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“He’s a good coach and a winning bull rider. I think you’ll get along just fine.”
If I can keep myself from tossing him on the bed and riding him for eight seconds. LeAnn felt herself blush at the image. She fought off a cringe at how rushed it had all been because she had wanted to get back to the Winnebago before her sisters found out about Mick and ruined her evening by calling until she picked up. It had been her first time, but looking back on it, LeAnn wished she could have handled the evening with more dignity and maturity. Maybe it was for the best that they hadn’t had a chance to hook up again. It probably wouldn’t compare to her heated memories anyway.
“I’m looking forward to working with him,” LeAnn said. But first, she had to practice apologizing for running off and hiding like a scaredy-cat instead of facing him when she wasn’t pissed off about Mick and full of liquid courage.
Chapter Four
Dylan Porter wasn’t sure if he wanted to get laid, get into a fight or just get a beer. Of course, all three weren’t out of the question. He started out with the beer, sitting down at the bar. Swiveling his seat around so he could watch the pool tables, Dylan regarded his fellow bar patrons.
As far as fights went, a prime candidate was Luke “Mick” Mickleson. A fellow bull rider, Mick was a flaming asshole normally, but after a few drinks, his face became a magnet for fists. If Dylan didn’t take his shot now, he might have to get in line. Currently, Mick was taking turns talking politics and religion, and well, he wasn’t particularly receptive to opposing views.
Today had been rough. Johnny Montana’s parents had been in the stands, watching Bobby—Johnny’s younger brother. They had booed Dylan when it was his turn on the bull, and Dylan couldn’t blame them. But then Johnny’s father had thrown a beer bottle at Dylan and caught him in the back. Security had escorted the man out. Dylan was just glad his aim hadn’t been better—he could have gotten him in the head. Still, it had shaken him and he’d ridden like crap today.
He could have used a win. It wasn’t a big prize, but the five hundred would have paid for gas and his hotel room, and more importantly, his bar tab. Draining his beer in a few long swallows, he plunked the bottle down on the bar top with authority.
He was about to walk on over and give Mick the first shot, but then Dylan’s phone rang. It was an unknown number, so he probably should just ignore it. But as his finger hovered over the decline button, at the last minute he decided to answer it. It might be Johnny’s parents or Bobby, and he owed it to them to take the call. After all, it was his fault Johnny was dead.
“Yeah?” he challenged.
“Dylan? This is Dolly Keller.”
Easing back into the barstool, he signaled the bartender for another beer. The phone call promised to be entertaining at least. “I am still not interested in posing for your shirtless bull-rider calendar.” He was, however, still interested in Dolly’s baby sister. But that was something Dolly wouldn’t want to hear.
“Your loss. It’s guaranteed money.”
Dylan grunted. He wasn’t that desperate yet. Although, if the medication that the vet put his horse Lola on didn’t start working soon, he might be. He also needed to scratch together more money if he wanted to get taken seriously for the mortgage he was planning to apply for. He had his eye on a farm that was coming up on auction. If he was able to snag it, it would give Lola somewhere to retire to. And then once that was settled, Dylan could start on his own retirement project—opening a horse rescue for rodeo horses past their prime along with other unwanted animals. His business plan was top notch. It ought to have been. He’d been working on it for the last three years.
“But speaking of money,” Dolly said. “Are you still offering bull-riding coaching while you’re on the circuit?”
Was he? He flashed back to the grief he saw on Johnny’s father’s face today. Dylan wasn’t sure he was up to taking on another student so soon after Johnny’s death. But there were bills to pay and it would be nice to rent a hotel room instead of sleeping in his truck this season.
“Do I get to keep my shirt on?” he drawled.
“It’s a requirement. Yes.”
It was a damned miracle that anyone wanted him to coach them anymore. Officially, he wasn’t to blame for Johnny’s death last season. Unofficially, people had started to wonder if Johnny would have survived the wreck if he’d been better trained. Sometimes, Dylan wondered that himself.
“No,” he said. He didn’t want the responsibility of coaching another athlete who wouldn’t listen to reason.
Letting out a shaky breath that rattled over the phone lines, Dolly said, “I was afraid of that.”
“Why?”
“I needed someone of your caliber to coach one of the athletes I represent.”
“I think you got the wrong guy in mind,” he said, trying to wash the bitterness away with beer.
“I don’t,” she said. “I get it if you’re not up to it. Can you recommend someone who is?”
The hell of it was, Dylan needed the money. “Are you and your athlete all right with my track record?”
“What happened to Johnny Montana was not your fault,” Dolly said.
He didn’t believe her, but he appreciated that she said so.
“You made him a better rider. You couldn’t have predicted what that bull did, any more than Johnny did. It was an unfortunate accident. And it terrifies me that this could happen to my…my athlete. But if you’re coaching, I’ll be able to sleep at night.”
Dylan knew he didn’t deserve that kind of trust, but he would do his damnedest to make sure that Dolly Keller kept her faith in him. “Where and when?” Dylan sighed in resignation.
