Reaper's Fall

My head had fallen to Painter’s shoulder, and I found myself drifting as he continued to rub my arm. Somehow along the way, my hand fell to his thigh despite my best intentions. I wasn’t feeling him up, exactly, but I was definitely feeling him. Strong, thick muscles tensed beneath my touch. And I do mean tensed—he wasn’t relaxed at all. Not even a little. Painter was all coiled strength and power just waiting to break free in a burst of violence or . . . something. Best not to think about that.

God, but I wanted him.

By the time the bull riding started, I’d fallen into a Painter-induced haze. I watched lazily as big Dodge Ram trucks pulled out into the arena to drop off the barrel for the rodeo clown.

“Ladies and gentlemen, now is the time you’ve all been waiting for—does anyone like bull riding?” asked the announcer.

The crowd went crazy, cheering as loud music poured through the speakers.

“We always save the best for last here at the North Idaho Rodeo, and tonight you’ll see ten men brave the most dangerous eight seconds in all of sports. First up is James Lynch, all the way from Weezer, Idaho. This is his third year on the circuit, and he’s looking to take home a prize tonight. Feel like giving him a little encouragement?”

All around us, people shouted again as the music got louder. I sat up a little straighter, watching as two men came out to stand on either side of a gate against the back fence, loose-limbed and ready for action. One of them looked almost familiar, although it was hard to tell from so far away. Seconds later the gate opened, and the bull exploded out. Lynch held on tight to the ropes, one hand held high in the air as the massive animal tried to buck him off. I found myself forgetting to breathe as eight of the longest seconds in history ticked slowly by, counting down on the big display board.

He’d almost made it when the bull twisted, and then he was flying through the air. One of the men who’d been flanking the gate darted in between the bull and the fallen rider, using his body to distract the beast. The other grabbed the cowboy, pulling him to his feet.

Holy shit.

Lynch ran for the fence, jumping up against the metal bars as men waiting on the other side pulled him over. Riders raced into the arena toward the bull, chasing it toward the far gate.

The whole thing had taken maybe twenty seconds, tops.

“Better luck next time, James,” the announcer said. “Now let’s take a moment to put our hands together for our bullfighters this evening, folks. You saw them in action just now—these athletes have a tough job out here, because it’s up to them to protect our cowboys once they hit the dirt. They do it the hard way, too. Tonight is a special night for one of them . . . He’s playing for his hometown crowd for the first time this weekend. Chase McKinney is a Coeur d’Alene boy, born and raised right here in this community. Chase, how does it feel to be here tonight?”

Around me people exploded in excitement as one of the bullfighters raised a hand, waving at the grandstands before giving a thumbs-up toward the announcer. No wonder he looked familiar—he’d been a few years ahead of me in high school. Not that I really knew him, but I’d seen him around. Pretty sure he’d been a senior when I was a freshman . . . Past Painter, I saw both Em and Kit on their feet, hooting and shouting like crazed monkeys.

“Next up is Gordo Gallagher, an experienced bullrider down from Calgary, Alberta,” continued the announcer as Chase moved back toward the gate. “He’s looking for points and prize money, and it’d sure be nice if he could go home with both. Give him a warm North Idaho welcome!”

We all cheered again, and then I watched as one bullrider after the next tried to hold on for the full time period. Only about half of them made it, which meant the bullfighters were busy. Over and over, they jumped between the bulls and their riders, protecting the cowboys with their bodies. Why the hell would someone do that to themselves on purpose?

Craziness.

Of course, I was going a little crazy myself as Painter ran his fingers across my shoulders and down my arms, all the while pressing his leg against mine. By the final ride of the night, I’d fallen into a warm haze of desire that just wouldn’t go away.

“Ladies and gentlemen, let’s put our hands together for Cary Hull,” said the announcer. “We’ve saved the best for last, as Cary was our top prize winner during last year’s rodeo. From there he went on to become a circuit finalist. He’s been patiently waiting all evening to show you what he’s got.”

Down in the arena, Hull had climbed up and over the chute, ready to drop onto the bull for his ride. Then the horn sounded and the pair burst out into the center of the arena.

At first I didn’t realize anything was wrong—bulls are supposed to buck at a rodeo. But this one seemed wilder, crazier than any of the others. I mean, his eyes weren’t literally glowing red—no ominous chanting—but that thing was scary. The cowboy was holding on for his life, flanked on either side by Chase and the other bullfighter, light on their feet as they tried to anticipate the beast’s next move.

That’s when things fell to shit.

Without warning, the bull bucked higher than I’d ever seen. So high it hardly seemed real. The rider’s body flew free, turning through the air above him. That’s when he should’ve launched off but he didn’t. The bull bucked again, and this time the cowboy flopped along the side of him, which seemed to piss him off even more.

Up to that point, I’d assumed that Hull was holding on out of sheer stubborn badassery. Now I could see he was caught, flopping helplessly as the bull tried to kill him. The crowd fell silent as the monster bucked backward—higher this time—shying away from the fighters desperately flanking him. Chase ran along the side, trying to reach the rider while his partner distracted the animal.