EIGHT SECONDS TO RIDE

COPPER LAKE SERIES

ASHLEY JAMES

Eight Seconds to Ride Copyright © 2024 by Ashley James

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the authors imagination or used in a fictitious manner.

Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events is purely coincidental.

Cover Design: Fortuitous Designer

Interior Formatting: Wanderlust Formatting

Editing: Nice Girl Naughty Edits

To the girlies, gays, and theys who go weak for a man in a tight pair of Wranglers, cowboy boots, and chaps.

This one’s for y’all.

PLAYLIST

Full playlist can be found on Spotify.

Something to Talk About by Koe Wetzel

Country Boy Love by Granger Smith

This Damn Song by Pecos & the Rooftops

No Place Like Hometown by Hixtape, Hardy, Keith Urban, Hillary Lindsey

Boots On by Randy Houser

World on Fire by Nate Smith

Save a Horse (Ride a Cowboy) by Big & Rich

Novocaine by The Band CAMINO

Wobble by V.I.C

Bad to the Bone by George Thorogood & the Destroyers

Cowboy by Kid Rock

That’s My Story by Collin Raye

Wild Ones by Jessie Murph, Jelly Roll

Bad Idea Right? by Olivia Rodrigo

Something to Feel by Dixon Dallas

Whitehorse Road by Tyler Childers

Outlaw State of Mind by Chris Stapleton

Pretty Little Poison by Warren Zeiders

One Horse Town by Blackberry Smoke

COPPER LAKE DISCLAIMER

This series takes place in the fictional small town of Copper Lake, Wyoming, and it follows cowboys who compete in the professional rodeo. The use of the Professional Rodeo Cowboy Association (or PRCA as it’s frequently referred to as in the books) is a work of fiction. I did my best to keep the organization as accurate as possible with regards to the rules, regulations, circuit schedule, etc., but there are instances where I had to take creative liberties for the sake of the storyline. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the authors imagination or used in a fictional manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

PROLOGUE

Shooter Graham

The announcer’s voice booms over the loudspeaker, rumbling as the crowd goes wild. “Here all the way from Copper Lake, Wyoming, a two-time bareback world champ, coming from a long line of rodeo champions. Give it up for Shooter Graham, ladies and gentlemen!”

This is it.

The arena is booming, the crowd roaring. Energy is so high, every single body in here can feel it. Feel the win about to be mine.

My body is buzzing as I lower myself onto the bronco, making sure everything is just so—wrapping and then re-wrapping the rope around my glove until it feels right, adjusting the placement of my hand’s grip—preparing for them to open the chute. For it to be my time to shine. This is the last rodeo of the year, the National Finals Rodeo. What I’ve worked for all season. That buckle, that prize money… it’s mine. I can feel it. The low vibration coursing through my bloodstream. The heavy pounding of my heart against my ribs. The thrum of energy spreading its way through my body—from my head, along my limbs, down to the tips of my toes. It’s everywhere. I can taste it. Taste the victory like a sweet treat on the back of my tongue.

This. Is. It.

“You and me, Miss Ellie,” I murmur to the beast beneath me. She’s anticipating this as much as I am, her body practically vibrating with the need to buck and jump. I’ve ridden her before. She’s feisty, and I fucking love it. “Let’s fucking do this, girl.”

The announcer continues, but honestly, the rest of what he says falls on deaf ears as the bucking chute opens. Eight seconds… that’s all I have to do—make it eight seconds. Bronc riding is something I’ve been doing since I was knee high to a grasshopper. My father was a bareback bronc rider, my grandpa, my uncles. It’s in my veins. The talent.

A score of eighty-five takes the title.

The seconds tick on.

Eight… My bronc bucks, her legs kicking, my body jolting.

Seven… Adrenaline pumps through my blood, making me feel invincible. Making me feel on top of the world.

Six… The high is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced before.

Five… She jerks to the left, and I follow.

Four… I’m so close, I can fucking taste it.

Three… two… one, and when the buzzer sounds, I feel fucking good. Like a champion.

I don’t bother waiting for the pick-up man as I jump off the horse. My chest heaves as I throw my hands in the air, shouting to the audience while they cheer me on. The crowd in here is wild, their excitement palpable. Every seat taken. Tens of thousands of people travel from around the world every year to watch this event, find out who the next world champ is, and for the past two years, it’s been me. And when the guy over the loudspeaker announces a score of eighty-six, I know I’ve just become the world champ for a third year in a row.

Everyone rises from their seats as the arena erupts into cheers. Cameras flash, and reporters surround me as my team closes in. Interviews, photographs, and other general PR shit I hate doing has the next few hours passing by in a blur.

The NFR is held in Las Vegas, which is the perfect place to celebrate a victory like this. After I finish with the mandatory press to keep my agent off my back, me and a couple of the guys who flew in with me from back home decide to go out. Picking a place off the strip to avoid massive crowds, we wind up at a small hole-in-the-wall called Juno’s.

The space is dimly lit, music way too loud for small talk, and the best part is that there’re hardly any patrons in here. My buddy, Copeland, another bronc rider who competed tonight, heads to the bar to get us all a round of drinks while the rest of us set up the pool table. We’re thrumming from the wins tonight—and it wasn’t just me who won either out of our group.

We toss back drink after drink while we play a couple of rounds of pool, shooting the shit and overall, just being rowdy as hell, the tipsier we all become. A bunch of cowboys who hardly ever make it out of their small town. We’re used to causing trouble on tour and leaving the aftermath in the dust on the way to our next stop—which, in this case, would be home. When we’re working the circuit, we’re like a pack of outlaws on the loose.

When it’s my turn to get the next round, I meander to the bar, waving the bartender over. It’s gotten busier in here since we arrived, but not by much.

“You were great tonight,” someone says, and when I turn my head to the left, my gaze collides with a smoldering set of honey brown eyes attached to a very attractive guy.

“I know,” I reply with a smirk.

The hot stranger with dimples and the dark brown curly hair chuckles, scrubbing a hand over his mouth. “And incredibly modest, I see.”

“What can I say? It’s been quite a night, riding that winning high, you know?”

Just then, the bartender drops off the round of shots I ordered. Taking one off the tray, I hand it to Dimples on my left before grabbing one for myself. Holding it in the air, I toast, “To me, a three-time world fucking champion.”

He laughs, clanking his shot glass to mine before we both toss back the liquor. Slamming them down on the counter, we hold eye contact for a moment, the air thickening as he practically eye-fucks me, the desire and the want clear as day in his gaze. I take a single step toward him, closing the distance. Sandalwood and something delectably rich fill my nostrils as I lean in, mouth right beside his ear as I whisper brazenly, “What do you say you help me celebrate that win?”

He pulls back, eyes smoldering as they take me in. As they contemplate my offer. I arch a questioning brow as I run my gaze over him once more, shamelessly, a grin tugging on my lips as arousal stirs low in my groin. In a simple plain black t-shirt, a pair of straight-legged Wranglers, and a black and gray baseball cap that looks well worn, he’s absolutely my type. Spending time getting to know him a whole lot better wouldn’t be the worst way to celebrate tonight, that’s for damn sure. Instead of waiting for a verbal response, I turn and make my way toward the bathroom at the back of the bar. I don’t need to look behind me to see if he’s following me.

I know he is.

With a quick glance toward the pool table, my eyes connect with Cope’s before he drags his gaze behind me. A knowing smirk pulls on his lips as he returns his attention to me, shaking his head. I wink before he’s out of sight.

The chatter of the patrons and the music dulls as soon as we’re behind the closed door of the bathroom. I let him walk past me into the confined space before locking the door, resting with my back against it. A flash of what can only be described as nerves passes over his features, but it’s gone just as fast. Stepping closer, he crowds me, our bodies flush and already heated. He hesitates only for a moment before he flips his baseball cap backward and crashes his mouth into mine. Full, soft lips are greedy and hungry for me, and when I run the tip of my tongue along the seam, he parts them, letting me slip inside and take from him. Taste him.

His hands come up, cupping my face as his hips press into mine, a thickening erection rubbing against my own. He groans into my mouth, the sound choked and desperate, sending a bolt of arousal down my spine until it nuzzles deep in my balls.

Our lips break apart, and he takes a step back, eyes dark and wild, lips slick and swollen as he watches me. Fingers going to my belt buckle, I work it open before flicking the button and sliding the zipper down on my jeans. His eyes drop, tracking the movement, Adam’s apple rolling in his throat as he swallows. I shove the material down until it bunches on my thighs, pulling myself out and stroking nice and slow while he watches, my dick thick and throbbing in my palm.

It's not unusual for me to hook up on the road, especially after a win like tonight. The guys I find underneath me range from timid to absolutely feral. Dimples is dancing on the line of timid with the coy look he’s giving me. His eyes scream uncertainty, but the way he drags his tongue along his lips as he watches me contradicts that, telling me just how eager he is for this.

“Well, what are you waiting for, baby?” His gaze jumps, meeting mine as I smirk. “It’s not gonna suck itself.”

He fumbles a bit before dropping to his knees. Hands coming up to rest on my thighs, he peers up at me, and the look in his eyes has my length hardening to steel. Even under the shitty fluorescent lighting, his eyes practically shimmer as they watch me, like pools of honey, lashes long and curly, lips so full, I know they’re going to look like a dream wrapped around my dick.

A shaky hand grabs my cock at the base as he flicks his tongue tentatively across the tip. A groan sounds from him before he takes me in his mouth. Just the head at first. He sucks and licks and sucks some more, and I let my head fall against the door, hitting with a loud thud of relief.

“That’s it, baby…” My voice is rumbly, growing desire intertwined with each syllable. “Work that pretty mouth of yours. Take me deeper.”

My hands come up, fingers gripping his head atop his hat as I ease into his mouth a little more. He gags, backing off as he looks up at me, eyes filling with moisture. Such a glorious sight. My pulse races when his cheeks flush and the corner of his lip tilts into a barely there smirk.

As he starts sucking me again, someone tries to open the door. When they realize it’s locked and they can’t get in, they pound their fist. He freezes, trying to pull away, but with the grip I have on the back of his head, I don’t let him.

“Keep going,” I whisper to him before shouting to the person on the other side of the door who just banged on it again, “It’s occupied, asshole! Come back later.”

Returning my attention to the man on his knees, I rock my hips, working more of my cock into his mouth. Honey-colored eyes stare up at me, watery and bloodshot, as my dick disappears inch by inch into his hot, wet mouth. Sparks of pleasure swim through my veins watching him struggle to take it all. His body is stiff like he’s unsure of what he’s doing, despite it being more than clear in his facial expressions and the noises he’s making around my cock that he’s enjoying it.

Hell, maybe the nerves are because it’s me he’s sucking off. It’s clear he knows exactly who I am. Maybe he’s never had this caliber of cock fed to him. Either way, it’s a turn-on, and my body pulses with a salacious type of energy at his abashed presence.

His erection is thick and straining against his light denim jeans—another dead giveaway for his want. I’m dying to see it. “Pull yourself out,” I instruct him on a growl. “Play with it for me.”

Hands leaving my thighs and falling into his lap, he quickly does just that, like he was simply waiting for my permission, letting out the sexiest groan as soon as his hand makes contact. The faster his fist flies up and down his length, the more he relaxes his jaw enough for me to fuck his face deeper. It takes no time at all for me to get there, my balls tightening as my body tingles, a warmth spreading and taking over.

“I’m gonna come,” I warn.

He hums, slamming his eyes shut seconds before I spill into his mouth. A groan rumbles from my chest as I empty every last drop onto his tongue. Glancing down at his lap, I watch as he works himself over. I can tell he’s getting close by how jerky his movements are. Taking my cock out of his mouth, he plants his hand on the tile floor behind him, holding his weight up as he pumps himself, flicking his wrist in a twisting motion on the upstroke.

With his glossy, hooded eyes locked on mine, puffy, red lips parted, he lets out a long, low moan as his dick explodes, thick spurts of cum covering his hand and somehow managing to miss his clothes altogether. Kind of impressive, actually. And hot as fuck.

Chest heaving, he reaches up to grab a paper towel. Presumably to wipe the mess off his hand, but before he can, I lean down, wrapping my fingers around his wrist and bringing the cum-covered fist up to my mouth. He watches with wide eyes as I drag the flat of my tongue along his hand, gathering his release and cleaning him off. His salty flavor is strong and heady, exploding on my taste buds as I make sure to get every last drop, never taking my eyes off him.

“Fuck, that was so hot,” he rasps once I’m done. Standing, we both tuck ourselves back into our jeans, but when my hand reaches for the door, he grabs my arm, spinning me around.

Arching a questioning brow at him, I’m unable to get any words out before his lips crash into mine for the second time tonight. It’s jerky and messy, his teeth clanking against mine as his tongue thrusts into my mouth. A groan rumbles in my chest, my spent cock twitching all over again as the hot, slick muscle rolls against mine while the taste of my own release fills my senses. Making me dizzy and hot all at once. When he pulls back, his cheeks are flushed, and he smiles, looking awkward and uncomfortable.

“Uh, thanks,” he mumbles.

Chuckling, I unlock the door, pulling it open. Meeting his gaze one last time, I nod and smirk. “You too.”

Exiting the restroom, I find my friends right where I left them at the pool table. I watch out of the corner of my eye as the stranger with the dimples who just sucked my dick leaves the bar a moment later, but not before throwing me one last glance over his shoulder.

That was…interesting.

1

Shooter Graham

Four Months Later

Copper Lake, Wyoming, is a small town just outside of Cheyenne. Home to around fifteen thousand people, it’s nothing more than wide open spaces, mountain views, and farmland. Lived here my whole life, born and raised. It’s a crisp forty-four degrees as I step out of my house, locking up before heading to my pickup truck to warm ’er up.

Just as I turn the key in the ignition and crank the heater, my phone vibrates in my coat pocket. Reaching in, I grab it, swiping my finger across the screen.

Whit: Where are you?

Chuckling, I glance up at the clock on the dash and realize it’s about fifteen minutes past the time I was supposed to meet the guys.

Me: Calm down, mother. I’m on my way.

Whit: Meaning you’re still at your house?

I can practically see the eye roll he’s giving me. Out of all my friends, Whit is the most type A. He needs everything done his way, or it’s wrong. He’s forever early, always has a schedule, and when anybody steps out of line, he’s the first to call ’em out. He wouldn’t last a second on the circuit, that’s for damn sure. Whit is the town veterinarian. He took over his father’s practice when he retired a few years back, and control freak tendencies do him well in that profession.

I’m supposed to be meeting him and a few of my other buddies for lunch at Lou’s Diner, but I ended up passing out on the couch after I woke up with a killer hangover this morning and overslept. Hence the running late.

Pulling into an open parking spot, I turn off the ignition and head inside. It’s a Wednesday afternoon, so it’s hardly what I’d call busy in here. Ginny, the one and only server, rushes over to greet me before pointing me in the direction of the table the guys are seated at. Even though we all sit at the same table every week when we get together, she still points it out every single time, like I may have suddenly forgotten.

When I reach the table, I pull out the only available chair, spinning it around and taking a seat. “What’s up, fuckers?”

“About fucking time your lazy ass got here,” Whit grumbles while the rest of them laugh.

“Aw, miss me that much, dollface?” I reach over and pinch Whit’s cheek. He slaps my hand away, rolling his eyes, and trying to hide the grin.

Ginny comes up behind me, placing a cup of black coffee and an ice water down in front of me. “Here you go, sweetie. The guys already ordered. Do you know what you’re having yet, or do you need a few minutes?”

“I’ll just get my usual, Ginny. Thank you.”

Patting me on the back, she says, “You got it, dear.”

Once she walks away, I return my focus to the guys. “So, what’d I miss?” Glancing around quickly, I add, “And where the fuck is Boone?”

“Jade’s sick.” My gaze slides across the table to the right, where Cope goes on. “And Suzy is extra fussy today, so he said he’d rather stay home.”

I nod, taking a long sip of the ice water.

Jade is Boone’s wife, and Suzy is their daughter. She just turned two, and she’s so darn cute. She’s got blonde curly hair like her mama and deep brown eyes like her dad. Boone’s brought her to these weekly lunches before, so I’m surprised he didn’t.

My buddy, Colt, leans forward so he can see me on the other side of Whit. “You hear about the new bronc rider who moved to town?”

“No,” I reply, my brows drawn together. “Pro?”

He nods. “Yup. Apparently, it’ll be his first year on the circuit.”

“Saddle or bareback?”

“Bareback.” He smirks as my scowl deepens. “I haven’t met him yet, but rumor has it, he’s related to Conrad.”

Whit visibly stiffens next to me, and when I direct my gaze to him, he winces before saying, “They’re not technically related.”

Conrad Strauss, one of Copper Lakes’ more well-known ranchers, and Whit used to be married up until last year when it all imploded and they got a divorce. It was the talk of the town. The speculations were rampant, despite both of them clearly wanting to keep it under the radar. Nothing is ever a secret in a small town, especially one as gossipy as Copper Lake. Whit doesn’t talk about it much, but I know everything seemed to fall apart shortly after the tragic passing of Conrad’s parents.

Conrad inherited the ranch, and who knows… maybe the stress of it all was too much for their relationship.

“What do you mean, not technically?” I ask, using air quotes for emphasis.

“Him and his parents lived on the ranch for a couple years back when he was a kid,” Whit explains before taking a sip of his water. “His dad was one of Mr. Strauss’s ranch hands for a while after he got laid off from his job at the oil rig. They lived and worked there until they could get back on their feet. As far as I know, Mr. and Mrs. Addams remained close with the Strausses up until they died.”

“Addams…” I murmur. “What’s his first name?”

“Sterling.”

Huffing out a laugh, I say, “Sucks that his ass will be handed to him his first year in the rodeo.”

Cope throws his head back, snorting out a laugh as Colt chimes in again.

“Heard he’s pretty talented.”

“Yeah, I’m sure he was pretty talented in the little leagues where he came from, but now he’s gonna be up against me. Big difference, man.”

“It’s shocking,” Whit cuts in, not elaborating further.

“What’s shocking?”

“That you were able to fit that big-ass head through the door. That ego of yours has it pretty inflated.”

Rolling my eyes, I can’t help but laugh. “It’s got nothing to do with ego,” I explain. “It’s a fact. I’m the best at what I do. Those three world champion buckles prove it.”

Our food arrives before any of them can reply, and that’s pretty much the end of that conversation as we all dig in. The food here is always so damn good. Tastes just like Mama’s cookin’. That thought reminds me that I have dinner with my sister and folks Friday night. Exactly how I want to spend my evening.

My parents only live about ten minutes away, but I tend to avoid their house as much as possible. The Grahams are legacies in the rodeo world. My father and both my uncles were bronc riders—my dad being the best our region has ever seen—and my sister is a world champ barrel racer, which she learned from my aunt. I’ve quite literally been in and around the rodeo for as long as I can remember.

Coming from a legacy family has its perks, but it also has its downfalls too. One of them being the overwhelming expectations my dad sets for me. No matter how well I perform, no matter how much I win, he’s always pushing for me to try harder, be better, go further. I don’t think he means to be overbearing, but it gets old fast. Instead of being proud of me, he constantly pushes for perfection.

And if my friends are already talking about this new bronc rider, it’s only a matter of time before my dad will have something to say about it too. Annoyance furrows in my gut simply at the thought.

2

Sterling Addams

Being the new guy in town is never fun. It’s uncomfortable, even on the best of terms. I’ve never been someone who can make friends at the drop of a hat. I tend to be more introverted; small talk makes me sweat, and I never know how to act in large groups of people. As a kid, being around animals interested me way more than kids my age. One benefit of growing up surrounded by farms, there’s never a shortage of four-legged companions.

Copper Lake, Wyoming. It’s been a good fifteen years since I’ve been here, and it’s just as I remember it. Me and my family left town when I was seven. Dad got a new job in an oil field in Texas, so we had to pack up and go. My parents still live there, as did I up until a few days ago. Joining the PRCA, I knew I wanted to move somewhere that was smart for my career. Sure, there are rodeos and clinics all over the country, but it’s no secret there are a handful of places in the United States that statistically produce better rodeo cowboys. Copper Lake is one of them—in fact, I’d even go as far as to say it’s the best location for a new bronc rider to be.

When I was going over all of this with my parents, my dad got the bright idea to reach out to Conrad Strauss. After all, it was his family’s ranch that we lived on before we moved away. I barely remember them, being so young, but I know our parents were close. So close that when they died a few years ago, my parents flew here for their funeral—and if there’s one thing about Chet and Diane Addams, it’s that they do not fly. Ever.

Conrad was more than willing to have me stay at his ranch while I prepare for my first rodeo season, and I’m extremely appreciative of that, but it doesn’t make it any less awkward that he is basically a stranger to me. Back when I lived here as a kid, Conrad was away at college, so I met him maybe two or three times.

Thankfully, he has an apartment above his barn that he’s letting me pay for with good ol’ fashioned sweat equity, helping out around the ranch until it’s rodeo season. He even so graciously gave me a stall for Lottie, my mare I brought from Texas. Can’t really beat that; essentially a free place to crash, with hundreds of acres for me to practice on.

But then I had to go and make everything exponentially worse by drunkenly hooking up with someone four months ago who is now probably my biggest competition and basically a legend, not only in Copper Lake, but within the whole organization. Granted, I had zero way of knowing I’d end up back here, but I still don’t know what the fuck came over me that night. Seeing Shooter Graham at that bar in Vegas the night of the finals was surreal. Even though he's not much older than me, I’ve still looked up to him for as long as he’s been in the spotlight. He’s not a world champ for the third year in a row for nothing.

Having him not only flirt with me that night, but also proposition me… I’ve never done something like that, and I had just enough liquor diluting my blood to make it impossible for me to say no. And now, we live in the same damn town. I’m dreading the first time I run into him—and I know it’ll happen. Even if I never ended up moving here, though, I still would’ve seen him at rodeos one way or another. We’re both bareback riders, so it was freaking stupid of me to do.

Who am I kidding? He won’t even remember me. Shooter probably hooks up with a different person every night during the season. There’s no shortage of buckle bunnies.

I just finished herding all the cattle out to the pasture for grazing, and I’m making my way back to the house. It isn’t spring yet, so it’s not hot outside, but having the sun beat down on me all morning, in addition to all the work I’ve been doing, has me sweating like a damn hog.

The apartment above the barn is plenty big enough for me. It has a bed, a closet, a dresser, and it even has a bathroom. No kitchen, though. So, I have to go inside the house whenever I want to eat, which isn’t ideal, but whatever.

Kicking off my shoes on the back porch, I pull open the screen door and step inside. The back door is right off the kitchen, so I don’t have to intrude too much on Conrad’s space when I come in here. I grab a water bottle out of the fridge and pluck an apple from the bowl on the table, and I’m about to leave when footsteps sound behind me, entering the kitchen.

“Oh, hey, Sterling.”

Turning to face him, I force a smile. “Hey, Conrad. I just got done taking the cows out. Needed a snack.” I hold up the apple, as if to prove my statement. “Don’t mean to be in your way.”

Conrad is a beast. A freaking mammoth. I’m six foot, and he towers over me. He’s gotta be at least six-five, maybe even taller than that, with the broadest shoulders I’ve ever seen. His thick, dark beard is a couple of inches long. In a pair of Wranglers and a red-and-black flannel rolled up his corded forearms, he’s an intimidating presence. I think he’s in his early forties, at least, given how he was away at college when I was living here, but he doesn’t look it.

Chuckling, he grabs a water. “You don’t need to keep apologizing, Sterling.” His voice is deep. Boisterous. “You’re living here too. You’re allowed to come and go as you please.”

I nod, feeling my neck heat as a flush of embarrassment washes over me. I’m almost to the door when he speaks again.

“I was thinking of taking one of the horses on a ride through the trail. Want to come?”

Biting down on my molars, I turn back to him. “Sure, that would be fun.”

Logically speaking, getting to know him would make living here a little more bearable, and he could probably teach me a lot and introduce me to people who could help me, but that thought alone is enough to give me hives.

We head out to the barn to grab the horses before taking off. This ranch is upwards of six hundred acres, if I’m not mistaken, and it’s absolutely beautiful at all hours of the day. There are several trails in the back that lead to who knows where. I haven’t explored at all yet, so I’m kind of excited to get to today.

Lottie has been with me for years. She’s black and white, her mane thick and shiny. Conrad is on a uniquely colored horse, a light gray with specks of darker gray throughout, her mane all black. I’ve seen him take her out a few times since arriving here the other day. Maybe she’s his personal horse. I know some of them are boarded here, but I’m guessing he owns some of them.

“When are you planning to start training?” he asks when we’ve been riding for a few minutes.

