under my boots, and the rustle of desert critters filled the air. The night was vibrant, teeming with life, the wind screaming through the canyon, carrying the pungent scent of sage and mesquite.
In some parallel universe, my father might have been here, watching, a proud smile tugging at his lips. My mother would’ve been a tearful contrast, heart clenched in fear for her boy venturing into the jaws of danger.
But death had robbed them of the chance to feel, to think, to exist.
The dead don’t deal in emotions, and the living run from them.
The land was pulsating, matching the wild rhythm of my heart, and I was stalking through its rugged beauty, like a predator on a hunt.
The underground rodeo, a grueling trial of strength and guts, lured in men hardened by life.
The deal?
To prove myself.
The reward?
Answers.
In the looming distance, a bonfire danced wildly, throwing monstrous shadows around. It roared its fierce existence, echoed back by the escalating shouts of the crowd. The air was thick, clogged with a potent cocktail of sweat and adrenaline.
As I neared the arena, shadowy whispers danced around me, tales spun from the heart of the desert. The bulls in their enclosures snorted, restless. The clanging boom of riders prepping added a metallic note to the sounds of the night.
“You think you’re ready?” Hank’s voice sliced through the noise, the question hanging heavily in the air.
My nod was curt—a silent declaration. Here, actions were louder than any sermon.
I vaulted over the fence, and the chilly cloak of the night wrapped around me. I took a moment, my gaze raking over the frenzied crowd—fellow riders preparing for the battle, spectators high on anticipation, silhouettes lurking in the shadows. Danger was woven into the very fabric of this place, and I knew with complete certainty that I was cut out for it.
No, more than that—I was born for it.
Walking up to the chute, the floodgates of my memory were thrown open. They lit up the darkest corners of my past.
The blood.
The sweat.
The echoes of lives crushed under my hands. They were a brutal testament to the path I had walked.
But the impatient snorts of the bull demanded my attention.
As I filled my lungs with the hot night air, I hoisted myself onto the bull’s back. My grip on the rope was a vise.
And then, we were off.
The gate swung open, the bull lunging into the storm of cheers that erupted from the crowd.
The noises faded into a blur as I narrowed my focus on the ride.
The prize was within my reach.
This was my arena, my battleground. I was the hunter here. I was the goddamn king. No force on heaven or earth would stand in my way now.
CLOVER
“That’ll be twenty bucks,” a gritty man said, his gold-coated tooth shimmering in the descending sun.
