Theo hops down onto the bull and then glances up at Rhett’s face with a shit-eating grin and a wink. They share a laugh and fist bump. There’s this small sense of relief inside me that it’s not Rhett who’s getting on the bull just yet. I’m so busy watching the way his body balances on the top of the fence, that I jump when the gates fly open and the reddish bull surges out.
The bull’s nose goes straight to the ground and his hooves fly up high behind Theo’s head. A flimsy cowboy hat is the only protection he’s wearing, and I feel like a mother hen wanting to rush down there and scold him for not wearing a helmet.
The bull turns in a tight circle and my eyes flash up to the timer, shocked to find that his eight seconds are almost up. When the buzzer sounds, the rodeo clowns rush over to help him dismount, but he leaps off and tosses a hand in the air before turning and pointing at Rhett, who is still sitting up in the fencing, clapping hard.
Looking so damn proud of the younger rider. Truthfully, it’s adorable.
“You okay, sweetheart?” a woman beside me asks.
I smile back at her. “Yes. Just . . . nervous.”
“I can tell.” She nods her head down at my hands, which are currently fisted in the fabric of my skirt. “You here with one of the boys?”
“Oh.” I laugh nervously, not wanting to throw Rhett under the bus to someone who is wearing a World Bull Riding Federation t-shirt with a longhorn skull on it. “I’m working on the business end. This is my first time.”
“Now the skirt makes sense,” she says kindly, eyeing my outfit. I don’t particularly care if I appear out of place. I feel good in skirts. Look good, feel good. And after years of not feeling good, wearing pretty clothes makes me feel good. So, I do it. Even if I look overdressed.
I laugh politely all the same, but when she makes a grumbling noise, I follow her line of sight, and my eyes land right on Rhett, who is pulling a helmet with a cage over his head as a white and black bull trots into the chute. The gate slams closed behind the animal, trapping it between the panels, which it clearly does not like based on the way it’s crashing against them. Rhett pulls himself back up, wincing as he does.
My throat tightens, but Rhett only pauses for a moment before descending onto the beast’s back, like he’s not terrified by the prospect.
I guess it’s just me.
He runs his hands over the rope before him, and even from some distance away, I swear I can hear the rasp of his leather glove against the rope. The firm grip. The way his hand ripples over it.
It’s downright hypnotic. Soothing.
“That boy thinks he’s God’s gift to this sport,” the woman beside me says. Her statement has me sitting up a little taller, pinching my shoulder blades together, and tipping my chin up. Am I Rhett’s number one fan? No. But after spending a week with the guy, after seeing how hard he’s taking this whole thing—how vulnerable he was at the kitchen table that morning—my protective streak is fired up and ready to burn.
I bite my tongue and turn my body away. If these were my last moments alive, I’d rather spend them enjoying the thrill of watching Rhett ride than mouthing off to some snarky super fan.
I watch in rapt fascination as he secures his hand against the bull, the opposite one braced against the fence. For a beat, his eyes close and his body goes eerily still.
Then he nods.
And they fly.
The gate crashes open, and his bull goes nuts. I thought the other one bucked hard, but this one is truly terrifying. The way its body suspends in mid-air as it twists. The way saliva flies from its mouth and its eyes roll back as it unexpectedly changes direction.
It has me audibly gasping and pressing a hand against my chest to push away the ball of tension building there.
Rhett is poetry in motion. He doesn’t fight the bull, it’s like he becomes an extension of it. One hand up high, body swaying naturally, never losing balance.
I check the clock, and somehow this ride feels much longer. It feels like he’s going to get killed before the buzzer sounds.
The colors on the patches adorning his vest blur together as I watch him, the sound of the crowd and the announcer blending into white noise. I lean forward, swallowing on a dry throat, eyes darting between Rhett’s toned body and the clock, sucked into the ride.
And when the buzzer finally sounds, all the noise and movement come rushing back in, everything in hyper focus as Rhett yanks at his hand.