“Monday. I wanted to give myself a few days to get settled before I dove in.”

Low tree branches hang along the trail, and we have to duck to avoid them—Conrad more than me. With the trees blocking most of the sunlight, the chill in the air is more apparent, making me wish I had grabbed a jacket before we left.

“That’s smart,” he replies. “So, you haven’t met any of the guys then, I take it?”

“Not yet.”

“It’s a nice bunch,” he says plainly. “If you want, on Monday, I can go with you to Powder Ridge and introduce you to everyone.”

Including Shooter. God, this is so dumb. I never should’ve hooked up with him. What was I thinking?

“Sure,” I mutter as soon as I stop mentally berating myself. “I’d appreciate that. Thank you.”

3

Shooter Graham

Leaving my house, I lock the door before making my way to Whit’s car, where he’s waiting for me. The sky is a dreary shade of gray, the air chilly, and it looks like it’s about to rain any minute. It turned into a depressing day that started nice and sunny. I got home from Powder Ridge, the rodeo arena all of us train in, about an hour ago. Whit and I had plans to grab dinner, but he texted me before he got here, letting me know he has to stop at the Grazing Acres before we go—the ranch his ex-husband owns.

I slide into the passenger seat of his truck as he turns down the music. “Hey, man, sorry about this. It shouldn’t take long.”

“No worries,” I murmur, fastening my seatbelt. “What’s going on over there?”

“One of Conrad’s horses injured herself. I’m just making sure it’s nothing more than a sprain.” Whit turns off my block, onto the main street that heads toward the ranch. “Shouldn’t take too long, and then we can go.”

“Is it awkward?”

He glances over at me. “Is what awkward?”

“Having to work with Conrad now that you guys are, you know…”

“Divorced, Shooter.” He laughs. “It’s not a dirty word. You can say it.”

Arching a brow at him, I smirk. “Oh, trust me, I have no problem saying dirt—”

Holding up a hand, Whit grumbles, “Don’t even finish that sentence. But to answer your question, it’s not awkward anymore. Conrad and I have to see each other quite frequently in our line of work, so any uneasiness faded pretty quickly. We’re capable of being professional, and even…” He thinks for a moment, like he’s not sure how to phrase it, before eventually landing on, “Friendly.”

“Friendly, huh?” I waggle my brows at him, and he just rolls his eyes.

“Not like that, you perv. That part of my life is over. We’ve both moved on.”

The conversation comes to a halt as we pull onto the gravel road that leads to the ranch. It’s long and windy, dust clouds kicking all around from the tires. This entire place is massive. And beautiful. As we get closer to the house, I notice someone out front moving bales of hay from the back of Conrad’s pickup to the front of the horse stable.

“Who’s that?” I ask Whit, eyes glued to the backside of what looks to be a hot and sweaty, shirtless guy. He’s wearing a pair of low-slung gray sweats, his discarded t-shirt hanging from where he stuffed it into the waistband, and a baseball cap.

“That must be the Addams kid,” he mumbles, and when I glance over at him, he’s wearing a deep scowl. “What is this? A western romance novel? Put a fucking shirt on.”

I can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of me. “Maybe he’s hot. He definitely looks hot.”

Whit turns his scowl on me. “It’s a little unprofessional, don’t you think, to work with your clothes off? Who does this Fabio motherfucker think he is?”

That really does it. Holding on to my abdomen, I bark out a laugh as Whit parks next to Conrad’s truck, still grumbling under his breath. “Oh, fuck, Whit. I forgot how funny you can be sometimes.”

He scoffs at me. “Think you can pull yourself together long enough to get out of my truck, or should you wait in here?”

“Oh, relax.” Unbuckling my seatbelt, I slide out of the truck, meeting him around the back to help grab his supplies.

“Do y’all need any help?” the guy asks as I hear him approaching from around the side of Conrad’s truck.

Leaning in, I say in Whit’s ear, quiet enough for only him, “Hear that? Fabio wants to help us.”

Whit glowers at me. I laugh, turning to come face to face with the man in question. “Nah, we’re goo—” The sentence dies on my tongue as I get a look at him. His face falls as my lips tip into a grin. “You.”

Honey-colored eyes hold my gaze for a moment, some emotion swimming in them I can’t quite place, before he glances over my shoulder.

Whit steps around me, extending his hand toward my NFR celebratory bathroom hookup. “Hi, I’m Whit, the vet. You must be Sterling.” For someone who was so huffy and grumbly a few minutes ago, Whit sure hides it well. There isn’t a single ounce of that annoyance in his tone anymore as he shakes his hand before adding, “This is Shooter.”

Sterling drags his gaze to me, looking like he’s not sure whether he wants to pretend we’ve never met or not. Too bad I don’t give him the chance to decide before huffing out a laugh and saying, “Oh, we’ve met.”

I kindly leave out the part where my dick has already been fantastically acquainted with his tonsils.

Unabashedly dragging my gaze from his face, all the way down his body, my tongue dips out, wetting my bottom lip as I take in his tall, lean form. His sweaty chest glistens under the beam of the sun, and his sweats are sitting sinfully low on his hips. Filthy images of him on his knees, hard dick jutting out, flit through my mind, causing my own cock to give an appreciative twitch behind my pants.

Whit looks between us, his brows furrowed. “You have? When?”

My eyes trail back up, a snigger nearly coming out when I watch the color drain from Sterling’s face as he waits to see what part of the story I share. Part of me wants to let it all air out. Make the day more interesting. But another part of me wants to keep it to myself. Watch him squirm a little. Weighing my options, in the end, I go with the latter.

“We met at the finals in Vegas this last time.”

Before he can say anything back, Conrad rounds the corner, expression hard and serious, looking from me to Whit. “Hey. Didn’t know you were here already.”

Whit clears his throat. “We just got here.”

Conrad glances at me. “Hey, Shooter.”

He’s got this sexy dad-bod thing going for him. And he’s tall as hell. If he wasn’t nearly old enough to be my actual dad, I’d totally be into it. And, you know, if he wasn’t my friend’s ex-husband.

I tip my chin at him. “Hey, how’s it going?”

“I see you’ve met Sterling.”

Dragging my eyes over to the man in question, I smirk. “Sure have.”

Conrad nods. “He’ll be training down at Powder Ridge starting Monday. Think you can help show him around? I’ll be heading down there with him Monday, but after that.”

It hits me… Colt’s words coming back to me. Arching a brow, I say, “You’re the new bronc rider.”

Sterling squares his shoulders. “Yes, I am.”

Running my tongue along my bottom lip, I scrub a hand over my mouth, fighting the urge to laugh. What a small fucking world. Conrad’s looking at me expectantly, so I nod in response to his question. Sure, I’ll show him around. Show him right where I’m going to kick his ass.

With that settled, Conrad shows us to the injured horse. It doesn’t take long for Whit to check him out and determine it is, in fact, just a sprain. He wraps it up, giving Conrad instructions to have the horse take it easy for a few days, and to call if it seems to be getting worse. By the time we’re done and climbing in the truck to leave, Sterling is nowhere to be found.

We decide to hit the bar right in town, grabbing a pitcher of beer and a pizza for us to share. Taking a seat in one of the booths in the back, I pour us each a glass, sliding his across the table before taking a long sip of mine while thinking over this new discovery.

“So, what’s the deal with you and Sterling?” Whit asks predictably. I knew it was coming, from the moment I admitted to us already knowing each other.

“No deal,” I reply with a smirk.

“Right,” he deadpans, lip twitching. “You weren’t exactly subtle back there in checking him out.”

“Don’t act like you didn’t see how hot he looked, all shirtless and sweaty.” I laugh. “I’m sure you were checking him out, too.”

“Not really my type,” Whit muses, bringing the chilled glass up to his lips.

I throw my head back and laugh. “Oh, right. I forgot if a man doesn’t have the three B’s, you don’t want it.”

Arching a brow, Whit asks, “Three B’s?”

“Big, burly, and bearded.”

He rolls his eyes, but doesn’t deny it. It’s enough to steer the conversation away from the ranch and who we just saw there. My mind, of course, hyper focused on it.

Sterling Addams, the new bronc rider in town who’s staying at the Grazing Acres Ranch, is also Dimples, the guy who sucked my dick in a bar bathroom in Vegas. What are the fucking odds? I won’t lie, I have thought about that night more than once since it happened. Never thought I’d see him again, though—how most of my on the road hookups are—and now he’s here.

Do I like that? Would I hook up with him again if the situation presented itself? I don’t normally do repeats. It’s kind of unrealistic when we’re in a new city every weekend for half the year, and when we are home, we spend our days either training or watching footage from the road to figure out what we can do better. Over the years, I’ve learned it takes a special type of person to be with a rodeo cowboy, and frankly, I don’t care enough to look for that person.

Admittedly, it would be cool to have someone on the road I could enjoy from time to time, and Dimples wasn’t terrible. But…he is my competition now. Although, I doubt he’s any real competition. It’s so rare that someone fresh out of the gate, young and green, is that good.

They can’t all be like me, after all.

4

Sterling Addams

Not going to lie… it’s intimidating as hell being here. I know I’m talented at what I do. I know there’s a reason I’ve made it this far, why I’m going pro. But stepping foot into Powder Ridge, where so many of the greats were made, is a different type of anxiety. It’s like stepping into a dream come true. I’ve fought tooth and nail to get to where I am now. To get here. I don’t come from some long line of cowboys. I didn’t learn to walk with a latigo in my hand, like some of these guys did.

Shooter Graham is a damn good bronc rider, and I’d be lucky to make it even half as far as he has. But let’s be real here and call a spade a spade—he’s the rodeo equivalent to a nepo baby. I can’t imagine he had to fight very hard to have certain doors opened for him. There’s no denying he has a natural God-given talent. But the connections he had because of who his father is, and what the Graham name means in this world, helped too.

Now, don’t get me wrong, my parents are some of the most supportive people I know—even if this career terrifies my poor mother—but they don’t know the first thing about bronc riding or the industry. Everything I know, everything I’ve accomplished to get here, has been through hard work and dedication. I’m not saying everyone else here didn’t work hard to get here too, but I didn’t have the luxury of growing up with rodeo parents and expensive lessons.

I have to prove myself this year. Prove I deserve to be here just as much as the next guy. Prove the talent I possess, the drive I have, the future I know I can achieve. Prove that, while I may be new, I have the ability to be just as good as someone like Shooter. Prove it to myself, but maybe also prove it to the world.

True to his word, Conrad came with me this morning, and he just got done introducing me to the staff and a couple of the guys. It was wild meeting all these huge names I’ve seen all over the rodeo world for years now. Shooter and I are apparently the only bareback riders at this facility. Running into him last week at Conrad’s was nerve-wracking, to say the least. I was right in the middle of working, sweating my ass off, and him showing up right there in front of me took me off guard. And then when he blurted out that we knew each other, an icy chill slithered down my spine, and I thought for sure I was going to lose my breakfast.

He showed up with a vet. Is that his boyfriend? I wanted to ask Conrad once they left, but that would’ve opened up a can of questions I don’t necessarily want to answer. Conrad is nice and all, but we still barely know each other. We definitely aren’t on a let me tell you about my one and only bathroom hookup with a rodeo celebrity level of friendship.

If he and the vet are together, he probably should get his face under control. It was uncomfortably obvious—at least, to me—that he was checking me out. I swear my cheeks couldn’t have been hotter under his gaze even if I tried.

Conrad eventually leaves the arena, mumbling about needing to get back to the ranch, and I spend the next several hours training in the gym that’s down the road from the arena. It’s owned by the same people who own Powder Ridge, and he had mentioned it’s where a lot of the guys train. He wasn’t wrong. It’s a tiny facility filled with sweaty, grunting cowboys. A queer man’s dream.

I’m just about done when I hear someone walk up to me. Glancing over my shoulder, it’s Cope Murphy. Conrad introduced me to him this morning, but I already know who he is. He was just a few points shy of winning the title for saddle bronc riding this year at NFR. He’s a hell of a rider.

“Hey, how’s it going?” he asks, slinging a sweat rag over his shoulder.

“Hey,” I reply, sitting up on the bench. “Not too bad.”

Wiping the sweat off his brow, Cope smirks. “Good, good. How’re you liking Copper Lake so far?”

“It’s fine.” Looking around the gym, I notice the rest of his friends over by the far left wall. They aren’t watching us, but I’m sure they know he’s over here. “I lived here up until I was, like, seven. So, it’s not my first time here.”

He nods. “Right on. So, hey, a few of us were going to grab some lunch at the place up the road. Want to join us?”

“Oh, uh…” Shit. This is what I hate about being new in town. The make-new-friends scenarios. I’ve never been any good at it, and all of these guys have probably known each other their whole lives, so I’m the only outsider.

“Come on,” Cope urges with a warm smile. “It’ll be fun. I promise we’re all nice.”

Even though I’m kind of backed into a corner, and can feel the other guys’ eyes on me, I reluctantly nod. “Okay…yeah, I’ll come.”

I shoot a quick text to Conrad, letting him know I’ll be back a little later than I anticipated, and then follow them to the restaurant—Lou’s Diner. We all go in and are immediately ushered toward a booth in the back. Cope says they come here weekly.

Sliding into the booth, I have Cope on one side of me, Shooter directly across the table from me, and Boone Stanton on the other side of me. Boone’s an incredibly talented bull rider. He’s also an internet sensation. The ladies on social media go feral over him. I can feel Shooter’s taking me in, but I refuse to look in his direction. I’m scared my face will turn bright red if I do. I have no idea if he’s told these guys what happened, but I’d rather not have my face give it away.

We’re only here for a few minutes before a woman who looks to be in her fifties drops off some waters for everyone. It’s at that same time that somebody else shows up, taking a seat beside Shooter. It’s one of the guys Conrad introduced me to this morning; Colt, one of the other bull riders. He’s another name I already knew, but it’s cool getting to meet these guys in the flesh.

The tips of my ears burn, and the air’s tense as hell, but I’m certain it’s just me overthinking. It feels like everybody knows my dirtiest secret. I’m sure a guy like Shooter is the kiss-and-tell type. Chancing a look, I find him already watching me, as I anticipated. His blue eyes sparkle with what looks to be amusement, and his lips tip up on one side into a crooked grin. He’s painfully attractive.

Suddenly, our entire encounter comes rushing to the forefront of my mind, hitting me like a freight train. How I nearly puked as I forced myself to talk to him once I saw him standing beside me at the bar. The way his eyes looked me up and down before he started flirting with me. How brazen he was leaning in and asking me to help him celebrate. The way I followed him, as if there were no other option. I followed him like I had done it a million times, like my stomach wasn’t in twisty, painful knots the entire way, every step amplifying my nerves.

The way his lips felt.

The unforgiving chill of the linoleum under my knees.

The weight of him on my tongue.

The taste of him in my mouth.

All of him. He looked like a god staring down at me, his face transformed by pleasure. The high I got from that moment was unreal. Being on my knees for the Shooter Graham. He was the star of the whole night, and he chose me. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t wake up the next morning wondering if it was all a fever dream.

But now I have to work around him while he looks at me like he knows all my secrets. And well, he kind of does.

The server, whose name I’ve now learned is Ginny, comes back to take our order. As she walks away, Boone turns his attention to me. “So, you excited for your first year on the circuit?”

“A hundred percent, yes.” This—bronc riding, the rodeo—is something I can talk about. Conversation that comes easily to me. I may have trouble making friends, but I’ve never been shy about my love for this sport. It’s the one area of my life where I shine, where I don’t hide away.

“Where’d you move from?”

“Texas,” I reply. “Midland, to be specific.”

“How long have you been rodeoing for?” This time, the question comes from across the table. Shooter.

“Since I was a teenager,” I tell him, holding his gaze, no matter how much I want to look away. “I was in the rodeo club at my high school three out of the four years, which is how I got started.”

He nods, seeming genuinely interested. “So, why move here instead of staying in Texas?”

I huff out a laugh. “It’s no secret that Copper Lake is home to some of the greatest. I don’t think that’s a coincidence.”

Shooter preens, glancing around the table. “I mean, you’re not wrong.”

It’s no secret to anybody who pays attention that Shooter is very full of himself—and for good reason. In every interview I’ve seen him in, in all the social media posts he makes, he’s the definition of cocky. He knows he’s the best, and that nobody comes close to beating him.

But I plan to.

Our food comes, and we all dig in, most of the simple chatter dying off. It’s so freaking good. I can see why they all come here every week.

About halfway through eating, Cope wipes his mouth, clearing his throat before asking me, “You’re staying at the Grazing Acres, right?”

I nod, not wanting to talk with my mouth full.

“Cool,” he replies enthusiastically. “Every year before we leave for the circuit, we have a bonfire at the ranch. It’s next Friday. You’ll be there too, I’m guessing?”

“Oh, uh, I haven’t heard anything about it yet, but I’m sure I will.”

“You should come,” Colt chimes in. “It’s always a good fucking time.”

“Speaking of,” Shooter says, directing his attention to the man beside me. “You better be there. I don’t want to hear any of this shit about Jade this or Jade that.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Boone grumbles. “I’ll be there come hell or highwater. Jade knows.”

“Jade’s your wife, right?” I ask, my eyes dipping to the band around his left ring finger. He’s mentioned his wife in interviews before, but I don’t think it’s ever been by name and I’ve never seen her on TV.

He nods. “Yeah, she is.”

I wonder why she’s so out of the spotlight. I know not every spouse in the rodeo wants to be front and center, but you usually see them at least some of the time.

“Is she coming too?” Shooter asks.

“Nah, probably not.” Boone relaxes into the booth, linking his fingers behind his head. I can smell his deodorant, and it smells really good. “But Grady is coming with me, I think. He’s home visiting from college.”

“Who’s Grady?” I ask, really wishing I knew everybody already. I hate feeling out of the loop.

“Jade’s little brother,” Shooter replies, sliding his gaze over to me at the question, a sly grin tugging on his lips before returning his attention to Boone. “Really? Since when does Grady party? College must be getting to him.” He laughs.

Boone shrugs. “Maybe. When I told him about it, he said he wanted to come. I didn’t ask questions.”

“Little Wilde must be learning to loosen up, finally,” Shooter mutters, popping a French fry into his mouth. When he catches me staring, he winks and my stomach flutters.

Jesus.

I have got to get this—whatever the heck is happening with me when it comes to Shooter—under control. We’re all going to be leaving soon for the start of the circuit, and I’ve worked too dang hard to get here, to mess it all up with some playboy cowboy taking up too much space in my head.

I’m a grown man. Surely, I can learn to be around him without becoming flustered and mindless… Right?

5

Shooter Graham

“Dinner was amazing, Mom.” I shovel another bite into my mouth, knowing I’m going to be way too full here in a minute.

She smiles from across the table. “Well, thank you, honey.”

“Shooter’s right,” my sister, Daisy, agrees. “I’m gonna miss this while we’re gone.”

Eyeing her, I mutter, “I’m always right, Dais. When you gonna get that?”

She rolls her eyes, huffing out a laugh as she stands from the table. “You’re delusional is what you are. Mom, I’ll start the dishes.”

Dad stands too, eyeing me. “Come on, son. Let’s go into the den to watch the tapes.”

Dread fills my gut as I follow him. The tapes, as he calls them, like we’re using an old-school VHS player, are just the YouTube videos of past rodeos. A lot of us watch recordings of ourselves competing to see what we did right, what we did wrong, what we can change for future rides. Watching them with my dad, though, is never a good time.

We each take a seat in the leather recliners in front of the sixty-four-inch flat screen TV that’s mounted on the wall. He pulls up the footage from my NFR win back in December. I kicked ass during that rodeo and took the title. Maybe for once, he’s going to praise me for how well I did instead of picking apart what I did wrong.

Dad grunts, pointing toward the TV with the remote. “I’ve watched this a few times in the last week, trying to see where you could’ve improved.”

Guess not.

We watch the ride, then he rewinds, and we watch it again. I already know what he’s going to say before he says it, but it doesn’t make it any less annoying when he does.

Putting the ride in slo-mo, he pauses it a second after we barge out of the bucking chute. “Right there…” He points to the screen again with the remote. “You need to work on tightening your core. The horse almost got ahead of you. You know this stuff, son. Your core needs to be tight, shoulders back. Lift and stay tight. Remember, these broncs are like your dance partner, they—”

“Dance and we follow,” I finish for him, trying to keep my voice even and not let on that he’s getting to me. “Yeah, Dad. This isn’t my first rodeo, you know. And in case you’ve forgotten, I won.”

“I know you did, Shooter, but there’s always room for improvement.” Glancing over at me, he offers me a tired smile. “You only won by a few points. Imagine how it would’ve felt had you beat your competition by more.”

Why is it never enough? “I would’ve won the same prize had I won by more.”

“You know, I don’t think I told you this.” He turns in his chair to fully face me, his eyes lit up with what looks to be excitement. “Remember that rodeo I judged last fall?”

I nod.

“There was a kid there doing bareback bronc, and whew…” He shakes his head, breathing out a chuckle. “Talk about a natural. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen someone so green do so well.”

How fucking cool for him, I want to say, but I don’t. Not that I have to. Dad’s in his head, paying me no mind.

“Anyway, the reason I’m telling you this is because he went pro this year, and I just found out he moved here.”

No.

“Maybe you’ve met him already,” he mutters. “Sterling Addams is his name.”

Fuck. No.

“Yeah, Dad,” I blow out. “I’ve met him.”

He chuckles, pressing play on the footage again. “Better keep your eye on him, son. He knows what he’s doing. Raw talent.

My jaw clenches as I fight against the urge to rebuttal. To tell him what an asshole he sounds like. Instead of being proud of his son for all his success, he sits around telling me all the ways I can be better. Pointing out how good my competition is, like that’s not going to get in my head and fuck me up.

I’m somehow able to get through the rest of this with him before excusing myself to head to the bonfire. Luckily, Daisy is going too, so nobody puts up a fight when I say I have to go. We ride separately despite going in the same direction. I need to be alone. I need to breathe. I need to get really fucking drunk and forget this whole evening.

This party is something I’ve come to look forward to every year. Not just because it indicates the start of rodeo season—which is always a season we should be celebrating—but also because it’s always a really fucking good time. Our lives are so busy, whether we’re on the road or at home training. And while a few of us always make an effort to meet for lunch every Wednesday at Lou’s, it doesn’t always happen. So, tonight is the night for all of us.

It isn’t quite dark yet, but the sun is well on its way to setting. Drinks are flowing, and Conrad started a bonfire a little while ago. Music is playing, echoing off the trees around the yard. The vibes are immaculate, and I’m not just saying that because I’m halfway to tipsy already.

Sterling is around here somewhere, but he’s managed to make himself as scarce as possible. At least around me. I haven’t quite decided how I feel about him. Especially after the shit my dad said earlier. He’s got a pretty mouth and a skilled tongue, and he looks incredible on his knees for me. He’s also so easy to make squirm. Definitely entertaining, if nothing else. But I also don’t make it a point to befriend my competition either. Not that I think he’d really be much of a competition.

Bringing the solo cup up to my lips, I tip my head back and down the rest of the beer before meandering over to the keg and getting a refill. Headlights nearly blind me as they come to a stop right in front of the barn. I recognize the truck as Boone’s. He jumps out, walking over to me, a grin on his face.

“What’s up, fucker?” I mutter, handing him a beer. “Took you long enough to get here. Thought you were gonna skip out on us.”

“Nah, I told you guys I’d be here. Suzy was just extra sassy today. I wanted to make sure she was asleep before I left.” He downs a sip as someone comes up beside him.

“Hey, Grady,” I greet him. “How’s college treating ya?”

“Not bad. Happy to be home, though.”

Grady is a bit younger than the rest of us. He’s nineteen, I believe, compared to my twenty-four and Boone’s twenty-six. Colt is the closest in age to Grady at twenty-two. Colt’s one of the newest guys on the circuit, and this is about to be his second rodeo season in the pros.

My eyes catch on movement behind Boone, and I notice Sterling heading toward the barn. Looking back at both guys, I huff out a laugh. “Well, go get you a drink, Grady, but take it easy and don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

I don’t wait for a response before stepping around them and heading in the direction of Sterling, but I swear I catch Boone saying under his breath, “Well, that leaves a lot wide open.”

When I round the corner, I spot him. He’s standing along the side of the barn, phone in his hand as he looks down at it, fingers moving like he’s sending a text.

“Well, look who we have here,” I say, startling him.

His head snaps in my direction, that same nervous expression washing over his features. “Shooter,” he breathes as I step closer. “H-hey.”

“You’re missing the party.”

He grins. Even with the daylight fading, I can still make out the tinge of pink on his cheeks and the dimples, making me want to sink my teeth into them. “Yeah, I was just texting my parents back.”

