Free Ride: A Bad Boy Romance by Roxie Noir Page B

in Sports Weekly.
    The stables aren’t far, and as we walk I ramble on about the bulls: where each of these guys are from, who their sires are, who they’ve bucked off so far this year. Bruce takes notes and Mae just follows along, not saying anything.
    I talk more so I don’t look at her too much.
    Inside the stables, I ramble more. I walk them down the center aisle and name each bull to them: Screaming Heat, Twist and Shout, Muscle Grunt, Bank Robbery, Hopalong, Mr. Torque, and Crash Junction.
    “Screaming Heat’s a kitten,” I say, looking at the big, ugly white bull. He snorts. “Twist and Shout ain’t bad, but when I rode him in Laredo I really had to spur him to get much enthusiasm. Muscle Grunt and Hopalong I ain’t rode, but I’ve heard they’re about average. Good days, bad days.”
    “Which one are you hoping for in the draw?” Bruce asks.
    I nod my head down the barn and they follow me to stand in front of a stall. Inside’s a big, ugly, brown bull with bloodshot eyes. He glares out at us, and I take a step forward.
    Bruce and Mae don’t, though I hear her snap a picture.
    “This is Train Robbery, my second choice,” I say. “He’s scored the highest average for all the rodeos he’s been in. Kicks like a motherfucker, goes buck wild right out the gate. Unseats most riders, but earns good scores for the ones who stay on.”
    Train Robbery barely moves, just blinks at Bruce and Mae. They both look back.
    “He don’t look like much now, but just wait until he’s in the arena,” I say, gazing at the big, placid animal. “He’s gentle as a lamb in the chute, but the second that gate opens? Watch out.”
    Mae takes a picture, then frowns at her camera. Bruce makes a note.
    “That makes Crash Junction your top choice?” he asks.
    I can’t help but grin.
    “Yessir, it does,” I say.
    I cross the aisle to another stall, this one with a big white bull in it. The bull glares at me, and I wink at him, just for fun.
    “This here is Crash Junction,” I say. “And he’s zero for, what is it now, fifty?”
    “Fifty-two,” Bruce says.
    Mae raises her eyebrows.
    “Nobody’s stayed on the full eight seconds?” she asks.
    “No ma’am,” I say, but she’s looking at Crash Junction again. “He’s got a front end drop like a freight train, a tight spin, and he switches directions on a dime.”
    Crash Junction snorts again.
    “Riders just fly right off of him,” I say. “Most riders, anyway. Ain’t that right, buddy?”
    I hear the camera click again, and Crash Junction swings his head around to look me dead in the eyes. Bulls aren’t very smart, but I’d swear that this one knows what we’re saying about him, and he wants me to try riding him just as bad as I do.
    Riding Crash Junction is dicey as hell. No one’s ever stayed on him for the full eight seconds, which means no one’s ever scored many points from riding him.
    After that eight-second mark, there’s a total of one hundred points for the taking: fifty based on how well the rider rides, and fifty based on how hard the bull makes the ride. The tougher the bull, the higher the score.
    Anyone who can stay on Crash Junction for the full eight seconds and doesn’t fuck up his other rides is practically guaranteed to win Pioneer Days.
    I want it to be me so bad I can taste it.
    “And you think you can ride him?” Bruce asks.
    “I know I can ride him,” I say. “The second I get on him, he’s met his match. Nobody bucks like Crash here, but nobody rides like me.”
    It’s not bragging if it’s true.
    “What’s your strategy?” Bruce asks.
    “Stay on,” I say.
    He raises his eyebrows, but I just shrug.
    “It’s all practice,” I say. “Ride until the body knows exactly what it’s doing, because out there, with the clock going and the crowd shouting, you can’t think of a single thing besides stay on .”
    I glance at Mae, and she’s staring at me instead of the camera for once. We lock eyes, and after a moment,