It’s not coming loose, he’s struggling, and suddenly I’m up on my feet, watching with bated breath.
A cowboy on a horse gallops up beside him, and they reach for one another. With one solid tug, his hand comes free and the bull surges ahead as the cowboy sets Rhett back down on solid ground.
The announcer’s voice crackles through the speakers. “A whopping 93 points for Rhett Eaton tonight, folks. That’s going to be a tough score to beat and all but guarantees we’ll see him back here tomorrow night.”
The crowd cheers, but it’s not nearly as loud it was for Theo. In fact, it’s borderline quiet. Rhett stands in the middle of the ring, his shoulders drooping and his chin tipping down to his chest. His hand held protectively against his torso. He stares down at the toes of his boots, an almost-smile touching his lips, and I swear my heart breaks for him in that moment.
Over a decade of putting his life on the line to entertain these people, and this is what he gets?
So, I guess that’s why I put two fingers in my mouth and pull out the most useless skill I’ve ever learned. One I’ve mastered.
I whistle so loud that you can hear it over everything. I whistle so loud that Rhett’s head snaps up in my direction. And when he sees me in the crowd, grinning back at him, the sad look on his face washes away.
Replaced by one of surprise.
Our eyes lock, and for one moment, we trace each other’s features. Then, almost like that moment never happened, he shakes his head, chuckles under his breath, and limps out of the ring, the fringes on his chaps swinging as he goes.
I gather my things to go meet him back in the staging area. I want to high-five him. Or give him a thumbs up. Or do some other equally professional celebration with him.
But not before I bend down to the woman beside me who just told me he thinks he’s God’s gift to this sport and say, “Maybe he is.”
11
Rhett
Kip: Stop googling yourself. That’s my job. You just wear the Wranglers and ride the bulls.
Rhett: This is the worst fatherly advice you’ve ever given me.
Kip: Just do what Summer says, you’ll be fine. Don’t stress. We got this.
Rhett: Stop being nice to me. It’s fucking weird. And your daughter is a pain in my ass.
Kip: Don’t be such a pussy, Eaton.
Rhett: Better. Thank you.
“Rhett!” Some girls are gathered right by the exit of the ring where I ditch my helmet and place the brown cowboy hat back on my head. I recognize a few. The rest . . . well, I recognize the type. “Hell of a ride,” one says, biting her lip in a very intentional way.
“Thanks,” I say and keep walking. Not in the mood to stop for them.
Lame as it sounds, part of what I love about this gig is the attention I get for being good at something. It makes me feel like I have something to offer, like people are invested in me. And not just riding my dick to say they did.
Because as close as I am to my dad and my brothers, none of them have ever taken my job seriously. It’s more like they’re all waiting for me to outgrow it. To grow up. And I hate that.
I grit my teeth as I walk through the staging area toward one of the locker rooms. The splash of heat burning on my cheeks. One of the best rides of my life, and the crowd gave me a fucking golf clap. I swear I could feel their disdain for me.
Except for Summer. That woman surprises me at every turn. I can’t figure out what to make of her. I thought I had her pegged as a smug little princess, but I’m second-guessing that assessment more every day.
“Rhett!”
I start at the voice, and wince when pain shoots down from my shoulder. I said I wouldn’t stop, but I’ll stop for Summer.
I stop because there’s no avoiding her. She’s relentless, and she’s really fucking nice. Which makes me feel like a total dick for being growly at her.
Turning stiffly, I see her petite form striding toward me like a splash of color in a sea of concrete, dirt, and brown fence panels. She’s paired her dark yellow sweater with a flowing skirt covered in some sort of flower print and a pair of high-heeled boots. Her leather jacket and purse are slung over her arm, and her heels click against the concrete, drawing attention from all sides.
She carries herself like royalty, oblivious to the side-eye she’s getting from the people back here. Especially the buckle bunnies hanging around by the gates.
“That was . . .” Her dark eyes go wide, sparkling like stars, and those cherry lips pop open wordlessly. “Just incredible. I think my heart is still racing.”