“Aw, what a good boy you are to keep in contact with your folks.” Taking a step closer, my eyes dip down, watching his Adam’s apple roll in his throat as he swallows. “Bet they’re proud of you, huh?”

Sterling’s brows furrow, and he stands a little taller. “Course they are. Aren’t yours?”

Huffing out a laugh, I ignore the question, not wanting to talk about my parents right now. Leaning in, I rest an arm against the barn beside his head. I love the way his breath hitches at my proximity. Just like he was at the bar that night. Unsure, but so fucking responsive.

“You know,” I murmur, dropping my voice lower. “I never did get to properly thank you that night for helping me celebrate my win.”

I pull back, meeting his gaze, his honey-colored eyes, wide and curious… but also cautious. “What do you mean?”

Smirking, I lean in a little closer, my lips hovering over his, the alcohol in my system making me brazen when it comes to Sterling and his little shy-boy act. It turns me the fuck on, and I can’t seem to help myself. “I think you know what I mean.” My tongue dips out, licking along the seam of his lips. “But it’s cute how you play coy. This innocent cowboy rouse works for me, you know.”

His breath is coming out in heavy pants, notes of mint surrounding my senses. This close, I can see the sweat beading along his brow line, the rise and fall of his chest. Closing the distance, Sterling inhales a sharp breath a moment before my lips crash down onto his. So soft. So full. Just as good as I remember them.

Sterling’s hands remain by his sides, even as he parts his lips, letting me lick my way inside. Even when I press my body to his, pinning him to the barn. Even when my hand cups his growing erection over his jeans.

My cock thickens, throbbing against my pants as he lets me own his mouth. His moans, swallowed by me, are a zap of pleasure exploding throughout my body. He tastes good. Feels good. Better than I remembered. I reach out, fumbling with his buckle, trying to get it open blindly, when his hands finally come up, stopping me, and shoving me away.

“Wait,” he mutters, bringing his fingers up to his lips. “We shouldn’t do this?”

It doesn’t escape me the way he phrased that as a question, like he wants to, but knows he probably shouldn’t. Like he’s at war with himself over what his body craves. I reach down and adjust myself, his eyes following the movement. “And why is that, baby?”

He looks uncomfortable, but that doesn’t stop him from meeting my gaze head-on. “Because I’d prefer if we kept things professional.”

“A little late for that, don’t you think? I vividly remember the way you looked with my co—”

“Okay, yes.” Sterling holds up a hand. “I get it. But we weren’t going up against each other back then.”

I roll my eyes. “True for me, but there’s no way you didn’t know four months ago that we’d see each other in the rodeo. Yet you still followed me to the bathroom.”

“You’re right.”

“I always am,” I mutter with a grin.

“But that was a lapse in judgment on my part, and going forward, I plan to keep everything professional.”

The way he enunciates that last word grates my nerves. Suddenly, I’m nowhere near intoxicated enough for this shit. “It’s okay,” I grit out. “I wouldn’t want to sleep with my competition either if I knew I was going to have my ass handed to me in the dirt soon.”

Sterling laughs. “God, you really are so full of yourself, aren’t you? So sure you’re going to win.”

“Oh, baby, I know I am. But it’s adorable that you think you stand a chance.” I step closer once more, invading his space. “Maybe we can get the judges to give you a trophy just for participating, though.”

He bites down on his bottom lip, grin wide as he huffs a laugh through his nose. “Man, it’s going to be so fun taking that title from you this year.”

“And I’ll enjoy kicking your tight, sweet ass.” Reaching around, I grab a handful of it before adding, “But don’t worry, I’ll kiss your wounds and tend to your bruised ego afterward. Show what it’s like to be with a real cowboy.”

He shoves me away with more force this time, and I nearly lose my footing, but I can’t help but bark out a laugh as he stomps past me. Winning this year really is going to feel so fucking good.

It’s nearly all the way dark by the time I make it back to the party. A few people are sitting around the fire, all together, watching something on someone’s phone. Grabbing another beer, I take a seat beside them.

“What’re we watching?”

Cope looks up, a smile splitting his face. “You’re never going to believe this.” He grabs the phone, handing it to me. “Conrad mentioned something about how good Sterling was back home and sent us this.”

I set the beer down, looking down at the phone in my hand. It’s a YouTube video that’s got hundreds of thousands of views. Pressing play, I realize it’s a compilation video of Sterling. Clip after clip of him bronc riding at various rodeos, I’m guessing around Texas. My mood quickly shifts the longer I watch, the tips of my ears burning.

Sterling is good. Like, really fucking good. Just like Dad said.

His form is damn near perfect. Every single move the bronc makes, he’s right there to follow, like he can predict the horse’s thoughts. Win after win after fucking win. He’s riding better in these videos than some of the guys on the circuit who’ve been doing this for two, three, four years.

Grinding my molars together, my nostrils flare as I try to tamp down the annoyance simmering in me. I hand the phone back to Cope, not meeting his gaze because I know what I’ll find—amusement that’ll only make me want to deck him straight in the nose. He takes the phone, sniggering as I bring the cup to my mouth and down the rest of the contents.

“Better watch your back, Shooter,” Colt muses from beside Cope. “Looks like the new kid’s coming for your title.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

Cope makes a pouty face, running his finger down his cheek like a tear. “Oh, no, is someone mad that he’s finally got some real competition?”

“He fucking wishes,” I sneer.

And speak of the fucking devil, Sterling comes and sits down across the fire from us, beside Boone and Grady. His gaze meets mine for a split second before it darts away.

“Aye, Sterling,” Colt all but shouts at him. He glances over at him, brows raising questioningly. “Conrad sent us some of your rodeo footage. Can’t wait for you to kick ol’ Shooter here down a notch or two. His ego could use some humbling.”

Everybody, including Sterling, laughs. But I don’t. My eyes stay plastered on his face until he looks directly at me, all the shy, uncomfortable energy from earlier gone, and says, “Yeah, me either.”

“Watch yourself,” I grit out. “Don’t need you getting too big for your britches and embarrassing yourself.”

Sterling smirks. “Don’t worry about me, cowboy. I can handle my own out there. Appreciate the concern, though.”

He’s in for a rude fucking awakening when we get on the road next week. Victory will taste sweeter than ever this year.

6

Shooter Graham

I’m outside of Cope’s house at a quarter to seven, waiting on his slow ass to get out here. We head out of town today for the start of rodeo season, but we have to stop by Grazing Acres to pick up the camper. Each year, we tow the camper from place to place, using it to sleep in at every location. It saves us a fuck ton on lodging expenses. But up until a few months ago, neither of us lived in a place that could accommodate storing something that large during the off season, so much like with our horses, Conrad let us store it there since he has so much land.

It was originally Whit’s idea when they were still married, but thankfully, Conrad never rescinded the offer after they got a divorce. While I consider Conrad a friend, and he’s a great guy, I’ve always been closer to Whit, so it honestly could’ve gone either way.

The passenger door opens, and Cope tosses his duffle in the back as he climbs inside. “About time you got out here, man,” I huff as I put the car in drive.

“Oh, shut up, grumpy.” He laughs, putting on his seatbelt. “You were out here maybe five minutes.”

The ride over to the ranch is short and mostly quiet. I’ve been in a weird mood all week since the night of the bonfire. Whether he meant to or not, my dad got into my head, and I don’t fucking like it. Our first rodeo is tomorrow night in Bellfire, Colorado, which hugs the southwestern border. It’s about an eight-hour drive from Copper Lake, so we have a whole day of travel ahead of us that I hope won’t be spent in the same headspace. I need to fucking shake this.

The PRCA is divided into regions depending on which state you live in. Wyoming is in the Mountain State Region, along with Colorado. So, we compete within that region all season. This is the shittier part of rodeo—the constant driving back and forth. It’s one of the reasons Cope and I bought the camper several years back. Instead of paying for a hotel for days at a time, or worse, driving home after every single show, we camp out at each location, saving a ton of time and money.

Turning on my blinker, I take a right, pulling onto the gravel road that leads to the ranch. It’s long and windy, and eventually takes us right up to the front of the house. I park beside the truck Sterling is currently loading up, a grumble bubbling in my throat as I take him in. He’s about the last person I want to see this early in the morning.

Cope chuckles beside me as he unbuckles his seatbelt and climbs out, like he knows exactly where my mind’s at. “Getting ready to head out?” he asks Sterling as I round the hood, intending to go find Conrad.

I toss a single glance over at Sterling, making brief eye contact, before I stroll around the side of the house, finding Conrad in the barn. “Hey, what’s up?”

Glancing up, a smile graces his lips. “Morning, Shooter. You ready for the rodeo?”

“Hell yeah, you know I am.”

He chuckles, wiping his hands off on a rag. “If you want to pull your truck ’round the back of the house, I can help you load the camper.”

“Cool, thanks.”

It only takes Conrad and me about ten minutes to get the camper hitched to the back of my truck. By the time I drive it back to the front of the house, Cope is still talking to Sterling. They’re apparently in the middle of a fucking riveting conversation. It grates my nerves. I put the truck back in park and climb out, meeting them where they’re standing beside Sterling’s truck.

“You’re planning to sleep in your truck?” Cope asks, sounding flabbergasted.

“Well, yeah,” Sterling responds. “It’ll be fine. I’ve got an air mattress I can lay across the truck bed.”

Cope scoffs. “And if it gets cold?” He sounds appalled. “You can’t fucking do that, bro. You’ll fuck up your entire back. Do you know how grueling our job is on your entire body?”

Dragging my gaze over to Sterling, he looks offended. “Of course, I know that. This may be my first pro year, but it isn’t my first rodeo, you know.”

“What’s going on?” I interject as Cope looks like his head’s about to explode.

“Nothing,” Sterling responds at the same time Cope says, “He’s planning on sleeping in his truck the entire season. Tell him how fucking stupid that is.”

They both look at me, and I snort out a laugh. “I mean, if he wants to fuck up his chances because of stiff-ass muscles, who am I to stop him?”

Cope rolls his eyes before turning his attention back on Sterling, and says something that makes me choke on my own tongue. “Bullshit. Don’t listen to him. You’re going to ride with us. There’s plenty of room in the truck and in the camper.”

“What?!” we both hiss at the same time.

Sterling balks at Cope before muttering, “No. That’s not necessary, man. It’s fine, really.”

“No, it’s not. You’re not going to fuck up your first year on the circuit doing something stupid. You’re riding with us. End of discussion.”

“Dude, let him do what he wants.” My eyes clash with Cope’s, hoping like hell he takes this shit back. “If he wants to be a dumbass and make it even easier for me to kick his pretty little ass, then so be it.”

“Don’t be such a dick, Shooter.” Of course. Cope is like a stern, disappointed father sometimes. “If you kick his ass, it’s going to be fairly. Not because he’s at a disadvantage, but because he’s not getting proper rest on the road. Since fucking when are you such a poor sport?”

Annoyance simmers inside me as he chastises me in front of Sterling. I grind down on my molars but say nothing.

“Aw, wait, you think my ass is pretty?” Sterling drawls, a smirk splitting his face. “I’m flattered. And on second thought, I’d love to ride with y’all.” I swear to God, he sneers at me after he says it.

“Damn right you will,” Cope says, looking way too pleased with himself right now.

Fuck this. “I’m going to take a leak inside before we take off.”

I want to wring Cope’s neck. What the fuck is he thinking? It is not our fucking problem that the new guy didn’t plan properly for this. Why must I suffer because of it? Hours of driving in the car with him. Fuck!

After I wash my hands, I head back outside, and we all pile into the truck and hit the road. I’m thanking the rodeo gods that we decided to take my truck this year instead of Cope’s, since mine is an extended cab and his isn’t. Like hell would I be driving eight fucking hours with Sterling sitting in the middle of us, squished in like a can of sardines.

The few times I glance in the rearview mirror at him, he’s not even paying any attention to me, either looking out the window or fucking around on his phone. I’m all too aware of his presence, though, like a blaring horn inside my mind. I crank the stereo, trying to keep the conversation to a minimum, and thankfully, Cope doesn’t try to press on that. We only stop a couple of times to use the restroom and load up on snacks, making good time at the campsite.

Colt, Boone, and a couple of the barrel racers, including my sister, are meeting us here. We all usually split the cost. I often wonder if other rodeo towns are as closeknit as ours. I know there are a few other towns, like ours, that house a lot of rodeo members, whereas in some others, there are only one or two. Honestly, I couldn’t imagine being the only rodeo cowboy in my town. The support that comes with all of us living in the same place helps tremendously. We’re all family, and for the most part, have grown up together. Rodeoing takes a lot of work, a lot of effort, and not many people understand the hustle, but they do. Having like-minded people surrounding you goes a long way in our industry.

We’re the first ones here, but it doesn’t take long for the others to trickle in. Unloading the grill from the back of my truck, I get it running before tossing some burgers and hot dogs on while some of the other guys work on getting the fire pit going.

My eyes lift from the grill, scanning the area, eventually landing on Sterling as if there’s some magnetic pull between us that I can’t break. He’s got a beer in his hand, and he’s leaning against the bed of Boone’s truck, talking to him and Clem, one of the barrel racers. One of them must say something funny because he throws his head back and laughs, his throat pulled taut, Adam’s apple protruding against the flesh.

I force my gaze back to the meat I’m cooking, irritation rolling through me like a violent wave crashing at the shore. It’s pissing me off how quickly Sterling went from the hot new guy in town who I kind of, most definitely, would want to hook up with again to this chip on my shoulder I can’t shake. It’s like the moment my father voiced Sterling’s excellence to me, he became an enemy. Someone I need to beat. Sure, I always want to win, and I’m never, like, overly thrilled about my competition, but it’s never as vehemently as this.

Once the burgers and hot dogs are finished, we all fix our plates, taking a seat around the fire as we eat and have a few too many beers while we talk and laugh, music a low thrum beating beneath all the chatter. Eventually, most of the crew heads off to bed, leaving only a small handful of us around the slowly dying fire. Sterling is one of them.

He’s directly across from me, flames illuminating his features. I bring the beer bottle up to my mouth, downing a few swallows as his honey-colored eyes find and hold mine. Tongue poking out, he wets his lips, a small smirk playing around the corner of his mouth. Thoughts of that same tongue, those same lips on my dick, has arousal swirling low in my gut, and I hate myself for it.

Fuck, I need to get laid as soon as possible. That’ll end this unwanted lust I feel for him, and I can wholly focus on kicking his ass in the arena instead of pounding into his ass in private. Thankfully, getting laid, especially on the road, has never been an issue for me.

7

Sterling Addams

It’s the first rodeo of the season. My first pro rodeo. Nerves simmer below the surface, a vibrational hum coursing through my bloodstream. I knew I’d be nervous, so I nursed my beers much more than everyone else last night. I wanted to be sure to be on my A-game today. Despite how anxious I am, though, it’s easily overpowered by the excitement. The anticipation. The thrill of being here, of having made it.

The bed in the camper was surprisingly comfortable. I wasn’t expecting that. Sleeping feet away from Shooter, however, was… interesting. Every time he rolled over, sighed in his sleep, every noise he made, I caught it, hyperaware of his every move. It made falling asleep a bitch, but thankfully, once I was able to, I slept great.

The weather is nice today. Perfect for the rodeo. It’s sunny and warm, but not too warm. A cool breeze just strong enough to keep you comfortable, but not enough to kick up dust around us. People are slowly starting to trickle in, and my excitement grows by the minute. After the opening, bronc riding is first.

There are several of us bareback riders here today, but I’m number four in the line-up. Shooter is number five. Knowing he’s more than likely going to be watching me makes me feel equal parts nervous and exhilarated. He’s so sure I don’t have what it takes, and I can’t wait to prove him wrong. I’m not naïve enough to pretend I have nearly as much practice and experience as he does, but I’m also not dense enough to deny the hard-earned talent I do possess.

I’m good—great, even—and Shooter’s about to come face to face with that knowledge.

My personality in a lot of aspects is soft-spoken and quiet. I don’t like to cause a fuss about much, or have confrontation more than necessary. But when it comes to rodeo, all that goes out the window. I’m confident and proud. I go out there and give it my all every single time. Competing in the PRCA can be cutthroat. A lot of men are competing for the very same spot I now have, fighting their way to the top. Money is on the line… life-changing money. Not to mention bragging rights. Sure, Shooter is cocky as hell, but he earned that right. He didn’t get to where he’s at by being nice, docile, and modest, and I sure as shit am not going to get there by embracing those qualities either.

I made it here, I earned my place, and I’ll be damned if I don’t give it my all every single night and show Shooter exactly what Sterling Addams is made of.

A little while later, I’m out back behind the arena, working on stretches. Dave Henry is about to go out. He’s the second bareback rider, and I’d rather not watch him. I’ve never really considered myself superstitious before, but something about watching your competition before going out yourself seems like bad luck. I’ve just never done it, for as long as I can remember.

We all have our weird quirks when it comes to competing. Even cowboys and cowgirls who swear up and down they don’t. Shooter and his sister, Daisy, both have lucky hats they have to wear during shows. If I’m not mistaken, their dad was that way too back when he was in the circuit. Both have talked about it before in interviews. Boone is ambidextrous, but he refuses to hold the bull rope with his right hand—the hand he predominately writes with. I can’t think of any more superstitions any of the Copper Lake crew has, but I’d be willing to bet my life savings they have some.

I’m just about finished with my stretching when I hear footsteps in the grass approaching. Glancing to my right, I watch as Shooter rounds the corner, his eyes finding mine, widening a little, clearly not having known I was out here. A nearly empty Coke bottle hangs between his fingers at his side, a barely-there smirk curving his mouth.

“Well, look who it is,” he rasps as he draws closer. His bottom lip looks a little lopsided, but as he approaches, I can tell it’s just chew.

Chewing tobacco is a disgusting habit—worse than smoking—but there’s something so inherently sexy about it. It makes no sense. Like, if you think too hard about it, it’ll gross you out, but seeing a rugged cowboy with dip in his lip and the outline of the can in his back pocket just does something for me.

“What’re you doing out here?”

He nods his chin toward me. “Same thing as you.”

“You know that’s a terrible habit,” I mutter, nodding toward the glob of tobacco.

Shooter huffs out a laugh. “Don’t remember asking you, Addams.”

“Have you seen the pictures of people who lose like half their jaw due to cancer from chewing tobacco?” Amusement dances in his eyes as I continue. “You need your jaw. Otherwise, your already ugly mug will be even uglier.”

That causes a full-blown laugh out of Shooter. He takes the two steps it takes to find himself directly in front of me, so close, I can smell the spearmint from his chew. “You didn’t seem to find me so ugly when you were on your knees for me, begging for my cock, now did you, Addams?”

My pulse races, and suddenly, it’s a whole lot hotter out here, sweat lining my brows and coating the back of my neck, the hair under my hat. I swallow thickly, unsticking my tongue from the roof of my mouth before I manage a half-hearted smirk and a lazy shrug.

“Lapse in judgement. Blame the alcohol.”

Shooter’s gaze shamelessly rakes down the frame of my body before skirting back up to meet mine, his bottom lip between his teeth. “Whatever you gotta tell yourself, man.” He brings the Coke bottle up to his mouth, spitting some dip before running his tongue along his bottom lip. “Better get in there. You’re up next.”

We stand there, neither of us breaking eye contact, heartbeat echoing in my ears as Shooter looks calm and completely unfazed. I do need to get in there, but something about the weight in his stare has me rooted in place, unable to move. Stepping even closer, giving me no choice but to back up until I hit the side of the building, he smirks before bringing his lips right to the shell of my ear.

“Good luck out there,” he rasps, deep voice taunting. “Wouldn’t want you to choke up and embarrass yourself in your first rodeo.” His chest presses into mine, all blood rushing south at his proximity. His smell surrounds me, intoxicating and masculine, with a hint of spearmint. “But don’t worry, I’ll try not to gloat too much when I kick your ass.”

Scoffing, I say, “Yeah, we’ll see about that.”

I bring the palms of my hands up to his chest, shoving him away, and without another glance, I head back inside. The next bronc rider is about to go out, but I need to get into the bucking shoot and ready myself. I refuse to let Shooter get in my head and fuck this up for me. He’d love nothing more than for that to happen. I deserve to be here just as much as he does.

Climbing on the bronc, I slip a hand underneath the rigging and make sure I have a tight grip on it. It takes a couple of tries until it feels the way it should. After making sure my feet are marked out, I nod to the guys, and they yank open the gate. All thoughts of Shooter leave my mind as I bust out of the chute.

Big & Rich’s Save a Horse (Ride a Cowboy) plays through the arena as I focus on nothing but me and this beast beneath me. Making sure my core is tight, my shoulders are back. The bronc writhes and bucks, going this way and that, but I anticipate it all. My body moves with hers, my mind focused again and again until that eight-second buzzer sounds. When I’m out here, those eight seconds feel both like an instant and an eternity all at once. My adrenaline is pumping, my heart hammering in my chest, and by the time the pick-up man pulls me off the bronc, I feel proud. Without even knowing my score yet, I know I killed it.

Throwing a quick glance inside the chute Shooter is in, I catch his eye and send him a smirk because, yeah, asshole, I did that.

The campground tonight is packed, nearly every site taken, music blaring, fires roaring, alcohol steadily pouring as we all ride the high from earlier. I’m sitting in front of the fire with Daisy to my left and Cope to my right. Shooter is on the other side of him. I’ve got a pretty good buzz going already, but I’m not trying to get hammered tonight. We still have another rodeo tomorrow night.

I didn’t win tonight, but I did score high. Shooter won, but I trailed not far behind him, and for my first ever professional rodeo, I’m damn proud of that. Not many newbies do that well on their first few go-arounds.

“How’re you feeling about tonight?” Daisy asks as she glances over at me. She looks eerily similar to her brother. They have the same icy-blue eyes and dirty blonde hair. She won the barrel racing competition tonight. Anybody who knows anything about professional rodeo, knows the Graham family and their insane talents.

“Pretty freaking good,” I mutter, bringing the beer up to my lips, letting it fill my mouth.

She smiles warmly, her features brightened due to the fire. “You should. You kicked ass for it being your first event.”

“She’s right,” Cope says. “You’re good, man. Giving our boy over here a run for his money.” He tips his head in Shooter’s direction as Shooter rolls his eyes.

“Yeah right, bro. Let’s not forget who the real winner is tonight.”

“There’s always tomorrow night,” I mutter before I finish the rest of my beer and raise off the chair to get another.

“New guy’s delusional, I see,” Shooter chirps as I give him my back and walk away.

There’s a handful of people I don’t know surrounding the beer coolers. People from other nearby campsites, I’m sure. They aren’t anybody I recognize from competing today, so they’re probably people who came to watch the rodeo.

Reaching into one of the coolers, I grab a Bud Light, brushing off the excess ice. Someone comes up beside me, and when I turn my head, I’m met with a glossy pair of brown eyes and a crooked grin. “You’re Sterling, right?”

I smile back. “I am, and you are?”

“Michael,” he supplies. “You were great tonight.”

The memory of me saying those exact words to Shooter a few months ago is not lost on me. I fight the urge to look over at him right now. Instead, I keep my gaze trained on Michael.

“Thank you. I appreciate that.” Nodding my chin toward the cooler, I ask, “You want something to drink?”

Michael bites down on his bottom lip before nodding. “Sure, I’ll have whatever you’re having.”

I hand him a can before opening my own and taking a sip. He follows suit.

“So, you from around here?” I ask.

“About an hour east,” he offers. “You’re in Texas?”

Shaking my head, I reply, “Not anymore. I’m living up in Wyoming now. Copper Lake.”

A few people walk up, trying to get around us to the cooler, so I gesture over to the side as I meet Michael’s gaze. “Wanna go over there so we aren’t in everyone’s way?”

He chuckles. “Sure.” Pulling out a pack of smokes from his back pocket, plucking a cigarette out and placing it between his teeth, he offers the pack to me in a silent question.

“Nah, I’m good. I don’t smoke, but thanks.”

Glancing around the area, it’s filled out a lot more than it was a little while ago. My eyes find Daisy, where she’s standing next to a pickup truck with some guy I don’t recognize. She’s batting her eyelashes as she looks up at him. We talked quite a bit today. She’s a cool girl.

Making friends as an adult, especially in an industry as intense as this one, can be challenging. I can’t even count on one hand the number of friends who have come and gone over the years, whether it be they moved away, or they just couldn’t handle other people’s success. Competing can really show people’s true colors. We all want to win, but most of us also are still happy for our friends when they succeed.

So, it’s been refreshing having a few people be so welcoming to me.

Dragging my gaze back to Michael, he’s closer than he was before. The scent of whatever cologne he’s wearing wafts around me, and I notice the way he’s checking me out. He’s cute, I guess. He’s got a scruffy face and dark brown hair. A little shorter than me, but he fills out the short-sleeve white t-shirt he’s wearing.

Without my permission, my mind immediately compares him to Shooter. They’re nothing alike, yet I can’t help but do it anyway. Hooking up with Shooter back in December was a foolish move. To this day, I still can’t figure out what the hell I was thinking at the time. Not only am I not the type of guy who hooks up with people out at bars—or in general… inexperienced is a real understatement here—but I also knew I’d have to see him in the rodeo world.

I shouldn’t have done it…and I shouldn’t want to do it again. But I do. God, I do. It was thrilling and hot and way outside of my comfort zone, and despite Shooter being who he is, and as cocky and full of himself as he is, he wasn’t selfish or an asshole in that bathroom. Not that I have any experience on what bathroom hookups should look like, I’ve heard stories from my friends about how selfish some men can be, only caring about their own pleasure.

Then when he licked my cum off my hand… Lord.

Annnnnd, now I’m popping a boner next to this guy, thinking about someone else. Cool. Go me.

Clearing my throat, I return my focus to Michael. “Are you going to the rodeo tomorrow night too?”

“No, I’m only in town tonight. Leave to go back home in the morning.” He steps a little closer. “But hopefully, tonight can be memorable.”

My pulse races at his insinuation, but before I can formulate some sort of response, someone steps up beside me. Glancing over, I’m surprised to see Shooter standing there, eyes narrow and pointed directly at Michael.

“You should get the fuck out of here, man,” Shooter sneers. “Buckle bunny isn’t a good look on you.”

My jaw drops at his comment, but I quickly school myself, peering over at a stunned-looking Michael.

“I don’t know what—”

“Save it, kid,” Shooter replies, cutting him off. “Get the fuck off our campsite before I remove you myself.”

“Shooter!” I hiss as Michael scurries off without another word. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

He doesn’t bother responding. Instead, he storms off, heading toward the camper. Before he can get the door open, I wrap my hand around his bicep, and he spins to face me, eyes flared and teeth bared.

“Don’t,” is all he says.

“Don’t what? What the hell was that back there?”

In a move I don’t see coming, he spins me, shoving me against the side of the camper as he leans in close to my face. “It was nothing,” he spits out. “We have a gig tomorrow, and we all need to be focused. Nobody but us should’ve been at our campsite. It’s common fucking sense, Addams.”

My brows knit as I go over what he just said. It doesn’t make any sense. “What are you talking about? The whole area is littered with people from surrounding sites. I didn’t see you kicking any of them off.” And then it hits me, my eyes going wide. “You were jealous.”

Shooter snorts out a laugh. “I’ve got nothing to be jealous of.”

“Bull.” I shove him, putting a little space between us. “You were jealous he was hitting on me. That’s why you kicked him off like that.”

Once again, he closes the distance, backing me into a corner, his lips right next to my ear. “You fucking wish. Like I said, I’ve got nothing to be jealous of. But now that you mention it, you could be a nice guy and help me celebrate my win again. You know…like last time.”

When his tongue flicks against my earlobe, a bolt of pleasure soars down my spine from the contact, and I have to stop myself from letting out a gasp. Shooter presses his hips into me, his thickening erection matching my own. When he turns his head, his lips brush my cheek before he pulls back just enough to meet my gaze. Our noses practically touch with his proximity.

I’m hyperaware of the fact that anybody could round the corner and find us like this.

“What do you say, Addams? Wanna get on your knees for me again?”

His tongue dips out, and he glides it along my bottom lip, a shiver running through me. It would take next to nothing for him to close the distance and seal our lips, and if I’m being honest, I want that more than anything right now.

But I can’t. If I want to be taken seriously this season, I need to not let Shooter manipulate me with his body, no matter how much I crave it.

My lip tilts into a grin, his eyes tracking the movement, and I know he thinks I’m going to say yes. Hell, he’s probably never been denied in his life, looking the way he does. But instead, I press a hand to the center of his chest and whisper, “You wish,” before pushing him away and heading back to the fire.

Thankfully, he doesn’t follow me.

8

Shooter Graham

We had our second rodeo last night, and I’m riding the high of winning both. A good fucking start to the season, if I do say so myself. It’s the morning after, and all of us are meeting for breakfast before we hit the road and head to our next location. I’m hungover as shit, my head pounding, appetite basically non-existent, but I know if I don’t eat anything now, I’ll be sick to my stomach all damn day.

I’m half-sitting, half-lying down in the back seat as Cope pulls into the diner. It’s a small place, one of those farm-to-table family-owned restaurants. We’ve eaten here every time we’ve stopped in this town because it’s so fucking good. Cope turns off the truck, and the three of us climb out. Glancing around the parking lot at our group, every last one of us looks half-dead after how hard we went last night.

The hostess seats us at a large table in the back room, bringing us coffees and waters, dropping menus off for us to peruse before leaving us be. I rub the heel of my palm into my eye socket until I see stars before pouring some cream and sugar into my coffee and taking a large swig.

“You look like shit, Shoot,” Daisy muses from across the table with a smirk.

A chuckle sounds from Sterling, who’s sitting right beside her, and I shoot daggers over to them, giving them both the finger. Much to my disdain, they’ve become quite cozy over the last few days, all buddy, buddy. I swear, Daisy has some sort of crush on him. Not that she’d ever tell me.

“Well, you always look like shit, sis, but I don’t call you on it,” I sneer.

She rolls her eyes, giving me the finger right back. We’re close enough in age that we get along and are at each other’s throats in equal measures. Both of us are competitive by nature—it’s in the Graham blood—so growing up, it was always about one-upping each other, seeing who could be better at this or that. It never went away as we got older, especially since both of us are in the rodeo circuit. Granted, for very different sports, but that doesn’t matter.

Boone and his daughter, Suzy, step into the back room, taking a seat at the head of the table, next to me. Suzy sits on Boone’s lap, her head rested on his shoulder, and based on the crater-sized dark bags under his eyes, I’d say he didn’t get much sleep last night.

Nodding at him, I murmur, “What’s up, man?”

“Not shit. Sorry I wasn’t here sooner. Suzy was up most of the night and finally fell asleep around four. Didn’t want to wake her.”

“No worries. Jade sleeping?”

I don’t miss the hard clench of his jaw as he nods. “Yeah.”

“You okay?”

Another clipped nod. “Yup. Just tired.”

Glancing over at Suzy, she’s already watching me, her wide blue eyes glinting and her coiled blonde curls hanging around her face. “Did you keep daddy up all night, Miss Suzy Q?”

A giggle and a nod are all she gives me, extending her arms toward me in a silent plea for me to grab her. I do, bringing her onto my lap just as the server comes and takes all of our orders.

By the time our food comes out, my nausea has mostly subsided, replaced with a grumbling of hunger. My mouth waters as I dig into the plate of bacon, eggs, and pancakes. Boone cuts up a small plate of eggs and pancakes for Suzy, and she eats on my lap, stealing a strip of bacon off my plate with a giggle.

“So, the next rodeo is Thursday in Sugar Creek, right?” Sterling asks the table.

“Correct,” Cope responds mid-bite.

“But we’re not going straight there today, are we?”

Cope shakes his head. “Nah, we’re going to Rigger Falls for a few nights. They have some killer hiking spots and waterfalls that Shooter, here, gets a boner for every year.”

“Hey, now,” I interject. “First of all, little ears here.” I point toward Suzy before continuing. “And secondly, I happen to like waterfalls. Sue me.”

“How far away is Rigger Falls from here?” Sterling asks nobody in particular.

“About two hours,” I reply before adding, just to be an ass, “Why? You got somewhere to be, Addams?”

His responding scowl makes me laugh. “No, asshole, I was just asking.”

“Little ears, bro!”

“It’s fine,” Boone cuts in. “It’s nothing she hasn’t heard before.”

After we all finish eating and pay the bill, we pile in the trucks and head on our way. Cope is still driving and I’m in the backseat, giving Sterling shotgun. He’s playing DJ, and I’ll admit, he’s got good taste. I feel immensely better after eating, my headache nearly gone, but I still manage to pass out for about an hour until my phone rings, waking me up. It’s my dad.

“Dad,” I say by way of greeting, clearing my throat from sleep. “Calling to congratulate me?”

He sighs, and I bite down on my molars as I wait for whatever bullshit is about to come.

“The Addam’s kid almost beat you, son. What the hell was that about?”

“But he didn’t,” I grit out, trying to keep my voice down.

“This is his first year on the circuit, Shooter. You’ve been doing this for years. There’s no reason he should’ve gotten as close to beating you as he did.”

Cope glances at me in the rearview mirror, and I can tell by the look in his eyes, he knows exactly what my dad is saying right now. None of us are ever shocked by his version of tough love. Although, for once, it would be nice if it didn’t go that route. But Clay Graham is nothing if not a proud motherfucker, with standards as high as his ego. Nothing’s ever good enough.

I scrub a hand over my mouth, trying to tamp down the frustration bubbling inside of me. “Is this really all you called for, Dad?”

Like hell am I going to sit here in this car and argue with my dad about this in front of Sterling. That’s all I need is for him to know my father was talking about how great he is and how I need to be better.

“Now, son, calm down,” he grumbles. “I’m just saying, I know how talented you are, and I know you can do better than that, Shooter. You’re a world champ, for Christ’s sake. Act like it.”

He says all of this calmly, almost cheerfully, like he’s praising me instead of berating me. It’s been this way my entire life, and I think what’s the most frustrating is he doesn’t do this shit to Daisy. Never once has he told her to push harder or do better. It’s always, “Great job, Daisy.” “You’re doing so well, Daisy.”

“Sure thing, Dad. Thanks for calling.”

As soon as I hang up, Cope asks, “Everything okay, man?”

I offer a clipped “Yup” and nothing more. He knows better than to push. All the while, Sterling is quiet as a fucking mouse in the passenger seat. Which annoys the fuck out of me, although I don’t know why.

This sour mood lasts the rest of the day. We all get to Rigger Falls and decide to head down to the water—it’s a pretty warm day—and I just can’t shake the anger inside me. It’s always like this whenever I talk to him. We all know what they say about the definition of insanity. It’s me, doing the same thing, expecting things to be different. Nightfall comes, and I’m well on my way to wasted, not in the mood to socialize with anybody.

About an hour ago, I swiped a six-pack of beer and took it down to the waterfall by myself, needing the silence, to not have to worry about putting on a happy face when I feel anything but.

When I left the campsite, a fire was going and everyone was sitting around it, drinking and laughing and having a good ol’ fucking time, like I wish I was. Daisy, Cope, Colt, and Sterling were all playing poker. Jessie, one of the other barrel racers, and Clem were hanging out with Suzy, while Boone and Jade were who knows where. Probably fighting or fucking in their camper. The former is much more likely than the latter with them lately.

Bronc riding means everything to me. It’s been something I’ve worked my ass off at for years. I fought like hell to get here. Yet, sometimes lately, it’s like I can’t even enjoy it. It’s gone from being something I look forward to, to something like a chore, and it shouldn’t be that way. And logically speaking, I know I still love it, and I probably always will, but the daunting cloud of my father’s constant disapproval, no matter how hard I try, no matter how many times I win, seems to overshadow the good parts more and more lately.

Part of me wishes he’d stop watching my rides altogether, because then I wouldn’t have to hear his critique. But another part of me, the one who’s constantly seeking his approval, wants nothing more than to make him proud. The older I get, though, the more I wonder if that’s even possible.

Finishing the last of the beer, I grab the empty cans and make my way back to the campsite. I don’t know exactly how much time has passed because I left my phone in the camper, but I know it must have been at least a few hours. The fire’s put out by the time I get back, and it looks like everyone’s already in their campers for the night.

I make it to ours, pulling open the door as quietly as possible. It still squeaks a little, and I wince. At the front of the camper, there’s a bed that Cope’s claimed as his own, and then toward the back, there’s two sets of bunk beds. Sterling is on the bottom bunk of one, and I’ll take the bottom bunk of the other. They’re both already passed out.

Brushing my teeth quickly, I undress down to my boxer briefs and climb under my covers. The soft hum of Sterling’s even breathing is the only sound I can hear, and when I turn onto my side, hands tucked under my cheek, I have a clear view of his sleeping form. The moonlight peeks in through the blinds just enough to illuminate his face. His dark, thick lashes fan the tops of his cheeks, and his full lips are slightly parted as he breathes in and out, his face relaxed, the dimples that drive me crazy nowhere to be found.

Thinking back on our first night in Bellfire, the annoyance I’ve worked so hard to bury tonight boils to the surface again as images of that guy flirting with Sterling flit through my mind. He was looking at Sterling like he was three seconds away from dropping to his knees and sucking his cock in front of everyone, and it made me want to fucking deck him.

My thoughts regarding Sterling make no sense. On the one hand, his mere presence bothers me to no end. He’s an obstacle I wasn’t planning on having to work through this season—much more talented than I ever could’ve anticipated—and for that reason, he’s a pain in my fucking ass. But on the other hand, I know what his lips feel like around my dick. I know how his mouth tastes, and the noises he makes when he falls apart. And despite my dislike for him, I can’t help but want to relive those memories again and again.

Especially on nights like tonight when liquor’s flowing through my blood, and I’m horny, it would be so fucking easy to slide into his bed beside him.

But then my conversation with my dad comes back, slapping me in the face, and just like that, the fire I felt for Sterling in my groin is doused with ice-cold water.

Like I said…the way I feel toward him makes no fucking sense.

9

Sterling Addams

Everyone was right; Rigger Falls is beautiful. I can see why they all come here every year in between gigs. A few of us went on a hike this morning, while Daisy, Jessie, Colt, and I decided to grab breakfast at a small diner in town instead. It’s probably safe to say all four of us are feeling rather sluggish today after last night. I don’t even think any of us drank all that much, but it must’ve been a combination of the back-to-back rodeo nights, the travel—while albeit a short distance—mixed with the little bit of alcohol that did us in.

We just got seated at a corner booth near the window. Jessie is curled up with Colt on one side of the table—I think they might be messing around? I’m not really sure, but I’ve noticed them being flirty with one another—and Daisy and I are on the other side. I’m glancing over the menu in front of me. There are so many options, I don’t know what to pick.

“What are you getting?” I ask Daisy, my perusal of the menu continuing.

“Hmm… probably the chorizo scramble. What about you?”

“I don’t know. I’m indecisive this morning, apparently.” I chuckle, scrubbing a hand down my face as I glance over at her. “The scramble sounds good, but so do some waffles.”

“So, get the waffles, and we can split our plates and each have some of both,” she suggests.

Smiling at her, I set the menu down on the table. “You know what? That’s a fantastic idea, Dais.”

The place is much busier than I would’ve thought, being such a small town, but only a few minutes later, the server comes by and takes our orders.

“How are you liking being back in Copper Lake? You used to live there when you were a kid, right?” The questions come from Jessie.

I nod as I swallow some ice water. “Yeah, I lived there when I was way younger, but I moved to Texas when my dad got a new job down there. I’m actually really happy to be living in Copper Lake again. I vividly remember loving being there as a kid, and in general, I didn’t love living in Texas.”

“How old are you?” Daisy asks, a dark blonde brow arched.

“Twenty-one.”

“You’re only a few years younger than us, but I don’t remember you at all in school or anything.”

“Yeah, you wouldn’t have,” I tell her. “I was homeschooled until I entered middle school.”

“Really?” Colt chimes in. “What was that like?”

“Well, at the time, it was all I knew.” I lazily shrug. “My mom used to be an elementary school teacher before I was born, so she knew what she was doing. Going to public school after being homeschooled, though, was interesting, to say the least.”

Our food gets dropped off, and for the most part, the conversation fades out. We all end up eating little bits from everyone’s plates… a genius idea, because we all got something different. Everything’s delicious.

“Have all of you lived in Copper Lake your whole life?” I ask after a few minutes.

Jessie and Colt both nod, but it’s Daisy who responds. “Yeah, all of us except Clem. She moved to town in high school. The rest of us all grew up together.” She takes a long sip of her water before adding, “It’s her family’s house we’re driving to today.”

We’re only a week into the season, but it’s already been so fun, and completely not what I expected at all. Not just the rodeos themselves, but everything they do in between. I won’t lie; when Cope suggested—or rather demanded—I drive with him and Shooter instead of taking my own truck, I was more than a little uneasy. I had no idea what to expect about traveling around Colorado and Wyoming with a bunch of people I barely knew, and I was completely on board with the fact that I’d travel alone and just have a lot of downtime between events. This is so much better than what I would’ve done by myself.

It's cool, the way they plan stuff to do in between competing. And it means a lot that they were okay with me being a part of it all. Even if I’m positive not everyone is thrilled about me being here…and by “not everyone,” I mean Shooter.

After we all finish eating and pay the bill, we meet up with the rest of the crew and hit the road. This time, I’m riding with Daisy and Clementine. Figured having a breather away from Shooter and his loud and heavy presence would be good for me. It feels like I’ve been drowning in him and his distaste for me for days now. It radiates off him and seeps into my pores when we’re stuck in the truck together for hours at a time. When we first ran into each other again, he was flirty, but now it just seems like I’m a giant annoyance to him, despite when he tried to hook up with me again, which, if I had to guess, probably had more to do with getting off than liking or tolerating me. And to be honest, I’m not sure which version I prefer.

It only takes about an hour and a half to get to where we’re going, and once we arrive, I’m in awe. This place is huge. Farmland for miles and a rocky mountain backdrop that looks almost too beautiful to be real.

“Holy crap, this is your house?” I ask Clem as we pile out of the truck, not even bothering to hide my gawking.

She chuckles as she grabs her duffle out of the front seat. “Yup. Home sweet home.”

“This place looks like it’s out of a movie or a postcard or something.”

Clem just smiles as the other trucks pull in beside Daisy’s and they all climb out. My gaze lands on Shooter’s, who’s already looking at me, an expression I can’t quite place floating in his eyes, but I look away before I attempt to decipher it.

The sun is hugging the western horizon, the sky a beautiful mix of pinks and oranges and reds, daylight nearly gone. There’s music playing, people dancing, drinks flowing, and it’s been a really freaking good day. Clem’s family are some of the most welcoming I’ve ever met. She has tons of aunts and uncles and cousins, and they’re all here today.

I found out a few hours ago that this get-together is an annual thing, and it’s in celebration of Clem’s grandpa. He turns seventy in a couple of days. He used to be a dairy farmer before he retired; a family business that Clem’s dad and uncle still carry on. It was amazing listening to his stories about how he got to be where he’s at and how the farm got started.

Farmers and ranchers have my absolute respect. Their job isn’t easy, they don’t get days off, and a lot of the time, it’s an insane amount of work for very little payoff, if any at all. It’s not for the weak, that’s for damn sure. When I was a kid, and my family lived at the Grazing Acres Ranch, I remember all the work my dad had to put in being a ranch hand. The long days, the blisters and sore muscles, the bone-deep exhaustion. But you ask anybody who’s lived that life, and they’ll swear there’s nothing else they’d rather do. As long and as hard and as tiring as it is, it’s so rewarding.

I just got myself another cold beer—working on a pretty nice buzz at the moment—and I’m wandering around the property, taking everything in. It’s nearly dark at this point, but I don’t care. There’s a picnic table next to a huge oak tree. Jumping up, I take a seat on top of it, setting my beer down as I lean back, palms flat on the table behind me, glancing up at the night sky. No matter how many times I look up and see it, I’m never not in awe of a starlit sky. I’ve noticed the stars are visible at the ranch, but back in Texas, we lived pretty close to the city, so it was rare we saw the stars. At least not like this.

It's beautiful, and I don’t think I’ll ever get sick of it.

“What the hell you doing all the way over here, Addams?”

At the sound of Shooter’s deep, gruff voice, my head snaps over in his direction, eyes colliding with his baby blues as he stops directly in front of me. They’re glossy and a little bloodshot, letting me know he’s probably as tipsy as I am—if not more so. I’ve done my best to steer clear of him all day. It wasn’t hard to do since Daisy and I helped Clem’s family with whatever they needed.

“Just came over here for a moment by myself,” I murmur as he surprises me by sitting beside me. He isn’t close enough that we’re touching, but my heart rate picks up, nonetheless. “Why do you care?”

Holding up his hands in mock innocence, he says, “I was just asking. Calm down.”

He’s been smoking. I can smell the tobacco wafting off of him. But more than that, I can smell a scent of what can only be described as wholly him. It’s fresh, a little spicy, and so dang intoxicating. I hate how much I enjoy it.

“What about you?” I ask timidly. “Why are you all the way over here instead of over there where everyone else is?”

Shooter shrugs lazily before taking a drink from his can. “A little peopled out, I guess.”

“You, Shooter I-love-to-be-center-of-attention Graham, are peopled out?”

He drags his gaze to meet mine, amusement dancing in his eyes. “Yeah,” he replies with a chuckle. “Why is that so hard to believe?”

“I don’t know. You just always seem to enjoy being around people and socializing and telling people what a fantastic bronc rider you are.”

He throws his head back onto his shoulders, barking out a laugh. “That’s business, baby. My professional mask.” I don’t miss the way he calls me baby, or the way it makes my stomach flutter. “But let’s go back to the most important part… you think I’m a fantastic bronc rider?”

A cocky, suggestive waggle of his brows has me rolling my eyes and groaning. “God, you’re so full of yourself.”

“I can be full of something else, if you’d prefer.”

My mouth goes dry, pulse racing at his statement. Based on the wide grin splitting his face, I’d say he knows exactly what that comment did to me. Swallowing thickly, I breathe out a laugh. “You wish.”

“Oh, come on,” he drawls before having another sip of his beer. “Don’t act like you don’t replay that night in your mind as much as I do.”

My head snaps to the side, taking in his side profile and the way his features are illuminated in the moonlight, wondering if he meant to admit that out loud. He thinks about that night? Of course, this isn’t the first time he’s brought it up, but the flippant way he admits to it being a frequent thought, paired with the raspy tone he says it in, takes me aback. It makes my stomach flip-flop and my breath catch in my throat.

The truth is, he’s one hundred percent right. I do think about that night, way more than I’d care to admit. But like hell if I’m going to tell him that. Instead, I clear my throat, looking straight ahead again as I murmur, “Quite the opposite, actually. Sometimes I even forget it happened…until, of course, you remind me. It’s like a blur of a memory, if you will.” And because I feel like being a jerk, I add, “Guess you’re not as memorable as you think you are, baby.”

The alcohol really is getting to my head tonight. Making me braver than usual. Not that I’m complaining, especially when he chokes out a sound that’s a mix between a scoff and a laugh.

“Like I’d believe that,” he quips, jumping off the table and coming to stand in front of me, forcing my gaze to align with his. “I’ve seen the way you look at me, Addams. Seen the memory in your eyes. They get all glazed over, like you’re remembering all the sordid details.”

My breath audibly hitches. Shooter smirks, a sultry sight that has no right being as hypnotizing as it is, as he takes a step toward me, putting himself just barely in between my knees. I try to swallow against the sandpaper in my throat while I will my heart to slow the heck down. It’s beating so fast, I’m positive he can hear it from where he’s standing.

“Tell me I’m wrong.” His words come out husky. They wrap around me, squeezing.

Looking away, I whisper, “You’re wrong.”

“Uh-uh…” Shooter hooks a finger under my chin, turning my face until our eyes meet. “Look me in the eye and tell me you don’t think about the night we met constantly. Look me in the eye and tell me that night doesn’t affect you. Because if you’re going to lie to me, you’re sure as hell going to look me in the eye when you do it.”

My palms—now sweaty—are still planted on the bench behind me as he watches me like he has all the answers. Like he knows my every last thought. And shoot, he probably does. I’m well aware I’m about as transparent as they come. And still, I try my hardest to keep my feelings off my face as he looks down his nose at me. To hide the truth from him, even though I know it’s futile.

Thick, dark blonde brow arched, Shooter says, “I’m waiting, Addams.”

“I…” Blowing out a breath, I try to look away, but his grip on my chin has turned steel tight. “I… Jesus Christ, I can’t, okay?”

A dark smile plays around the corners of his mouth. “And why is that?”

“You know why,” I huff, nostrils flared.

Shooter’s thumb traces underneath my bottom lip, his eyes tracking the movement. “Yeah, but I wanna hear you say it.”

“Are you that desperate for an ego boost?” I laugh, but it’s dry.

He chuckles, leaning closer and tilting my chin so I’m forced to look up at him. “I think you and I both know I’m not.” Then, he leans in, lips so close to my ear, the brush along the lobe, and rasps, “But I want to hear you tell me why. Mostly, I want to hear you explain which part of that night was the most memorable to you. The hottest.” I hiss when he drags nips at my ear, a full-body chill racking through me. “So, go ahead… tell me, baby.”

Pulling back just enough to meet my gaze again, he arches a brow, seemingly pleased with himself for how much my body reacts to the proximity of his against mine. I can feel how hot my cheeks are, and my breathing is coming out in harsh pants—such a contrast to his cool, calm, and collected appearance—and if he were to glance down, he’d see just how hard I am for him, much to my annoyance.

“You’re such a prick,” I spit out instead of giving him what he wants.

Shrugging, he says, “Tell me something I don’t know.”

“You’re not as freaking irresistible as you think you are.”

He grins. “You don’t swear.”

My brows furrow at his complete redirection. “What?”

“I’ve noticed you don’t swear.”

“What does that have to do with anything? And yes, I do.”

“Okay, but not fuck. I haven’t heard you say that one.”

Where is this coming from? “So what if I don’t?”

“I wanna hear it. Wanna hear those pretty little lips utter that four-letter word for me.”

“What? No. This is weird.” I try to shove him away, but the fingers on my chin dip lower, gripping me around the throat. Not hard enough to cut off my air; just enough to keep me in place. “Get your hands off me!”

“Say it. Let me hear you say it.” His lips are a hairsbreadth away from my own as he whispers, “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Goosebumps break out on my skin as his words send a chill down my spine. They sound seductive, falling off his tongue, which I know is his intention.

“Get off me, Shooter,” I mutter once more, knowing there’s zero oomph behind the words. I don’t want him to get off me. The opposite, actually. I want him to pin me down on top of this bench, using the hand around my throat and the weight of his body. I want it more than I’ve wanted anything before, and I hate myself for it. It’s pathetic, the hold he has on me, and I don’t just mean physically.

“Say it, and I will. Scout’s honor.”

Huffing out a laugh, I say, “You were no scout.”

“Say it, Addams. Otherwise, I’m going to start to think you don’t actually want me to get away from you.”

I swallow a groan, my eyes narrowing at him, which only causes him to smirk harder. He’s getting off on this. I don’t have to look at his crotch to know that. And the fucked-up thing is, so am I. My body is thrumming with a need for him stronger than I’ve ever felt before. Every inch of me vibrating with lust, wanting him to close the distance and take what he wants.

My tongue pokes out, wetting my lips, an inferno igniting in my veins as I watch his eyes dip down and track the movement. The air is humming between us, an electric current from me to him.

“Come on, Addams. I know you can do it for me,” he taunts, his deep voice husky, throaty. It licks away at my barely there restraint, making me want to fold. Give him what he wants.

“I… I can say it. I don’t know why you’re making it such a big deal, or why you want to hear it so bad.”

“Because…” He leans in, brushing the tip of his nose over mine. “I think you’re a good boy who probably has good southern manners, and while that’s great, I want to see you get a little dirty. Hear you be a little vulgar. Just for me, though. Our little secret.” The hand not wrapped around my throat snakes around my back, and in one swift move, he yanks me toward the edge of the table until our bodies are flush. “So, let me hear it, baby. Let me hear you be bad for me, like I know you can.”

Oh, God. Shooter has no right being this hot. He is confidence and sex embodied, and hell if that doesn’t turn me on.

“Fine,” I grit out. “I’ll say it.”

He doesn’t respond. Instead, he simply smiles like the cat that got the canary, knowing he won. Knowing I’m folding and giving in to him like the pathetic man I am.

I don’t know why my heart is racing as fast as it is. It’s one word. It’s not like he’s asking me to suck his dick again. I’ve never even noticed I don’t say it; it’s not like I go out of my way to purposely not use the word. It’s just not in my vocabulary. But now, right here with him staring down at me, it feels much more significant than a single word.

It feels like a proposition. A move.

Knowing I’m never getting out of this, and wanting to just get it over with, I clear my throat and wet my lips once more, steeling my gaze, before muttering the one single word he’s apparently dying to hear me say.

“Fuck.”

His lips turn upward, and I practically preen under his approving stare. “Dirty boy.” The two words come out as a throaty growl before he crashes his lips down on mine, stealing my breath and lighting up my body like the Fourth of July. A moan slips out before I can stop it, hands reaching out to fist his shirt, be it to pull him closer or push him away, I’m not entirely sure. Shooter’s tongue teases along the seam of my lips, seeking entrance, and like the glutton I am, I part them, letting him in.

This time, it’s his turn to groan into my mouth when our tongues clash together, the kiss both brutal and tender at the same time. He reaches between us and cups me over my pants, and it’s like a bucket of cold water dumped on my head, clearing the fog that comes whenever I’m near him.

Reaching up, palms to chest, I shove him away with much more force than before, and this time, he lets me. The smirk on his face tells me all I need to know.

“God, what is wrong with you?” I huff, jumping off the table, putting some much-needed distance between us. “This”—I indicate between us—“cannot happen, Shooter!”

His brows furrow. “Why the hell not? If we’re both into it, why does it matter? Are you dating anybody?”

I shake my head, brows knit together. “What? No.”

“Okay, me either. So, again, I ask why does it matter?”

“The fact that you even have to ask proves everything,” I scoff. “You’ve already made a name for yourself in this world. People know you. They respect you and know what you’re capable of.”

“Okay, and?”

I grumble, my frustration growing that he can’t see what’s right in front of his face. “And I haven’t, Shooter! I am brand new, and I can’t do that if I’m overshadowed by being just another notch on your belt buckle. I refuse.”

Not bothering to wait for a response, I turn on my heel and head back to where everyone else is, suddenly feeling a whole lot more sober than I did before.

10

Shooter Graham

I’m having such an off night. I felt it the moment I woke up, and the day’s progressively gotten worse. It’s our first of three rodeos in Sugar Creek, Colorado, and the pit in my stomach leads me to believe it’s not off to a great start.

This afternoon, my dad called me, and I knew I shouldn’t have answered it, but I did anyway. He felt that hours before the rodeo was a perfect time to remind me how fucking good Sterling is, and how close he got to beating me last week. Reminding me that I’ve been doing this for years, and I should easily smoke his ass out there. That phone call was a bad omen if I’ve ever heard of one, because the way I just competed was un-fucking-acceptable. I can’t remember the last time I rode that shitty, not even my first year in the pros. The only way my ride could’ve been any worse would be if I had fallen off the horse altogether. Thank fuck I didn’t do that.

I want to blame my father solely for this. I want to rage and bitch and complain about how he jinxed me hours before I was set to compete, filling my head with doubt. But that wouldn’t be totally true. I’ve been in my own head all week, all on my own.

After my back-to-back wins last weekend, I should be on cloud nine. I should be proud, and I should be ready to do it again. Except all week, his words have been replaying in my head like a broken record.

“I know you can do better than that, Shooter.”

“You’re a world champ, for Christ’s sake. Act like it.”

Growing up in the world I did, winning is important. People will argue that doing your best and having fun, doing what you love, is what’s most important. But that’s not true. At least, not according to the Graham bronc riders who preceded me. Winning is what’s most important. Beating your opponents. Going out there and giving your all, no matter what it takes. I don’t know how many times growing up I heard “second place is just the first loser” from not only dad, but my uncles and my grandfather. The latter, arguably the worst of them all.

Clay Graham Sr. was ruthless in his time. He rode hard and fought dirty, and anything less than perfection was a disappointment in his eyes. I know he harped on my dad and my uncles when they were growing up. The expectations were sky high, and if you let him down, well, then you better fucking hide. My grandfather was not only brutal and fierce in the arena, but at home too. He wasn’t somebody you wanted to let down.

A baseline level of stress is always present when it comes to rodeo and competing, an underlying need to make my father proud, to make good on my family name, but this season… I don’t know, it’s different. Ever since I heard him sing praises about Sterling the week before we left for the circuit, it’s been in the back of my mind constantly. A tiny niggling of doubt, of worry. And if there’s one thing you cannot do when you’re going out on these thousand-pound beasts, it’s have doubts.

Doubts will get you injured. Or worse; killed.

Doubts are what cost me the rodeo tonight. It’s not over yet, as there’s still a few bronc riders left to go, but I know in my heart I lost tonight. And logically, I know it’s not the end of the world. I’ll compete dozens more times before it’s time to go to finals, so one loss doesn’t dictate anything. But when it comes to the rodeo—when it comes to my father—logical isn’t in the forefront of my mind. Because all I’m thinking about is the phone call that’s bound to come, when he tells me where I went wrong, what I could’ve done differently, and how he would’ve won this rodeo.

I hate the second guessing running through me right now. It’s a shiver climbing down my spine, eating away at my self-worth. The cold, clutching fear that maybe I’m not good enough anymore. I’m only twenty-four, but maybe my time’s up. Maybe I don’t have what it takes to hold that world champ title.

My mind is racing a million ways at once, and I can’t sit still. I’m pacing outside behind the arena, chain smoking while I wear a hole in the ground. I don’t usually smoke cigarettes on rodeo nights, instead choosing to chew. I don’t know why, it’s just what I’ve always done. But the chew wasn’t enough tonight. I needed to feel the cigarette in my hand, taste the smoke as it skirted over my tongue and down into my lungs, feel as they expanded, holding in the toxins that normally clear my head. That normally put me at ease.

Not tonight.

Tonight, I’m a racing heart, shaky, sweaty palms, and a cinder block of dread. My eyes burn from exhaustion because I haven’t been sleeping, and all I want to do is get out of here and bury myself inside of someone to take my mind off it all, but I know that won’t happen.

My breathing is coming out in shallow gasps, like I can’t drag it in fast enough, my head dizzy like I’m sitting on a tilt-a-whirl, the outside of my vision tinged with black.

Fuck!

I gotta get it the fuck together before I go back in there and make a fucking fool of myself—an even bigger fool than I’ve already made. Stopping the pacing, I bend at the waist, hand going to my knees as I drag in a lungful of air through my nose, expelling it through my mouth.

In through my nose.

Out through my mouth.

Repeat.

In, nose.

Out, mouth.

Come on, Shooter. Fucking breathe.

Calm the fuck down. This isn’t who we are.

Sweat tickles the hair on the nape of my neck, dripping down into my button-up. The shirt is constricting. Suffocating. An overbearing claw grips at my chest tightly, the pressure unbearable. Blood pounds against my temples, the world spinning around me. I rip my hat off my head, tossing it onto the grass beside me as my legs give out and I collapse, knees colliding with the rough ground. It’s wet and squishy beneath the denim, seeping in, soaking my skin, but I can’t find it in me to care.

The crowd roars inside the arena, and I’d bet my left nut it’s Sterling. He was the last bronc rider competing tonight. My insides twist just thinking about him. I want to hate him. Want to loathe him with every fiber of my being. And inside that arena, maybe I do. But outside? Well, outside of the arena, I don’t know how I feel about him, but it’s not hate. As much as I hate admitting it, he reminds me a lot of myself.

His drive. The confidence he holds when it comes to rodeo. His natural talent. The way he moves with his bronc, and can predict its every move. Just like me.

“There you are.” Turning my head to the side, I see Cope ambling over. He squats down in front of me, worry lining his forehead and squishing his brows. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

“Just needed a minute.” My voice is rough, exhaustion and stress thickening each word.

“What the hell happened out there, man?”

Blowing out a breath, a sharp laugh leaves my mouth as I mutter, “He’s fucking getting to me.”

Right here, in this moment, I’m unsure if I’m referring to my father or to Sterling. Thankfully, Cope doesn’t ask. He’s silent for a moment, but I can feel the weight of his stare. I can’t look at him.

Finally, he presses a hand to my shoulder, gripping firmly, the touch making me glance up and meet his gaze. “You need to snap the fuck out of it,” he blurts out plainly.

“Excuse me?” Is he fucking serious? What kind of friendly pep talk is this shit?

Cope blows out a laugh, holding up a hand. “Just relax, killer. Let me explain.”

Eyes narrowed on him, I roll my lips inward and nod.

“You have fought to get where you are, Shooter. You’re one of the best damn bronc riders I’ve ever seen. The raw talent you possess is insane. You are a three-time world champ for a reason. But you didn’t get to where you are today because you competed against easy riders. In fact, completely the opposite. You’ve gone up against some of the greatest there is; a lot of times you’ve won, but sometimes you’ve lost. You’ve never let anybody get inside your head like this. You’ve never let it affect your game. So, what the fuck is going on with you lately?”

“I don’t fucking know, man!” The words rush out louder and harsher than I intended, so I repeat much quieter, “I don’t know, Cope. Okay?”

Cope opens his mouth like he’s going to say something before snapping it shut, his brows furrowing as if he doesn’t quite know what to do with me. “You…” he starts, blowing out a breath. “You know you can talk to me, right? About anything. I’m here for you always, dude.”

Cope is my best fucking friend. We’ve known each other since we were little kids, and have been thick as thieves ever since. There’s never been anything either of us has had to go through without knowing we can lean on the other. So, I’m not exactly sure why I’m keeping this shit with Sterling, and my dad, to myself.

It’s right there on the tip of my tongue to come clean and tell him everything. The NFR, the conversation with my dad, the way I’m feeling, that damn kiss a few days ago. Everything. But… I can’t. I won’t. And fuck if that doesn’t just mess me up.

“Yeah, I know,” I finally respond. “Thanks, man. I’ll be fine. Promise.”

He offers me a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He doesn’t believe me… and frankly, neither do I.

But I just keep repeating the same words.

Doubt is what gets you hurt.

My night’s only gotten progressively worse. I should’ve just gone to bed as soon as we all got back to the campground after the rodeo, but my dumb ass thought it would be a good idea to drink away my stress. As if that ever got anybody anywhere good. Cope’s right; I need to get the fuck over this shit. It’s not who I am. I’m not some sore loser. I mean… okay, maybe I am, but it doesn’t usually affect me this much.

Regardless, I’m on beer number who fucking knows, listening to everyone around me chit-chat and laugh while I take no part in it. We’re all sitting in camping chairs around the fire—well, everyone minus Boone and his family—Colt’s got the music playing, and everyone but me seems to be feeling good. I know Sterling’s feeling damn good; he won his first ever pro rodeo tonight.

Whoop-de-fucking-doo.

Lifting the can to my lips, I let my mouth fill with the crisp, cold beer before swallowing, my eyes shooting daggers at Sterling from across the fire. His gaze is everywhere else but me, though. It’s getting under my skin. He’s fucking getting under my skin. Even if I don’t want him there, he’s always front and fucking center in my mind. It’s maddening. What is it about him? He gave me one blow job several fucking months ago, and it’s like my entire world has spun on its axis because of it. Makes no goddamn sense. Daisy’s sitting right beside him, like she always seems to be lately, hanging onto his every fucking word. Laughing at everything he has to say, like he’s the funniest fucking person she’s ever met in her life.

He isn’t even that funny.

I’d even go as far as to say he’s actually even maybe a little boring.

With his dumb curly brown hair that never seems to sit right that I definitely don’t ever fantasize about threading my fingers through. His annoyingly gorgeous honey-colored eyes. His dimples that definitely don’t make my stomach flutter when he smiles with how deep they are. The idiotic way he always has a handkerchief in his pocket, like he’s a seventy-year-old man. It’s not endearing or cute or sweet. It’s obnoxious.

He sits there and flirts with my sister, but bit my head straight off for kissing him last week. Shouldn’t have even done that, but fuck, I was drunk, and he was there smelling like stupid fucking Old Spice deodorant with that goddamn pout on his lip he always seems to have. And I wanted to fuck with him, rile him up. Which I did, but it also fucked with me too. It left me confused.

And now he’s sitting ten feet away from me, but I’m not even on his radar, that kiss probably long gone from his mind while he flirts with my fucking sister. What the fuck does she have that I don’t? A vagina?

Nope. No. Not fucking going there.

You know what? They can have each other. The straight-edge cowboy and the goody-two-shoes barrel racer. Match made in fucking square heaven.

I scoff to myself at how utterly annoying Sterling is, downing another swallow of my beer, not even realizing I’m still staring until his gaze flits in my direction, locking with mine. His lips uptick into a smirk, showing off his straight, white teeth.

Those goddamn infuriating dimples.

Feeling eyes on the side of my face, I turn my head, finding Daisy looking quizzically at me, clearly catching me watch Sterling. “Someone’s looking a little sassy tonight,” she teases, making my blood boil.

Sterling has the nerve to laugh. “I’ll say,” he drawls, the evidence of how much he’s had to drink right there in his cadence.

“I know you’re not fucking talking to me,” I spit back, narrowing my gaze.

He chuckles. “You’re the only one sitting here with a permanent scowl etched across his face.”

“We’re just calling it like we see it, brother,” Daisy chimes in beside him, an amused lilt in her tone. She giggles, and it grates my nerves.

“Shut the fuck up, Daisy. Who asked you anyway?”

She rolls her eyes, and there’s collective oohs from around the circle. “You’re such a dick when you lose.”

“It has nothing to do with me losing,” I retort. “You both are just fucking annoying.”

Sterling’s mouth drops open, a whisper of a laugh coming out as Daisy grits out, “Fuck off, Shooter. If anybody here is annoying tonight, it’s you.”

I finish off the rest of my beer, standing up, shoving a finger in her direction, well aware that I’m acting like a total jackass. “No, why don’t you fuck off, Daisy, and get back to flirting with Sterling all night long.” A sardonic laugh slips past my lips before I add, “Or better yet, why don’t you both fuck off together, and go screw like we all know you want to.”

“Shooter,” Cope hisses from beside me, but I ignore him. I ignore everybody as I storm over to the cooler, grab another beer, and set off into the woods, along the trail that I know leads down to the water.

I need to fucking cool it before I say—or do—something I regret in the morning.

Nobody follows me. Not that I thought they would. It’s better this way, anyway. The anger bubbling up inside of me feels so foreign. So misplaced. What the hell is it about him that drives me so fucking bat-shit crazy?

I’ve never met anybody who’s brought out this side of me before. He makes me feel… I don’t even know how he makes me feel, but it’s fucking confusing.

Bending down, I pick up a rock, tossing it into the water. It doesn’t skip. Cool. Can’t ride a bronc properly tonight. Can’t not be a fucking asshole to my sister. Can’t even skip a fucking rock, it seems. I’m basically useless today.

“Shooter?”

At the sound of my name, my shoulders hike up to my ears, my spine going ramrod straight. I don’t even have to turn around to know who it is. I’d know that voice anywhere.

Heaving a sigh, I say, “Probably should just leave me alone, Sterling.”

11

Sterling Addams

Iknow I shouldn’t be out here. I shouldn’t have followed Shooter. Shouldn’t be entertaining this toddler-style temper tantrum. Shouldn’t be encouraging Shooter by spending any more unnecessary time with him after that kiss we shared.

In the very back of my mind, I know.

Yet, here I am, standing no more than five feet from him, looking down at where he’s sitting on the beachy area near the brim of the water. The moonlight is illuminating it and him, and I can’t help but wonder how I keep finding myself in these moonlit situations with Shooter. Can’t help but wonder what it is about him that gets under my skin. I’m sure he wonders the same thing about me.

At any given moment, I never know which version of Shooter I’m going to get. Sometimes he’s flirty. Sometimes he’s forward. And sometimes, like tonight, he’s an unpredictable, bubbling volcano bordering on the verge of destruction. This time, destruction won.

“Why are you out here?” he asks me, voice harsh, words full of malice.

“Because you’ve been drinking, and nobody should be wandering around in the woods alone, under the influence.” It’s a partial truth.

He huffs out a laugh, tossing a rock into the water. “Such a fucking saint you are.”

My brows pinch. “Being a decent human being doesn’t make anybody a saint, Shooter.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t need you to be a decent human being to me.”

“Oh?” I ask, stepping closer, frustration already flaring to life. His blue eyes dart up to meet mine. “And what is it, exactly, that you need, then?”

Shooter stands up, squaring his shoulders in that way I noticed he does when he’s trying to prove a point or when he’s being a stubborn ass. “What I want, Addams, is for you to leave me the fuck alone. I don’t need a fucking babysitter.”

“Nobody said you did.”

“So, then what the fuck are you still doing standing in front of me? Go back to the campsite. Drink. Celebrate your win. Flirt some more with Daisy.”

His lips snap together like he didn’t mean to say that last part.

A smirk toys around the corners of my lips. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you sounded…jealous.”

Shooter scoffs, folding his arms over his chest as he looks anywhere but at me. “I’ve got nothing to be jealous of, Addams.” This is the second instance where a hint of jealousy has reared its head, so I don’t believe him. “You do you. I’ve got no shortage of options for myself, so why the fuck do I care what other people do?” He drags his gaze over to me, glowering as he adds, “If my sister is what gets your dick hard, then by all means, have at it.”

“Except I’m gay. And you know this.”

“I don’t know shit, man. You’re as good as a stranger to me.”

“Oh, because you always shove your dick in strangers’ mouths.”

He snorts. “I mean, yeah. I had never seen you prior to that day. Stranger.”

Okay, he has a point. Doesn’t make it any less infuriating.

Taking a step toward him, I say, “You know, it wouldn’t kill you to not be a dick every once in a while.”

Shooter sneers at me, taking a step as well, putting him right in front of me, so close I can taste the beer on his breath “And it wouldn’t kill you”—he pokes me right in the chest with his index finger for emphasis—“to mind your own fucking business every once in a while.”

A cross between a scoff and a laugh bubbles up my throat. “Sue me for caring about those around me.”

“That’s why you’re never going to make it in this industry,” he grits through clenched teeth. “You’re too fucking soft.”

Asshole.

“Was I too soft today when I kicked your ass out there? Hmm?”

“We all have off days,” he retorts. “We’ll see who the real winner is tomorrow. And newsflash, it won’t be you.”

Rolling my eyes, I say, “Yeah, we’ll see about that.”

He is so infuriating. I’ve never met anybody more cocky, more full of themselves, more freaking delusional than Shooter Graham. He’s so self-absorbed that he can’t even acknowledge that somebody else may also have talent.

“It would be better for you if you just realized now that you don’t fucking have what it takes to hold the title,” he scoffs, the sneer on his face downright vile. “Bow out now, before you embarrass yourself further.”

I swear, I can feel my blood pressure rising by the second, with each word spewed from his arrogant mouth. My hands are shaking, chest tightening, and I’ve never experienced the carnal urge to deck somebody in the face the way I do right now. God, I bet that’d feel good.

“You know what?” Pressing my palms to his chest, I shove him, opting to not risk screwing up my riding hand tonight. He doesn’t budge. “Screw you, Shooter. Be all bitter and pouty out here alone. Behave like a toddler all you want. See if I care.”

I turn and head back to where I came from as he shouts from behind me, “Good! I fucking will!”

He’s unbelievable. Where does he get off treating people like that? That is the last time I try to be the bigger person with him. He can sulk and wallow alone.

The walk back to the campsite is only about five minutes, and when I gently pull open the door to the camper, I glance to the right and see that Cope is already in bed, and it looks like he’s asleep. I make quick work of brushing my teeth before heading back to where my bed’s located. No sooner that I sit down to plug in my phone does the door to the camper fling open, nearly off the hinges, as Shooter, the freaking brute, comes barreling inside, eyes somehow finding mine automatically.

“What the hell are you doing?” I whisper-yell as he charges toward the back where I’m standing, the entire camper shaking with each step.

“You’re not better than me like you think you are,” he spits out, voice at full volume like people aren’t trying to sleep.

“Will you keep your freaking voice down?” I hiss. “Cope is trying to sleep.”

Shooter’s face contorts into a sneer as he holds his hands up. “Oh, excuse me, Mr. Goody Two Shoes.” His volume is finally that of a whisper—albeit a loud one, but a whisper, nonetheless. “I forgot how perfect Sterling is. How Sterling can do no wrong. My fucking bad, bro.”

“My God.” I choke out a laugh, trying to be as quiet as possible. “You’re a real piece of work, you know that? I can’t believe I ever hooked up with someone as douchey as you.”

His lips curl into a wicked grin. “You may not be able to believe it, but you sure as shit wish it would happen again.”

“Ha!” I blurt out, a little louder than I mean to. “I’d rather be bucked off a bronc onto concrete a hundred times than ever touch you again.”

Shooter takes a step toward me, closing the distance. His head cocks to the side, lips split into a grin. “Is that so, Addams?”

And just like that, all the oxygen is sucked out of the camper. The air around us shifts. It thickens. My mind blanking on what it was I was even saying before. His baby blue orbs glint as he watches me. Humor lines his features, curiosity curving his brow.

“Well?” he presses after a moment passes with no response.

My throat has gone dry. I swallow, attempting to bring some moisture back. “Well, what?” I question obtusely.

“You’d never, ever want to touch me again?” His voice is a deep rasp at this point. Laced with lust and a drug that goes straight to my head. “You sure about that?”

I don’t know when or how, but he’s somehow closer than he was even a moment ago, our chests brushing as I fight to drag air into my lungs.

Yes, I’m sure, I should say. I want nothing to do with you or your body. It’s right there on the very tip of my incredibly dry tongue.

Do I say any of that? No, of course not. Why would I, when instead I can be a freaking masochist and whimper in place of a response.

Whimper! A pathetic cry vibrates the back of my throat as he stands before me, towering over me, despite us being relatively the same height. It’s his presence. It’s larger than life, and I have next to no experience dealing with situations like this, so I apparently cower, unable to hide anything from him.

And based on the smirk only growing wider on his face, I’d say he knows it too. Shooter inches closer, his face a mere breath away as he glances between my eyes, dipping his gaze to take in my lips before slithering back up. It’s intense. Overwhelming. Infuriatingly hot.

He’s right there, hovering over my mouth, his lips parted invitingly. But it’s becoming painstakingly clear he’s going to wait for me to make the first move.

I heave a deep sigh, my breath fanning his face as a million thoughts storm through my mind at once.

Everything I should do.

Everything I want to do.

And how the answer to those questions are so vastly different from one another.

But right now, with his beautiful, bright blue eyes watching me, his lips brushing against mine with every exhale, and his body heat so close to me, I can’t find it in me to give a crap about should or shouldn’t.

“Fuck it,” I mumble seconds before my mouth seals against his, knowing full and damn well come morning, I’ll hate myself.

12

Shooter Graham

He said fuck.

I don’t even have time to dissect that because arms are wrapping around my neck as he pulls me into him, his lips parting as I slip my tongue inside. His mouth tastes minty, like he just brushed his teeth, and a contented sigh escapes him when our tongues tangle.

Honestly, I didn’t think he had it in him to make the first move. Admittingly, I was such an asshole to him, and he was so angry, I didn’t think he’d ever do it. But alas, here we are, our lips molded together, our bodies flush, and fuck, I want more. I don’t have the time or the energy to wonder what this’ll mean in the morning, how much more fucked up our already shaky relationship will be, or wonder why the fuck I want him this bad, when during the day, he’s my biggest fucking annoyance. It makes no fucking sense. But again; time, energy, both I don’t have. So, it’s gone. I push it out of my mind.

This double bunk bed situation is less than convenient right now as I’m trying to figure out how to get him horizontal.

Breaking our lips apart, I sit down, reaching for his hand and drawing him closer. Thankfully, severing the kiss didn’t fracture the spell, and he sits beside me before we both lie down, facing one another.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” he whispers. “You’re still an asshole.”

A smirk splits my face. “Whatever you say, Addams.”

This time, it’s me who moves first, capturing his mouth in another searing kiss, his body melting against mine as our tongues move fluidly together, taking and tasting from one another. I wrap a leg around him, hooking it behind his thigh, pulling his body closer to mine. His cock is already starting to thicken, and that knowledge alone sets my blood ablaze.

I wrap an arm around him, rolling onto my back, and bringing him with me. His body weight on mine is too fucking good, the feeling of our groins lining up, growing erections rubbing against each other, makes my eyes roll back. It’s been longer than I’d care to admit since I’ve hooked up, and I need this. This release.

That thought has my chest tightening as it hits me…when I’m not on the road, I don’t do one-night stands very often. Our town is so small, and I’ve learned the hard way, that fucking where you sleep is never a good idea. So, the last person I hooked up with… was Sterling. Why didn’t I realize this sooner?

Pushing that realization aside, I plant my hands on his hips, gripping firmly as he grinds on my lap, lips leaving mine to trail along my jaw and down to my neck in a hot, wet path. His teeth nip, tongue soothing, and a groan rumbles from my throat at how good it all feels. At this point, we’re both fully hard, and I don’t know about him, but I’m feeling like we got way too many clothes on between the two of us, and that’s just not working for me.

I grip the hem of his shirt, pulling it up some until he gets the hint. Because we’re in this small bunk bed, ripping this shirt off of him is slightly awkward. The real problem comes when it’s my turn to take my shirt off. There’s no fucking way.

Blowing out a breath, I give him a little shove. “Up. I can’t take my clothes off with both of us in this fucking bed.”

He does, and I allow myself a moment to shamelessly check him out. His chest is pale and wide, free of any ink, body lean, good muscle definition in all the right areas. There’s a light dusting of dark hair smattered along his chest, and lower, a happy trail leading right into his low-slung pants. My mouth waters as I take in the erection pressing against them, desperately begging to be set free.

The first time we did this, I didn’t get to fully taste him, but I plan to rectify that right fucking now. I stand off the bed, dragging my shirt over my head, secretly loving the way his eyes track everything. They rake down my chest, over my navel, landing on my groin, where he holds his stare for a moment before lifting to my face again.

Heat crawls up his neck, splashing his cheeks pink, and I don’t know why, but it’s an adorable sight. He was shy the first time we hooked up, but I chalked it up to us being complete strangers. Sterling isn’t a shy person by nature, I’ve noticed. He’s quiet and a little awkward, sure, but shy he is not. Especially when it comes to me; he holds himself well like he’s trying to prove something. So, the innocence radiating off of him is as interesting as it is cute.

I drop down to my knees, fingers coming up to the buckle of his belt. Flicking it open, I move on to the button and zipper of his jeans, glancing up at him from beneath my lashes. His slick, reddened lips are slightly parted, honey-colored eyes dark with desire, but they widen when I go to drag his pants down, hand slapping over mine, like his brain is finally catching up to the scene before him.

“What are you doing?” he asks hurriedly, but quietly, the grip over my fingers tight.

My brows pinch together as I huff out a laugh through my nose. “What does it look like I’m doing? I’m about to suck your dick.”

Sterling’s head snaps to the side, in the direction of Cope’s bed at the very end of the camper. I can tell he thinks we’re going to wake him up. When his eyes return to me, they’re swimming with an emotion I can’t quite place. Nervousness, maybe?

“You…” He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple rolling harshly, before his tongue pokes out to wet his lips. “You don’t have to do that,” he finally says.

“He’s not gonna wake up, man. Trust me.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do,” I argue back. “You forget this isn’t my first rodeo with him. He’s as good as dead right now. And besides, we could’ve been halfway done by now if you’d just shut the hell up and let me get to work.”

Sterling narrows his eyes, glowering down at me for a moment before he finally moves his hand, letting me shove the material down his thick, muscular legs. Tight, deep purple briefs hug his body in a way that should be illegal. His dick is straining against the material, lying flat against his right thigh, a wet spot seeping through and making me grin.

Leaning in, I nuzzle my nose in his groin, where I know his balls are, and I inhale deeply, memorizing his scent. It’s so masculine, musky with a faint undertone of sweat, but also something that is all Sterling. It makes my head dizzy and my cock twitch behind my pants.

My hands reach up, fingers hooking into the waistband of his underwear, and I pull them down. His dick springs free, balls drawing up tight before relaxing. I peer up at him, eyes connecting with his. “You’ve got a really nice cock.”

And he does. I’ve seen it before, of course, but I didn’t get a good enough look. It’s smooth and cut, maybe six, six and a half inches, but thick, meaty, the tip a pale pink, and his balls are a beautiful, round handful that would sit gloriously on my face while I ate him out.

Choking out an awkward laugh, he says, “Uh, thanks.”

He’s breathing heavily. I can hear the shallow gusts of air from all the way down here, can feel the heat of his gaze on my head as I continue my exploration, but against his bare skin this time. I nestle my nose into the short, dark hair at the base of his cock, his breath hitching as he hears me inhale again. It’s intoxicating, smelling him like this. He smells incredible, like a hardworking man. Trailing down a little farther, I tickle his sack with the tip of my nose before glancing up at him, a smile splitting my face as my tongue darts out, licking a hot, wet stripe across the sensitive skin.

Sterling’s cheeks are bright red now—his chest and neck, too—and he’s got his bottom lip tucked between his teeth, his brows drawn inward as he watches me with a dark, needy gaze. His cock twitches against my cheek, which only makes my smile grow wider. Giving another lick, he lets out a groan, darting his gaze back over to where Cope’s asleep.

“Relax,” I whisper right up against his balls. “Trust me, he is not waking up.”

“It would be really awkward if he did.”

I shrug. “Nothing he hasn’t seen before.”

“Uh…” Sterling huffs, a scowl on his face. “He’s never seen my dick before.”

“Not what I meant,” I deadpan. “Now, shut the hell up, or else he will wake up.”

“You just said—” He doesn’t have a chance to finish that sentence because I suck one of his nuts into my mouth, making him gasp. His hands lift, but then go back to his sides like he doesn’t know what to do with them before he lets out a low, quiet moan. “Oh, Christ, Shooter.”

The way he says my name, all throaty like that, sends a shiver down my spine. I love it. Want to make him say it again. And then again for good measure. Want it on a constant loop.

Sitting back on my haunches, I fist his dick, the slit glistening with pre-cum. I run the flat of my tongue against the tip, gathering it all up, my mouth watering at the saltiness. Nodding toward the left, I tell him, “Turn off that lamp.”

He does, the whole camper cloaked in darkness, the only light shining in through the blinds from the moonlight. It takes my eyes a moment to adjust, but when they do, I notice he’s watching me intently, the way I’m stroking him slowly. I make sure to keep my eyes locked with his as I lean forward, closing my mouth around the crown and twirling my tongue around. He groans softly, hands fisting at his sides. With my mouth open, tongue sticking out, I let the underside of his shaft drag along the wet muscle a few times, watching as he tries to maintain his composure.

Cope mumbles something unintelligible in his sleep, and Sterling’s eyes go huge as he tries to step back. The space between the bunk beds is only so wide, though, so it’s easy to follow him. His back collides with the top bunk behind him as I use this opportunity to swallow him down. The flared head touches the back of my throat, which constricts around him as I gag. The sound that comes from him should be criminal, and it’s loud enough that I can hear Cope start to stir.

Ain’t no fucking way.

“You need to fucking be quiet,” I hiss.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

Sterling then slaps a hand over his mouth—which also isn’t quiet—as he whimpers when I start bobbing up and down on his length. His free hand comes to my shoulder, gently nudging it like he isn’t sure if he wants me to keep going or stop.

Some more stirring comes from the front of the camper. It’s so quiet in here, you could hear a pin drop. Sterling must notice the stirring this time, because he shoves a little harder on my shoulder.

“Shooter, we need to stop. He’s going to wake up.”

I hum around his length, really diving in and giving it my all, needing him to come down my throat before we’re caught. Cope has never woken up before while I was hooking up with somebody, and of fucking course, he’d pick now to rouse and be a light sleeper. The head of his bed sits in a way that he wouldn’t be able to see down the hall toward our room unless he sat up and really focused, especially in the dark, but I’d rather not risk it.

“Shooter,” Sterling growls, and if my mouth wasn’t currently stuffed full, I’d laugh at the way it trails off into a whispered moan when I take him deep in my throat again.

A groan sounds from the front of the camper, Sterling going stock-still. “You guys awake?” Cope asks.

I roll my eyes, but don’t stop. Glancing up at Sterling, he’s watching me, a horrified look on his face. I pull off enough to whisper as hushed as possible, “Better answer him,” before I’m swallowing him down again.

“Uh…” Sterling clears his throat, his fingernails digging into my shoulder painfully. That’ll leave a mark. “Y-yeah, I am. Shooter is, ahh—asleep already.”

It’s silent for a moment, and then, “Go to fucking sleep, dude. It’s like…late o’clock.”

I can’t help the little snicker of a laugh that comes out around Sterling’s dick, and based on the scowl etched onto his face, I’d say he doesn’t find it nearly as funny as I do. But based on the way his dick is dripping onto my tongue like a faucet, it’s clear he doesn’t exactly want me to stop either.

Reaching up, I cup his balls, toying with them for a moment as my mouth resumes work on his dick. I trail from his balls to his smooth taint. He sucks in a gulp of air as my fingers work circles gently into the area, eliciting another soft moan and a delicious drop of pre-cum onto my tongue. He’s close, I know it.

I’m proven correct when my fingers sink back a little farther, circling around his puckered hole, not trying to get inside, just massaging, and he spills his release down my throat. Both hands are on my shoulders now, gripping tight as he does his best to remain silent. Spoiler alert: he isn’t successful. Thankfully, we haven’t heard any more from Cope, so he’s hopefully, maybe, possibly back to sleep.

I suck him until the last drop comes out, and then go a little longer, swallowing down everything he gives me. When I take him out of my mouth, I sit back and glance up at him. He’s out of breath, his chest rising and falling rapidly. Sterling drags a hand through his hair, looking both exhausted and frazzled as fuck.

Standing up, I adjust myself. I’m painfully hard, but we don’t have time to take care of that issue without risking Cope waking up for real. Sterling bends down, pulling up only his briefs before stepping out of his jeans. His gaze jerks in my direction, and he looks… awkward. Like he isn’t quite sure what to do from here.

Huffing out a laugh, I teasingly tap the palm of my hand against his cheek. “Goodnight, Addams.”

His brows furrow. “Wha—I mean, don’t you…” Without finishing his sentence, he indicates with his hand toward my crotch. “You know.”

I shake my head. “Nah, it’s cool. We don’t wanna wake him up.”

“You’re sure?”

No. There’s nothing more that I want than for him to choke on my dick right now, but that’s not fucking possible.

“Yes. Now, go to sleep.”

13

Sterling Addams

It’s bright as fuck this morning, the sun beating down, not a damn cloud in the sky. It’s no later than eight, but I can already tell it’s going to be a warm day. Well, warm for early spring in Colorado. It smells earthy and fresh out here, and there’re birds chirping in the distance. A happy energy flits around the campsite too.

And then there’s me…preferring to dig my head in the sand and hide from everybody. Colt’s making bacon and eggs for us all on the grill while I’m cutting up some fresh fruit that we picked up from the market yesterday, a few miles from the campsite. Shooter went with Boone to get coffee for everyone, so I thankfully haven’t had to face him after what happened last night. I still don’t know how I feel about it.

He has this infuriating way of getting under my skin, making my blood pressure raise with anger, only to turn around and speed up my pulse with that flirty little grin of his, and the way he devours me with his eyes. Prior to moving back to Copper Lake—no, correction; prior to meeting Shooter in Vegas in December—I liked to think my self-preservation and self-control were pretty on point. Not perfect, because nobody is, but maybe above average.

Now, though? No. I’m weak. All it takes for me to fold is a pair of baby blues and a few dirty, taunting words. And it’s probably all part of his grand plan to get me out of the way so he can win.

I’m so lost in my head, I don’t even hear Cope walking up until he’s standing right beside me, slapping a hand on my back. He’s somebody else I’ve tried desperately to avoid all morning. I can’t even look him in the eye.

“How’s it going, man?”

I glance over, giving him a weak smile. “Oh, you know, super great.”

He plucks a piece of cantaloupe from the bowl that I just cut up, plopping it into his mouth, groaning as he chews like it’s the best damn fruit he’s ever eaten. When he’s done, I feel his gaze against the side of my face, but I don’t look.

“You know you don’t have to be embarrassed, right?”

A cold chill races down my spine, shoulders hiking up to my ears. Shit. I really didn’t think he saw anything. I know he’d woken up, but it was so brief, I was sure.

Laughing awkwardly, I say, “Uh, not sure what you mean.”

I can feel how red my face is right now. The pulse in my ears is frantic, a wild beat like a stampede, and I grip the handle to the knife a little tighter to ground myself.

Cope shoves me lightly with his elbow. “Right. We’ll go with that,” he quips, humor lacing his words. “But word of advice from one bronc rider, who’s constantly on the road with other dudes, to another: if you’re going to jerk off in a small space with other people, at least make sure you’re quiet about it.”

My head snaps in his direction as he chuckles and walks away. He thought I was jacking off. He didn’t know I was hooking up with Shooter. But oh, my God, he thinks I was jacking off. I honestly don’t know which one is freaking worse. And the kicker? I thought I was silent.

Jesus.

My mortification hasn’t left, even after eating. If anything, it’s only gotten worse with Cope and Shooter sitting on the picnic table beside mine. It feels like they’re talking about me. Or staring at me. Would Shooter go along with the masturbating story? Would he tell him the truth? They are best friends, so why wouldn’t he?

“Hey!” Daisy slides into the seat beside me, a bright smile on her face, hair tied back in two braids hanging down the front of her shoulders. She always smells like fresh honeydew. It’s comforting in a way I can’t quite explain. “You’ve been quiet all morning. You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” I lie, feeling like shit about it.

“Wanna go for a short hike down to the creek?”

“Right now?”

“Yeah. I think we’re hitting the road in a few hours.”

Nodding, I say, “Okay, sounds good. Let’s go.”

We both get up, tossing our breakfast plates away before heading in the direction of the trails, but not before my focus shifts to where Shooter is sitting, finding him already watching me, eyes narrowed.

What the hell?

Daisy was right when she said the hike was short. About a mile or so of walking later, we find ourselves at a small creek surrounded by a bed of rocks. Sitting down, the sound of the running water is soothing, calming. We’re both unusually quiet, and I know she can tell something is up. While I’ve only known her for a few months, we’ve definitely gotten pretty close since leaving for the circuit. Maybe I can talk to her about this.

I mean, it is her brother, so that may be a little weird…but maybe not?

Like she can sense my inner turmoil, she nudges me with her elbow. “What’s going on?” she asks softly, picking up a smooth rock and tossing it into the water in a similar fashion to how I watched Shooter do just last night.

They’re more alike than I think either of them like to believe, Daisy and Shooter. They have the same eyes—shape and color. The same dirty blonde hair. The exact same drive when it comes to rodeo and getting what they want. They both get small wrinkles around their eyes when they smile too hard. They also both hate grilled asparagus. I don’t know why I remembered that.

Glancing over at her, she smiles softly at me, and I try to return the gesture. I blow out a breath, deciding to just go for it. Whatever happens, happens.

“Can I, uh… Can I talk to you about something, and you promise to keep it between us?”

“Yeah, of course. What’s going on?”

“It’s about your brother.”

Her smile falters for a single beat. “Oh, gosh, what did he do now?”

Lead rocks drop into my gut and my body flushes hot as I try to figure out how to say all of this to her. It feels weird telling her now, since it originally happened so long ago. Like, is she going to be upset that I didn’t tell her right away? I don’t want to lose her friendship.

“Sterling?”

I shake that worry from my head. “I didn’t tell you about this before because I assumed it wouldn’t happen again… but then it did. And now, I just need to talk to someone about it, but I understand if it’s a little weird since he’s your brother, but you’re basically the only person here that I’d consider my—”

“Sterling,” she repeats, cutting me off with a hand to my shoulder. “Calm down. Whatever it is, just say it.”

“I hooked up with Shooter at a bar in Vegas after NFR last December.” The confession comes out in one large exhale.

Daisy’s eyes go wide. “Oh… my.”

I look away. “And then we made out again last week at Clem’s family’s house.”

“Alright.”

“Then he gave me a blow job last night.” Turning my head, I wince as I meet her gaze.

Blinking a few times, she asks, “Is that all?”

“Cope was in the camper and woke up during it, but he was half asleep and thinks I was just jacking off. Which is also kind of, equally, if not more, embarrassing than the truth.”

She stares at me for a moment, the silence between us daunting. Then, she throws her head back…and laughs. A loud, grab-your-stomach, can’t-catch-your-breath type of laugh. While I sit beside her, gawking, and wondering what on earth could be that funny. When she glances over at me, tears in her eyes, the sight of me makes her laugh even harder.

“I’m glad I can be a source of amusement for you,” I deadpan.

“I’m sorry,” she sputters, wiping a stray tear under her eye. “I don’t mean to laugh, but my gosh, that was not what I was expecting at all.”

“Well, what were you expecting?”

“I don’t know, maybe that he was a dick to you. Not that he was giving his dick to you.” Laughter barks out of her before she adds, “Okay, ew. But you gotta admit, that was a good one.”

Daisy waggles her brows at me, and I can’t help but let go of some of the tension between my shoulders as I laugh with her, already feeling lighter having told her, even though she’s giving me shit about it. Truthfully, if the roles were reversed, I probably would do the same.

“Okay, okay.” She wipes her face one last time, returning her focus to me. “Let’s get serious. NFR—your first time meeting him, yes?”

I nod, cheeks heating.

She nods too. “Okay, that’s no biggie. One-night stands happen all the time, especially on the road.”

I glance away as I mutter under my breath, “Yeah, but not to me.”

“Not a wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am—or I guess sir—kinda guy?”

“You could say that.”

“Do you like Shooter?” she asks gently. “Like, are you into him?”

“No way,” I blurt out. “Nope. It’s not like that.”

“So, then what’s the problem?”

There’s no judgement in her tone, and I appreciate that.

Picking at a very interesting piece of skin around my thumb, I shrug, not really knowing what to say. “I don’t know. I guess I’m just confused. He’s so hot and cold. One minute, it’s like he can’t stand me—and the feeling is quite mutual—but the next, he’s…I don’t know, flirty Shooter. And I’ve never done this, so I don’t—”

“Wait,” she cuts me off. “When you say never done this, are we still talking about the one-night stand… or more?”

My body stiffens, knowing this was coming. It’s not that I’m ashamed, but I’ve chosen to not talk about it that often because any time I do, a slew of judgement comes, like I’m some alien. But I know Daisy isn’t like that, so heaving a sigh, I look her in the eye and say, “I mean, I’ve never done any of this. None of it.”

“So, you’re a—”

“Virgin, yes.”

“Oh! Okay,” she chirps, nodding. “You’re just full of surprises this morning.”

We both laugh, despite me feeling suffocatingly uncomfortable.

“Are you religious, or like, waiting for the right person?”

“No.” I shake my head. “It’s nothing like that. It’s that I grew up in a pretty conservative town in Texas. There weren’t exactly a lot of out guys, and I’m terrible at reading people. Didn’t want to hit on the wrong person and end up bloody, you know? And then the older I got, the more into rodeo I became, that was my one goal. I guess I was just focused, and the opportunity never presented itself.”

“That makes sense.” Daisy turns her body so she’s facing me completely, sitting crisscross. “And then with Shooter?”

“I was drunk, and he was just…there. He was Shooter freaking Graham, the man who just won the world title at bareback bronc riding. He’s practically a sex symbol. I know you’re his sister, but you have to know that. And I don’t know, I guess it was also I was in a brand-new city for the night, where nobody knew who I was, and I was free to be whatever I wanted to be. So, the opportunity presented itself.”

She blows out a breath, threading her hands together in her lap. “Listen, I will never judge you, never tell you what you should or shouldn’t do.”

“Why am I sensing a but here?”

Chuckling, she goes on. “But I know Shooter pretty damn well. He’s never been in a relationship. Like, ever. I’ve never known him to do strings. And you’re right…he’s a sex symbol in the rodeo world. Women want him. Men want him. And he knows it. He’s cocky, full of himself, and he loves the attention.

“Shooter has always loved the attention.” Daisy reaches over and takes my hand, squeezing a few times. “I guess what I’m trying to say in plain terms is, please be careful. I know you said you aren’t into him like that, but I know what it’s like to experience first times, and while it may not be the same for everybody, it’s easy to get attached. To form feelings you swore you’d never have. And it’s easy to get your heart broken when you least expect it. And Shooter, he’s a heartbreaker. I love my brother, but it’s true.”

“You don’t say,” I tease with a laugh that comes out drier than I intend. “But seriously, thanks, Dais. I appreciate being able to confide in you. I felt like I was going to explode if I didn’t get this off my chest.”

“I’m always here, buuuut if you could maybe keep the raunchy details to yourself, that’d be great.”

Sharing a laugh, I feel ten pounds lighter.

14

Shooter Graham

Goddamn, I’m going out of my mind today. We left the campsite about forty-five minutes ago, and the entire time I’ve been hyper focused on the fact that Sterling is sitting directly behind me in the truck. The hair on my arms and on the back of my neck is standing straight up, goosebumps keep brushing over my flesh, and the overwhelming urge to turn around to do nothing more than look at him is insane.

When he left to go on a hike with Daisy this morning, I contemplated telling Cope. It was right there, begging for me to spill the words, but I didn’t. For some reason, a huge part of me wants to keep this to myself. Keep him to myself.

Last night was… It was fucking hot. And not just because we were so close to getting caught. The way Sterling was so clearly nervous, but also very much into it—the war he had within himself that he wore vividly in his expression. The way his honey-colored eyes darkened as he watched me. As he watched his dick disappear between my lips. His bruising grip on my shoulders. And fuck me, the way he tasted on my tongue when he couldn’t hold it together any longer.

I’m already thinking of ways I can do it again. Although, he hasn’t said more than two words to me all morning, so maybe he’s not interested in a round two—or, well, I guess round three, if you count the first time in Vegas.

My phone vibrates in my lap, eyes dropping to take in the lit-up screen. Dad. Jesus Christ, he’s relentless. I’ve ignored every call of his since I lost, knowing all he wants to do is go over how shitty I competed and what I could’ve done differently. And frankly, I’m just not in the fucking mood to hear it. But I’m going to have to take his call eventually. We’re set to head back to Copper Lake in a few weeks for a three-night rodeo event before we’re back on the road again, and that little trip home will be so much worse if I wait until then to let him tear into me.

He's like a pesky, sticky Band-Aid. I just need to rip it off already and deal with it. But despite my loss, I’m in a great fucking mood, and talking to him will only ruin that. So, at least for the next few days, I’m choosing to ignore him.

I do, however, shoot off a text to my sister, a smirk on my lips as I do.

Me: Give me Sterling’s phone number.

Her response is almost instant, and I can hear the snark between her words.

Daisy: Whatever happened to “hello, how are you?”

Me: Daisy… now.

Daisy: How about a fucking ‘please’ first, asshole?

Me: Please.

Daisy: No.

Me: Now who’s the asshole?

Daisy: Still you.

Me: Daisy… give me the damn number. Please.

Daisy: Sorry, too busy flirting with him currently to assist you.

She sends a snarky faced emoji, and I roll my eyes. Okay, so maybe I overreacted last night by the fire. Not that I’d ever tell her that.

When I don’t respond, she sends another text.

Daisy: You’re in the same truck as him, Shooter. Why the hell would you need his phone number? Just talk?

Me: Because maybe I don’t need everybody else in the car to be all up in my business.

Daisy: You mean Copeland? Your best friend.

Me: Your point?

Daisy: He’s too good for you.

My eyebrows fly into my hairline as I re-read her text. I fight the urge to turn in my seat and look at Sterling.

Me: Excuse me?

Daisy: Never mind. I’ll give you his number but don’t be a fucking dick.

She sends his contact through, and I immediately pull up a new message and paste his number in, a spark of something flutters in my stomach that I refuse to put a name to.

Me: It’s Shooter. Daisy gave me your number.

I can hear the vibration from the backseat, as well as the sigh that comes from him, and I can’t help the smirk that grows on my lips.

Sterling: I know. She asked me if it was okay before giving it to you.

Me: Aw, isn’t that sweet.

Sterling: What do you want?

Me: Just wanted to tell you how much I thoroughly enjoyed sucking your dick last night. *wink emoji*

Sterling: That’s it? You went through all that trouble to get my phone number to tell me THAT?

Me: Well, yeah. I mean, you enjoyed it too, right?

His nonchalance makes my palms sweat. Honestly, I’m not used to shit like this. Not only do I hardly ever speak to my hookups again, but when I do, they’re usually flirty and all over me. This is… odd. I don’t like it.

Sterling: Sure. It was okay.

Reading his message, my eyes bug out of my head. Okay?! Okay! Is he for fucking real?

“What?”

My head snaps to my left, seeing Cope looking at me before returning his focus to the road.

“Huh?”

“You just blurted out the word okay out of nowhere,” he tells me. “Okay what?”

The distinct sound of sniggering comes from the backseat, and my back goes ramrod straight, my face heating up.

Didn’t fucking mean to say that out loud.

“Nothing, never mind,” I blurt out, locking my phone and shoving it into the cup holder. “I’m taking a nap until we get there.”

I’m still not fucking sleeping much, and it’s starting to get to me. Even last night, after everything that happened, I figured I would lie down and have no trouble falling asleep.

Nope.

Not the case at all.

I laid there, tossing and turning, for probably close to three hours before I was able to fall asleep, only to wake up a few hours later when Cope and Sterling were waking up. I’m fucking exhausted, and we aren’t even halfway through the season yet.

Even now, with my head pressed against the glass and my eyes closed, I’m not able to turn my mind off enough to sleep at all, despite how fucking tired I feel. About twenty minutes from where we’re going, all of us stop at a convenience store to stock up on snacks. But me? I load up on energy drinks. Clearly, I’m going to need an abundance of caffeine if I want to make it through the day semi-alive.

We all decided to stop at a carnival on our way to Elder Village, our next rodeo stop. None of us have ever been to this place, but it seems like it could be fun.

After paying for my plethora of energy drinks, I head back out to the truck and shove them onto the passenger seat before pulling out my pack of smokes and lighting one up while I wait for everyone else. The nicotine at least helps give my head a little buzz, something that’s not just pure exhaustion. It’s bright as fuck out, and I’ve got my sunglasses on, so when Sterling steps outside, I unabashedly check him out from head to toe, knowing he most likely can’t see me.

He's dressed plainly in a white tee, a pair of dark denim Wranglers, brown boots, and a Smoky Boy Whiskey trucker hat. They’re one of his sponsors and sent him a bunch of merch before we all hit the road. He’s walking side by side with Daisy, and she must say something funny because he throws his head back and lets out a laugh. The sound is melodic and rich. Something bitter and clutching swarms my gut, watching them two together. How carefree he is with her.

I don’t like it.

Orange filter clamped down between my teeth, I inhale a drag as they get closer. Not that they pay me any mind. They finish whatever conversation they were having, another round of laughter, before she gets back in her truck, and he heads over to where I’m at to climb back in. The swarming in my gut only intensifies watching him get inside without so much as a single word or a glance my way.

How is he not all over me right now? I know I blew his mind last night. Why is he acting so blasé?

15

Sterling Addams

County fairs, or fairs in general, are interesting, because they’re equally tons of fun and painstakingly overwhelming. Too many people. Too many rides. Usually not enough space. Admittedly, I’ve only been a handful of times in my entire life, and they were always small, low-level townie ones. Unlike the one we’re at today, which is huge and crowded and buzzing with the juicy, potent anticipation that can only come from places like this. From the greasy, no-good-for-you food, to the rides that seem like they shouldn’t be safe to ride on, you can’t help but feel a sense of giddiness stepping foot in here.

We’ve been here for a few hours now, the weather nice and warm, but not uncomfortable. Daisy and I slipped away from the group just now to get an elephant ear and a slushie. You cannot go to a fair and not get one of these; it’s law. She got cherry; I got blue raspberry—clearly the superior flavor. The rest of the group are heading to where the livestock are at, and we’ll meet them there when we’re done. Jack, our agent, apparently set up some publicity for Shooter, Cope, and Daisy here when he heard we were passing through; teaching kids about the rodeo—bronc riding, barrel racing, the basics, the ins and outs… that kind of thing.

Thank God, I didn’t get roped into this. Not because I don’t enjoy being around kids, but because I’m kind of awkward in front of an audience unless I’m actually bronc riding. When I’m riding, I’m so focused on doing what I need to do, making sure my body is how it should be, and being sure I’m in tune with my bronc, that I don’t have time to worry about all the eyes on me and what they could be thinking. I’m sure the only reason I’m off the hook is because I’m still technically a nobody in the pro world, even though I won last weekend, and all three of them who are scheduled to do it are huge in our world.

Daisy and I sit at an empty picnic table across from one another as we dig in. She glances at me, and I know it’s coming. I’m not even surprised when she opens her mouth and says, “So, what did Shooter want your number for?” Waggling her brows, she laughs as I roll my eyes, with a smirk tilting on my lips at her ridiculousness.

“Nothing, really,” I reply, shoving a chunk of the sweet fried bread in my mouth. After I finish chewing, I add, “Said he had fun last night, but honestly, it seemed like he was only fishing for compliments.”

Daisy barks out a laugh. “Yup, sounds like my brother.”

“I’ve never met anybody with an ego as large as his,” I say. “When he seemingly didn’t get what he was looking for, he pouted and pretended to nap the rest of the drive.”

“I think you may be the first person who’s ever not fallen all over at his feet. Probably driving him nuts.”

“Who knows, but either way, I’m really not interested in the games he seems to play. The hot and cold stuff. Part of me feels like he’s only doing it to try to get in my head in hopes of messing up my chances of beating him.”

“Maybe.” She shrugs. “You ride better than most guys out there, so I’m sure he feels threatened, even if only a little bit, and even if he’ll never admit it. It’s not often someone so green and fresh out of the gate beats a world champ so early in their career.” Checking her watch, she raises to a stand. “Come on. We gotta get to the arena.”

When we get over there, Shooter and Cope are already each working with a group of kids. They vary in age; some small, others teenagers. Daisy leaves me to head down there too, so I sit on the bleachers beside Jessie and Colt, watching everything. I’m surprised to see how good Shooter is with the kids. He’s patient and calm, he explains everything in detail and thoroughly, and he does it with an air of lightness that I can tell makes the kids feel at ease. Especially when he has them work with the horses.

His smile is genuine, and when he helps them up onto the horses, he’s careful and makes sure to stick close by in case they need him. There’s a photographer snapping pictures here and there, but he hardly pays them any mind. The cocky, full-of-himself version of Shooter I’m so used to is nowhere to be found.

Somehow, I manage to drag my eyes away from him for long enough to take in the others and their groups of kids. Wide, bright smiles are all around the whole arena, laughter and small squeals fill the space. And as if there’s an invisible rope attaching Shooter to me, I can’t help but shift my focus back to him. It feels like I’m seeing this hidden side of him, that maybe I’m not supposed to see. It tugs at something in my chest, squeezing and tightening, watching him teach these eager kids, answering all their questions, and doing it all with that signature smirk of his that would make even the strongest individual weak in the knees.

Dammit.

As if he can feel my gaze on him, Shooter’s head turns, blue eyes locking with mine. Grin blinding at catching me watching him, he winks before returning his attention to the kids like it never happened. Shaking my head with a huff of laughter, I reach into my pocket, where my phone is buzzing away. It’s my dad.

Excusing myself from Jessie and Colt, I step outside of the arena and answer, bringing the phone up to my ear.

“Hey, Dad.”

“Sterling!” The smile in his voice is evident. “You’re on speaker with me and your mom.”

“How are you, honey?” The question comes from my mom. “We miss you!”

“I miss you guys too. I’m good. We stopped at a county fair in some small town in Colorado so some of the group could do some publicity, but tomorrow we head to Elder Village for our next stop.”

“We are so proud of you, son,” Dad says, and I can’t help the grin that grows wide on my face. “Got a little surprise for you.”

“Oh, yeah? What is it?”

I hear my mom giggle before my dad continues. “We’re flying up to see you during Stampede Days.”

My heart squeezes in my chest. “Wait, are you serious?”

“Of course, we’re serious,” Mom quips with a chuckle. “We already spoke to Conrad, and he’s letting us stay in his guest room while we’re there. It’ll only be for two nights, but we couldn’t not come see you in action!”

This is huge, and I’m buzzing with excitement now. There’s still a few weeks left until we’re back in Copper Lake for Stampede Days, an annual seven-day outdoor rodeo and western celebration. It’s a massive event that brings in people from all over surrounding areas. Aside from NFR, this is the highlight of our rodeo season. Not only is it held in our town, but it’s also a huge weekend for rodeo points. I wouldn’t necessarily say it’ll make or break your season, but it will set the stage for the rest of it.

“What days are y’all coming?”

“The fourth and fifth,” Dad replies. “With the fourth being a holiday, it was easy to get time off work to come, and we’ve been saving up miles on our credit card for the plane tickets.”

Chucking, I card my fingers through my hair. “This is a great surprise, guys. I can’t wait to introduce you to everyone.”

“Well, hey, listen,” Dad cuts in. “We gotta get going, son. We just wanted to be able to tell you the news.”

“Keep up the great work, honey,” Mom coos. “We are so dang proud of you!”

“Thanks, Mom. Love you guys.”

“We love you too!”

Hanging up, I shove my phone into my pocket and head back into the arena. It’s not much longer before we’re wrapping up and hitting the road again. The drive to Elder Village isn’t too far; Cope, Shooter, and I stop at the store on our way there to grab food for dinner and breakfast, while the rest of the crew heads straight to the campsite.

Cheeseburgers, hot dogs, and baked potatoes are done up on the grill while we all listen to music and drink beer, building a fire, and just hanging out. Everything about rodeo season is redundant. Driving to a new town, staying for a couple of nights to compete, then driving to the next town, repeat. You’d think it would get boring, or you’d get tired of hanging out with the same people, eating the same food, doing the same shit. But there’s nothing boring about it.

It's a miracle that all of us jive together as well as we do. Nights at the campsites are nothing short of a good time.

After a while, when everyone starts trickling off to bed, I decide to take advantage of the showers they have here. Not all sites have full showers. Some are just those quarter insert ones that give you barely enough lukewarm water to wash your hair and body. This place has a full area with locker room style showers, and you bet your ass I’m going to enjoy a nice, long, hot shower.

I’m just stepping into the shower, my phone playing music, when I hear the door to the entrance open. Ignoring it, I stand under the spray, letting the water trickle down on my head. The curtain to my stall opens, the sound alerting me to peer over my shoulder, my stomach lurching into my throat when I see who it is entering my stall.

16

Shooter Graham

Okay, so maybe it’s a teensy bit presumptuous of me to be in here right now, naked with nothing more than a towel around my waist, as I take in Sterling in all his wet, nude glory. I’m also well aware this could blow up right in my face, especially considering how he’s been treating me today. I don’t fucking care, though. Let it blow up in my face.

But I don’t think it will, because underneath the wide eyes and the lips parted with surprise, there’s the desire that matches my own. His honey irises are consumed by pupils, making them appear pitch black. He swallows roughly as he drags his gaze down my body, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, and I catch the faintest of shivers racking through him. His cheeks stain a beautiful pink color that I don’t think has anything to do with the heat of the shower and everything to do with me standing here in front of him.

“Wh-what are you doing in here?”

His body shifts a little, like he isn’t sure if he wants to turn away from me or not. He doesn’t immediately tell me to get the fuck out, though, so that’s gotta be a good sign.

Shrugging lazily, I smirk. “Figured I’d get in a nice, hot shower before bed.” Taking a step toward him, I untuck the towel around my waist, hanging it up beside his. He swallows hard, eyes dipping down for the briefest of moments before jumping back up to meet mine. “That okay with you?” I ask tauntingly.

“In here?” he squeaks. “Aren’t there other open stalls you could use?”

I don’t miss the way his chest rises and falls at a more rapid pace than when I first got in here, my proximity clearly having an effect on him.

Smirk growing, I graze my hand underneath the spray right by his chest, letting the water drench it. “Where’s the fun in that, Addams?”

He rolls his eyes. I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from chuckling. Even when he’s nervous, he can’t help but be a little bit of a brat. “Showers aren’t supposed to be fun,” he says pointedly.

Reaching for the shampoo, I pop open the top, pouring a quarter-sized amount into my palm, shifting my gaze to him, brow arched. “Says who? I think you’ve been talking to the wrong kind of people.”

Nervous eyes track my every move, and when I step in front of him, he inhales sharply. “What are you doing?”

“I’m going to get you nice and clean,” I murmur as I bring my lathered hands up to his scalp, threading them through the wet strands. “Only to turn around and dirty you up again.”

Music plays softly from his phone in the corner as we fall into a tense type of silence. Well, tense for him. With his shoulders nearly up to his ears and his lungs barely taking in any oxygen, he’s internally panicking, I’m sure of it. Like before in the camper, his body language and attitude are so different from his usual snarky personality. Outside of the metaphorical bedroom, he’s got no issues standing tall up against me, throwing back whatever I toss his way.

But behind closed doors, where the clothes come off, he’s shy. Timid. And fuck if that doesn’t just rev my engine right up. Makes him seem so sweet and corruptible. Even if that’s not the case, the imagery is still hot as hell.

Sterling and I are nearly the same height, eye to eye. He’s got maybe an inch on me, if that. Bottom lip cherry red from where he’s chewing on it, his gaze keeps alternating between my eyes and my mouth. He doesn’t say anything, but his breathing is coming out in harsh pants, fingers flexing and tightening into fists at his sides.

Once finished working the shampoo into his hair, I turn his body toward the spray to rinse the suds out. His eyes fall closed, as to not get any shampoo in them, and I allow myself a moment to sweep my gaze over his bare-naked body. A tendril of heat flares through my abdomen, taking in his tight, lean figure right down to the small patch of brown pubic hair leading to an impressive erection practically begging to be touched.

Oh, you just wait, buddy. We’ll get to you. Don’t you worry.

As I run my fingers through his hair under the spray, he lets out these little soft moans that shoot straight to my balls. Once I’m sure it’s all rinsed out, I move on to body wash. Seeing as we’re not home right now, there’s no sponge or washcloth, leaving me to lather him up with my hands alone. Such a hardship.

Sterling’s eyes are back open and watching my every move. Each arm I scrub, the way I work my way across his chest and down his abdomen, breath hitching when I drop to my knees and lather each leg. His hand rests on my shoulder firmly as I wash each foot gently before I work my way back up his legs for a second time. If possible, his eyes darken even more when it’s time for me to wash his most intimate areas.

Before touching it with my soapy fingers, I lean in, sucking just the tip of his dick into my mouth, peering up at him from beneath my lashes. Similar to the other night, his gaze is hungry. Lips parted on a soundless moan, hand still gripping my shoulder, he watches wordlessly as I suckle and twirl my tongue around, lapping up the pre-cum that drips out. After a few heady beats, I pull back, replacing my mouth with my hands, cleaning the shaft, all the way down to his patch of hair, before moving on to his heavy, relaxed balls, and then even farther back, along his taint.

Sterling sucks in a gulp of air as my fingers caress along the sensitive area, alternating between hard and soft touches.

Sitting back, I whirl a finger in the air, silently telling him to turn around. He does, and I have to bite back the groan threatening to come out because my God does he have the nicest bubble butt I think I’ve ever seen. Unable to help myself, I rinse my hands off, bringing both to the round, firm globes, and give them both a squeeze before leaning in and—

“Ouch,” Sterling yelps, glancing over his shoulder. “Did you just… bite me?”

“Sure did.” I flash him a grin. “Now hush and let me get back to work.”

He grumbles—pretty sure just for show at this point—and begrudgingly does as I ask, turning back around. I spread him open with my hands, leaning forward, and roam over his crease with my nose. Inhaling deeply, I take in his musky, earthy scent, my mouth watering in anticipation. What I wouldn’t give to have him sprawled out on a huge bed, naked and hard, ready for me to devour every single inch of him. I could spend hours back here, worshipping his cock and savoring his ass.

Fuck, the noises he’d make if he didn’t have to be quiet. In my mind’s eye, he’d scream, his knuckles would blanch against the tight grip he’d have on the sheets, and his thighs would quiver where they were perched over my shoulders. He’d flush a brilliant red from his cheeks down to his chest, and a sheen of sweat would line his body as he fought to hold it together. But I don’t want him to hold it together.

I want him to fracture. To break apart into a million little pieces because of me.

I want him writhing and panting and needy.

I want him out of breath and begging for more, but not knowing if he could handle more.

I want to taste his desperation and breathe in his destruction. His downfall. The moment when he can’t hold on any longer, when the dam breaks and he shatters so beautifully for me.

And I can’t fucking do that in a tiny public shower stall where anybody could come in and hear us. But that’s not to say I can’t still have him in a different way. That we can’t still have a little bit of fun under the spray.

Resisting the urge to taste him, because I know if I start, I won’t be able to stop; I tap on his thigh until he peeks behind himself at me. “Body wash, please,” I request, holding my hand out.

I pour a tiny drop into my palm, handing him the bottle back before lathering up my hands and bringing them back to his juicy, plump cheeks. I massage the soap into his skin, making sure to swipe along his crease too. As soon as I’m done, I raise to a stand, rinse my hands off, and then turn him to wash the suds off his body. The whole time, the air is crackling between us, the tension thick, my entire body tingling with anticipation, and when his eyes dip to my lips again, I can’t help myself.

Leaning in, lips a breath away from his, I smirk when he inhales sharply, waiting a beat before sealing our mouths together. As if it’s an automatic movement, his hands find my hips, holding me there. My tongue slides along the seam of his lips, and when he opens for me, I slip inside. He always tastes so fucking good, every time I kiss him. Shoving him until his back hits the side of the stall, I bring my arms up, palms planting beside his head, boxing him in.

We make out for a minute, our bodies now flush, his erection brushing along mine, the sensation maddening with our slick bodies. Pulling back only slightly, I smile at the dazed look on his face, brushing my thumb across his puffy bottom lip.

“I wanna fuck you, dirty boy,” I tell him, my voice taking on a husky edge.

Sterling’s eyes go wide, almost comically so. “H-here?”

Nodding my head, I say, “Mmhmm.”

“But… but what if someone walks in?”

“What if they don’t?”

“Shooter…” My name is a breathless plea falling off his lips.

“Sterling,” I shoot back before dipping my head forward and flicking my tongue into his mouth. He closes his lips around the muscle, sucking on it and making me groan. His eyes sear into mine as he does it, and when he lets go, I know I’ve got him. “Is that a yes?”

17

Sterling Addams

Ohmygod…

My head feels light, dizzy. Probably from the redirection of blood flow all routing south into my painfully hard, throbbing dick. Shooter’s body is pressed flush against mine, and I’m certain that’s the only reason I’m still standing. Lack of blood flow to your limbs will do that, I’m sure. I’m no doctor or expert, but I’d imagine so.

Sharp teeth nip along my jaw, a sting that hurts so good, hips rocking into mine, an erotic slip and slide, sending bolts of pleasure to every corner of my hazy mind and my coiled tight body. Shooter asked me something… but in this moment, with his lips on my neck, his tongue mapping out every vein and tendon, I can’t for the life of me remember what it was. He’s everywhere. I can’t think or breathe or do anything but stand here, against this wall, at his mercy.

Which, honestly, is probably exactly how he likes it.

A thrashing heat rips through my abdomen as he reaches around me with one of his hands, gripping a solid handful of my ass, squeezing and kneading. Images of him spreading my cheeks open, his nose dragging along my crease flash in my mind, and a whimper falls from my lips. It was mortifying, but so, so good. How can an act that’s so embarrassing in hindsight be so damn hot?

Taking my earlobe between his teeth, he tugs, not so gently, enough to make me gasp, before his tongue flicks out, soothing it. “An answer, Addams,” he growls, the deep rumble vibrating from his chest into mine.

A shiver rolls through me, despite being not even a little bit cold. Quite the opposite, actually. I’m burning up, an inferno raging and spreading in my veins. A type of heat unlike anything I’ve ever felt before; not even the other night when he was on his knees for me in the camper, the fear of getting caught amping up every single sensation.

This is like that, but tenfold.

Swallowing thickly, trying to bring some moisture back to my desert dry mouth, I ask, “Wh-what was the question again?”

His deep chuckle slides over me as he pulls back just barely, fingers coming up to grip my chin, his blue eyes glossy and dark, bottomless, making me think he’s about as gone as I feel. I don’t know why, but I like that thought. That he’s not any more unfazed as I am.

“Me fucking you, right here,” he reminds me. “Yes? No? Maybe so?”

When he grins, all wide and bright, at me, it burrows into my gut, a flutter dancing around.

Am I going to let him fuck me? In a shower stall, of all places? Yes.

I nod with fervor, biting down on my bottom lip to tamp down on the anticipation and electricity buzzing through me right now.

Shooter shakes his head. “I need to hear you say the words.”

“I uh… Yes.”

A rough, calloused hand wraps around my hot, hard length, stroking from root to tip, a broken gasp falling from my mouth. Shooter’s lips return to my neck, nipping, sucking, licking, the sensation, paired with his hand stroking and twisting sensually on my cock, is almost too much. At this rate, I’m going to come before he even attempts to get inside of me.

Even more so when he brings his lips right up against the shell of my ear and tells me a string of filthy things.

“Your cock feels so good in my hand. So smooth. So hard. Begging for me to play with it. Weeping for me.”

Groaning, I let my head loll back, hitting against the shower stall with a thud.

“Can’t wait to turn you around, spread you open for me, and slide my big, thick cock into that tight ass of yours. Hear those sweet little moans you make as I stretch you.”

“Oh, my God.” Every part of my body feels hypersensitive right now. Even his hot breath fanning my neck is a sensation unlike any other. “S-slow… down,” I plead. “I’m gonna… I’m…”

Words escape me. I clearly can’t speak right now, but thankfully, Shooter understands where I’m heading—or trying to—and he removes his hand from my dick. A whimper slips out of me at the loss of his touch as I try desperately to calm my body down.

“You like the idea of me fucking you, dirty boy?”

I nod, even before he has time to finish the question. I mean, why lie at this point?

Gasping when his fingers wrap around my shaft again, I let out a long, low moan, my hips thrusting into his grip of their own volition. It’s like I don’t have control over my own body when Shooter is around. What my mind knows to be true and to be right means nothing to my needy, pathetic body.

Shooter bites down on the fleshy area between my neck and shoulder. I yelp and he sniggers against my skin.

“As much as I’d love to sit here and bring you to the brink, I need inside you too much,” he growls into my ear, the words a physical touch on the most sensitive areas on my body. “I’m going to fuck you so hard and so good, you’ll never be able to forget me.”

Jesus Christ. The possessiveness in his words, while I know it’s only in the heat of the moment, does something to my insides. Something I very, very much like.

Shoving my head roughly to the side, he drags his tongue along my jaw before righting my face and sealing his mouth to mine. Shooter kisses like he rides—rough, dominant, and with his whole body. He owns me with this kiss. And he knows it.

He takes a step back, all contact removed from my body. His hungry eyes drag down the length of me, stopping a little longer on my red, throbbing cock, before gliding back up to meet mine. A cocky smirk plays around the corner of his lips as he reaches down, fisting himself tightly.

“Turn around, dirty boy,” he orders me, tone commanding, leaving no room for argument. “Hands on the wall.”

A violent shiver of anticipation, arousal, and nerves swirls down my spine as I do what he says. I glance over my shoulder, watching as he uncaps the soap, coating his fingers with a generous amount. Goosebumps erect all over my skin, heart racing in my chest as I feel his featherlight touch brush up and down my crease. With his other hand, he spreads me open, a single digit circling my hole.

Holy shit, this is happening.

Holy… shit.

It’s not like I’ve never had fingers in my ass before. But they’ve always been my own. His feel so different than mine. Nerves dance around my insides, my heart jackhammering behind my ribs. Part of me can’t believe this is happening—that it’s about to happen—but another part of me has to admit to myself in this moment that I, on some minute level, knew this was coming. Even if only subconsciously. It was always leading here, right? This push-and-pull game we’ve been playing—or, that he’s been playing. But damn, I didn’t expect to feel so nervous about it.

“Relax, Addams,” he breathes into my ear. “Bear down on my finger, let me in.”

I do, and then he’s in. Just the tip of his finger, then a little more, and then even more, until it’s all the way. Breathing harshly through my nose, I let my head hang as he works the single digit in and out before sliding another one in alongside it. His lips press hot kisses along my shoulders, his breath fanning my oversensitive skin, heightening every sensation.

Turning his hand palm down, he crooks his finger, grazing my prostate, and I swear to Christ, I see stars.

“Oh, my God.”

“That’s it,” he coos. “You like when I do that?”

I nod, my brows pinched together as he keeps massaging that sweet little spot inside of me with every thrust of his fingers. “Yes… Yes, shit.”

Before I know it, he’s got a third finger into the mix, stretching me and fucking me with them in a way I’ve never done to myself. I feel so full, and he’s not even inside of me yet. The urge to touch myself is strong, so I do.

Or, at least, I try to.

Shooter reaches around me with the hand that isn’t shoved up my ass, swatting me away. “No,” he growls, giving me a few pumps himself before letting go. And then he’s gone. The heat from his body, his fingers inside of me, all gone. Watching over my shoulder, he reaches outside the stall—I’m guessing reaching into the pocket of his pants—coming back with a gold foil packet that makes my heart pound in my chest.

This is it.

18

Shooter Graham

Ripping the foil with my teeth, I sheath my cock before peeling open the packet of lube I have, slathering it all over my length before closing the distance between us and bringing my fingers back to his hole, lubing him up properly. The soap worked fine for prepping him, but if I’m going to fuck him like I want to, he needs to be properly lubed.

His body is coiled tight, back muscles bunched as he watches me timidly over his shoulder. The way he looks at me unnerves me sometimes, like right now. His wide eyes pooling with molten honey gaze at me in a way that makes me think he can see right through me. Like he sees through the bullshit. Like he sees me.

This thing with Sterling, whatever it is, I don’t understand it. At all. I don’t understand this pull I feel to him. I don’t understand the antsy feeling I get in my gut when he isn’t around, or the flutter I feel when he shoots a look at me, or his arm brushes against mine, or he stands up to my smartass behavior.

It’s like he infuriates me, and sometimes I feel like I can’t stand him… but at the same time, I get this odd sense of pride when he throws it right back. When he doesn’t take my shit. Maybe that is what infuriates me, and not so much him. Either way, though, I’m not this guy. I don’t get fucking flutters, and I don’t text guys telling them I enjoyed our night together, and I definitely don’t have to sit in my camper with my hands practically tucked under my ass to avoid stalking a guy who clearly wants nothing to do with me.

When everyone was starting to trickle off to bed, and Sterling announced he was going to take a shower, it was visceral, the way I had to fight to not follow him.

That worked out really well.

I’m not this fucking guy. When I hook up with people, it’s rare that I even give them a second thought afterward. But something about Sterling fucking Addams has my mind all in a fucking tizzy. He’s always there, dead center.

Where’s Sterling?

What’s Sterling doing?

Did Sterling like that song I put on?

How can I get my mouth on Sterling again?

What. The. Fuck. Is. Going. On?

I just need to fuck him. Get it out of my system. Maybe after this, my mind will settle and I can forget about him. Well, forget about him as best as I can with us being on the road together. But maybe at least then, the urge to be near him, to inhale his heady scent, to breathe the same air as him, will dissipate.

Yeah, that’s gotta be it. I don’t usually have to wait and chase this much to get my dick wet. He’s a challenge. That’s all this is.

And yet when I run my gaze over his beautiful, lean, wet body, it doesn’t feel like just a chall—Nope! Knock it off, Shooter. Not fucking going there. Sterling Addams is simply an itch I need to scratch. Another notch on my belt buckle like he said a few weeks ago. That’s all this is.

Nothing more. It can’t be.

After working some more lube into Sterling, I withdraw my fingers and line the tip of my cock up with his tight little hole. He tenses immediately, something I notice he does a lot. Leaning in, I pepper kisses along his shoulder and the back of his neck, taking a moment to nuzzle my nose into his dark, wet strands, inhaling his scent. He may be soaking wet, but he still smells just as intoxicating.

“Relax for me,” I rasp against his skin.

It takes a few beats, but eventually I feel it, the way his body melts into mine. The way he bears down, trusting me enough to let me in. Giving me the control. With one hand gripping my condom clad cock, I use the other to hold on to his hip, steadying him, but also using my thumb to rub along his flesh in a way that seems to soothe him. I push forward, easing my way in until the tip slips through the first ring of muscle. He’s so fucking tight, I have to grit my teeth and breathe harshly through my nose.

Sterling’s hand flies up, grappling onto mine that’s holding his hip. His head drops forward, hanging between his shoulders, and I hear him drag in a sharp inhale of breath.

“You okay?” I ask, giving him—and me—a moment before I ease more of my length into him.

“Mmhm.” He nods a few times, letting go of my hand to plant it back on the wall. “I’m good. Just, uh, can you go slow? It’s been a while since I’ve, uh… you know, done any type of ass play.”

Even from back here, I can see how red his face is turning. I shouldn’t find his shyness as endearing as I do, but I can’t help it. Wanting to relax his nerves, I wrap my fingers around his shoulder, pulling him back into me and turning his face toward mine to fuse our mouths. His lips part immediately, a sigh breathing into my mouth as I sweep my tongue along his. Sterling kisses me back with fervor, his whole body relaxing into the touch.

With each brush of our tongues, I ease a little bit more of me into his channel, giving him time in between to adjust. By the time I’m fully seated, I’m going out of my mind with need. The grip his ass has on my cock is unreal, and if I don’t pace myself, this is going to be over before it even starts.

Our lips break apart, and he rests his head on my shoulder.

“You okay?” I ask, listening to his heavy breaths.

He nods again, a whimper falling from his lips that I feel everywhere.

Sterling looks so sexy right now, but he asked me to go slow, so by golly, I’ll go slow. Even if it kills me. His ass is squeezing the hell out of me as I ease in and out of him at a maddening pace. With his head still resting on my shoulder, he turns to face me, dark, lust-ridden eyes locking on mine, brows drawn inward, and his lips swollen and red.

“You can go harder,” he breathes out, almost too quiet to hear over the sound of the water cascading down our joined bodies.

A smirk pulls on my lips at those four words. At the invitation, the request. “Yeah? You want me to be a little rough with you, dirty boy?”

Whimpering, he nods.

“Think your tight little hole can handle all this dick?”

“Shooter…” My name rolls off his tongue as a whine, bottom lip poking out into a frustrated pout. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him look more adorable—and that isn’t a word I use often. “Please.”

Wanting to tease him and draw this out a little more, I switch to slow, shallow thrusts—barely more than the tip inside of him.

“Please what?”

Sterling narrows his eyes at me with a huff. “You know what.”

“Yeah, but I kind of wanna hear you say it out loud, Addams,” I tell him. “Wanna see your ears and your cheeks turn bright red as you ask me, knowing that your pulse is probably racing at the thought of asking me to fuck you harder. So, let me hear it, dirty boy. Let’s hear what you want me to do to you.”

He’s quiet as he chews on his bottom lip, and for a moment, I think he may flat out refuse. But then, with a sharp exhale, he says, “Please, fuck me harder.”

The grin that splits my face is blinding, I’m sure of it, chest swelling with pride. “Well, in that case…” Taking a step forward, forcing him closer to the wall, I wrap a hand around the back of his neck, the other still gripping his hip. “Shut the fuck up, Addams, and take this dick like a good boy.”

A choked sound spits out of him as I pull out and slam back in with enough force to rattle the stall his hands are planted on. He feels like heaven wrapped around me, constricting with every thrust. With his head turned to the side, cheek flat against the hard surface, I have a front-row seat to the pleasure written all over his face. He can barely keep his eyes open, and his jaw has gone slack. The noises coming out of him are divine.

“Fuck, I wish you could see how fucking good you look taking my cock,” I rasp. “The way this pretty pink hole stretches to take every last inch.” My hand slips between us, thumb tracing the strained muscle. The sight of him swallowing me up is immaculate.

Pressing down on his back, right above his ass, I force him to arch into me a little more, and in doing so, my dick pegs his prostate with each thrust. His eyes widen, lips parted as he cries out, the sound echoing in the empty room.

“That’s it,” I coo, my hips slapping up against his ass vigorously. “Let me hear you. Don’t hold back. Let everyone in this fucking campground hear how filthy you are—getting railed in a public bathroom. You're not worried about being quiet this time, are you, dirty boy?”

White-hot pleasure ricochets throughout my body; every nerve ending, every appendage, down my arms, into my toes, vibrating within me. Every part of me is immersed in what Sterling and I are doing with our bodies. Each thrust feels better than the last, each sound he makes eggs me on, pushing me closer and closer to release.

I need this. Need him.

“Oh, my God,” Sterling pants, hanging his head. “I need to c-come!”

Reaching up, my fingers thread through his curly, wet strands, yanking his head back until we’re flush again. Snaking my arm around the front of his throat, I hold him to me as my other hand dances down his abdomen, taking his hot, hard length into my palm. He hisses as soon as I make contact, his ass clenching so tight around me, I swear I go cross-eyed for a moment.

“Fuck yeah,” I moan. “Keep squeezing me like that. You feel so fucking good.” I jack him in time with my thrusts, pausing only briefly to bring my palm up to his mouth. “Spit,” I growl, my chest quaking with approval when he does.

Bringing my now spit slick palm back around him, I fuck him from both sides, my arm still wrapped around his throat and my lips hovering beside his ear. He’s panting and moaning so hard, if anybody is awake right now and outside, they’d no doubt hear him. No part of me is concerned with that, though. Let them hear. Let them know how fucking good I’m working him over.

“Look at the way you’re writhing for me,” I groan into his ear. “The way you can’t decide if you want to push back onto my cock or thrust forward into my grip, getting it from both ends. So needy.”

Nipping at his earlobe, I relish the full-body shiver that rolls through him as he cries out. “Shit, Shooter,” he gasps. “I’m gonna… nngh… I’m gonna come.”

“Do it. Come for me. Let me see what I do to you, Addams.”

As if that was all the permission he needed, Sterling explodes. Thick ropes cover the stall, his voice hoarse from crying out. He reaches behind me, hand grappling at the back of my neck, fingers digging into the flesh as I work him through every last drop.

It takes no time at all for me to follow, molten heat spreading at the base of my spine, balls drawing into my body, as I fill the condom, my heartbeat roaring in my ears. We both become practically boneless as I hold him there against the wall, the water—somehow still warm—beating down on us.

I don’t want to pull out of him. I don’t want this to be done, because once it’s over, there’s no telling how he’s going to act. Or if he’s going to want a repeat—which I very much do. So, instead, I give myself a minute, allowing us both to catch our breath, before pulling out and effectively shattering the moment.

Pulling off the condom, I tie the end, stepping out of the stall to toss it in the trash. When I come back, he’s rinsing off his body, and I step up to do the same. He’s quiet, and he won’t look my way, and as soon as he’s done, he reaches for his towel, securing it around his waist, mumbling a quick “goodbye” before scurrying out of the shower.

Well, this should make everything nice and interesting.

19

Sterling Addams

“Hey,” Colt shouts from where he’s standing outside of his truck. “Are you guys ready or what? I wanna get a move on!”

Cope pokes his head out of our camper, half-dressed, hair still damp on the top of his head. “Hold your damn horses, dude. It’s not even nine yet. We got time.”

Sitting on the picnic table, I sip on my cold Bud Light while watching all of this unfold. Tonight, all of us are going to some bar in town called The Honkytonk. Elder Village is a small ass town, this being just about the only bar in the whole place. We have our first of two rodeos tomorrow night, but we all collectively decided to go out tonight and let a little loose, doing something other than sitting around a campfire, drinking beer.

Me and Colt have been ready for the last twenty minutes, while everybody else gets ready at a snail’s pace. The girls are doing whatever it is girls do in the bathroom, Cope is at least finally showered and in the process of getting dressed, and who fucking knows what Shooter and Boone are doing.

I’m honestly surprised Boone is even coming. Since Jade and Suzy have been with him this whole trip, he’s been keeping a pretty low profile, but Jade must’ve agreed to stay back with Suzy tonight. I don’t know a whole lot about Boone, aside from his stats as a bull rider. He’s always plastered all over social media, but it’s other people posting him. He doesn’t keep up with his own accounts nearly as much as the other guys; Shooter and Colt specifically.

Shooter’s one of the only openly queer cowboys in the rodeo, so he’s always flaunted in articles for that, and there’re always girls and guys posting about him. Colt is just a playboy who seems to have a different girl on his arm wherever he goes, so there’s always speculation about that. Cope has his time with the media too, but he’s a lot more lowkey than the other two. He’s hardly ever been photographed with a date.

And then there’s Boone, one of the few pro bull riders who’s married with a kid right now. He’s the oldest out of all of us, but only by a few years. He’s a fan favorite, though, that’s for damn sure. And I can see why. He’s very attractive with his curly, dark brown hair, similar to mine, pale green eyes, golden tan skin rippled with muscle, and that damn porn-stache that drives everyone wild. As far as bull riders go, he’s much more built than most, which clearly makes the buckle bunnies drool. He’s been married, to his wife, Jade, his whole professional career, so like I said, out of all of the guys—not including myself—he’s been the one who’s stayed out of trouble the most.

Shooter steps out of the camper, and my eyes automatically skirt to him, taking in how good he looks tonight. My heart thumps hard in my chest, taking in his tight, faded Wranglers that somehow look made just for him, a short-sleeve, black t-shirt that he rolled up the sleeves on, and his black, gold-toed cowboy boots. No hat tonight, but he’s got a thin gold chain dangling from around his neck that automatically puts images in my mind’s eye that I’d really rather not think about, like how it’d look hanging there if he were on top of me while he fucked me again.

My cheeks instantly heat at that thought, and at the memory of what we did just last night. I’ve done my best to avoid him today, which thankfully hasn’t been too challenging since Daisy, Cope, and I went on another hike first thing this morning, and he was gone by the time we returned. I still don’t know how I feel about everything that went down in that shower stall. My ass has been uncomfortably sore all day; every time I sit or stand or move even the slightest, a sharp reminder of it all comes rushing back to me.

The memory is hot, not gonna lie, and once I got past the initial burn and pain from the stretch, it felt really damn good. But it’s Shooter, and I keep telling myself I won’t go there again… only to keep going there every time we’re alone together. We’re like two magnets, unable to resist. I don’t get it, and honestly, I’m done trying to make sense of this draw I feel toward him. I need to stay away from him, and make sure we aren’t alone together. That’s all. I can’t let that happen again. It felt good, and I don’t regret it, but I’m sure if I allow it to happen again, I would. So, I just gotta stay away.

And I can do that. Surely, I can find some buried self-control and manage to make it through the rest of this season without winding up beneath him again.

His eyes scan the area, finding mine, and the smirk that tugs on his lips tells me he’s going to do everything in his power to ensure I don’t stick to my plan.

Thankfully, everyone finishes getting ready quickly and we’re able to hit the road. Since it’s such a small town, and the bar is only a few miles away, we all ride in Colt’s truck—Boone and Cope sitting in the cabin, while the rest of us pile into the bed. That way, only one of us has to remain sober, and thank Christ, it’s not me.

The parking lot is pretty empty when we arrive, but the inside is crawling with people. Loud music, neon lights, and the stench of sweat and cheap beer greet us as we step inside. No cover, which is nice. The place is small, with a bar toward the back, a few booths, a couple more tables, and a dance floor that can’t be any bigger than ten by ten.

All of us head to the bar to order drinks. Cope and Colt do a quick round of rock, paper, scissors, and when I side-eye them both, Colt chuckles and says, “It’s to see who’s DD tonight.”

Cope loses, and Colt cheers before ordering us all a round of tequila shots. Squeezing around a tall table that’s clearly too small for us all, we pass around the salt and lime wedges before tossing back the shots. Tequila is not my favorite liquor, not by a long shot, but it will do the job that needs to be done. Another few shots later, we all find ourselves on the dance floor, song after song playing as we sweat and laugh, grinding on each other, not a single care in the world. Based on the name of this place alone, I figured it was a country dive bar, but with the type of music playing, that assumption was way off. Early 2010s hits cycle, nostalgia hanging heavy in the air.

Every so often, Shooter’s arm will brush against mine, and as if my body just knows his, I don’t even have to look to know it’s him. Same with his gaze. I can feel the weight of it on my body, but I don’t even have to look to know it’s him watching him. Thankfully, he mostly keeps his distance, as if he knows I’m trying to avoid him.

Sage The Gemini’s Gas Pedal comes to an end as Daisy links her arm through mine, shouting into my ear loud enough for me to hear, “Let’s go get more shots!”

She takes my hand, her other dragging Colt behind her as we weave our way through the sweaty bodies littering the floor. We’ve only been here about an hour, but it’s gotten much busier than when we first arrived. While we’re waiting for the bartender to make her way toward us, Jessie and Boone step up beside us, his curly hair slicked to his forehead underneath his backward baseball cap, her hair, which was down when we got here, thrown up into a messy knot on top of her head.

“Where’s everybody else?” I ask loudly over the music.

“Outside smoking,” Boone replies.

Daisy leans in, asking quiet enough that only I hear, “Anything else go on with you and my brother?”

I haven’t told her about last night. I want to, but one: I haven’t exactly had a chance. Every time she and I have been around each other today, it’s been with other people. And two: I’m kind of nervous about it. Especially after her whole “be careful” speech after learning I was a virgin. I went and did the exact opposite of her advice. How much more of an idiot can I be? So, yeah, I’m maybe, sort of avoiding that conversation for as long as I can.

Shaking my head, I hate that I’m lying to her. Thankfully, the bartender picks this moment to come take our drink order. We land on two rounds of shots instead of one, which I’m more than okay with. I’ve got a good buzz going, but I could definitely use a little more liquor diluting my blood. Maybe make my mind a bit hazier so I stop thinking about Shooter. He plagues my thoughts like a disease, always there, front and center, even when I don’t want him to be.

Speaking of the Devil himself, Shooter strolls up to the bar where we’re all standing, with Cope and Clem trailing behind him. He spots me, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth as he throws me a wink that sends flutters through my stomach.

Dammit.

Daisy must catch it too, because when I turn back to face forward, she nudges my arm and chuckles.

The bartender sets our shots down, and we all take them back to back. As the night progresses and more liquor is consumed, the rowdier all of us become. The bar is packed, which seems odd for a Thursday night, but hey, not complaining. We all laugh and sing and dance, and I genuinely cannot remember a night when I had this much fun. It’s exactly what I needed. Feeling so carefree, not having to be responsible, and for a while, I’m actually able to keep my mind off Shooter.

That is, until he winds up in my line of sight again.

It’s nearly closing time, all of us dripping with sweat that’s probably pure tequila at this point, when Wobble by V.I.C. comes on. I don’t think I’ve heard this song since I was in high school, but it’s like muscle memory takes over, and before I know it, I’m in the middle of the dance floor, moving along with everybody else to the beat. Glancing to my right, I see Colt beside me, and we both throw our heads back and laugh as the chorus hits.

Jumping forward, we shake our hips around before hopping back and doing the same. Our bodies move fluidly to every part of the song, everyone around us synced up, doing the same. Looking over toward the bar, our whole crew is watching Colt and I, but more specifically, Shooter is watching me. Something about the heat in his eyes is like another double shot of tequila to the brain.

Daisy and Jessie run out, joining us as the song continues, but as if I have a one-track mind, all I see is Shooter and the way he’s resting back with his elbows on the bar, eyes never wavering from mine. It’s potent. As if every single other body in this establishment vanishes, suddenly it’s just him and I. All the effort I made to keep him at a distance is for nothing as I watch his baby blues roam over the length of my body, feeling it like a physical touch—wishing it were.

Shooter has this way of watching me like I’m the only person in the room. He looks at me like I’m the only one who matters, like he has eyes for nobody else. It’s erotic, making my already burning up body temperature rise by ten degrees, but it’s also misleading. Shooter isn’t an “eyes for only you” type of guy, especially not for someone like me.

I’m a game for him, I’m sure. A convenience. But you know what? Maybe he can be just a game for me too. Be a convenience while we’re on the road. I mean, why the hell not? Why not take what he’s giving me now, knowing nothing will come from it later?

This may be the bottom-shelf tequila talking, but right now, I don’t really give a shit. Especially when one side of his lip ticks up into a smirk that’s all sex and confidence. And when he nods his head to the side toward the back entrance, I find my body following him before my mind has a chance to catch up. Before I can even glance around and see if anybody sees us going outside together. I can’t find it in me to care.

Definitely the tequila talking. But that’s sober Sterling’s problem. Not drunk Sterling.

Drunk Sterling is carefree and horny.

Drunk Sterling is…very confused when he steps outside and doesn’t see Shooter anywhere. Frowning, I glance around, stepping farther away from the back door, still not spotting him. Where could he have gone? I wasn’t that far behind him. Taking another two steps, considering pulling out my phone and texting him, a hand wraps around my bicep, yanking me to the left. I gasp, head snapping to the side when my gaze lands on Shooter.

Scanning the area, I notice we’re in the alley behind the bar, and I will my heart rate to settle down before I give myself a heart attack.

“Really?” I hiss. “You couldn’t have just waited for me instead of yanking me into a dark ass alley like some kidnapper?”

“You’re always bitching,” he remarks, grin bright, eyes a little hazy and bloodshot.

I roll my eyes as he stalks toward me, backing me up against the wall. Truly, I don’t know how he always gets me trapped between him and impenetrable areas. His gaze flickers between my eyes and my lips, my tongue poking out to wet them instinctually.

“Hi,” I say awkwardly when a few moments pass in silence.

Shooter chuckles, the sound deep as it washes over me. “Hi. You’ve been ignoring me all day.”

He noticed. That’s interesting.

“I have not.” I jut out my chin, be it in defiance or to stand my ground. Either way, he doesn’t buy it.

He leans in, his full, pink lips ghosting over mine for a beat before going to my ear. “Don’t lie to me, dirty boy. What, you regret letting me fuck you?”

A shot of undiluted excitement shoots down my spine, landing deep inside my balls, and I have to bite down on the inside of my cheek to stifle a groan. Not trusting my voice to remain even, I shake my head.

Shooter pulls back, just enough to look me in my eyes. I wish he hadn’t. I’m well aware I’m about as transparent as they come. I’ve always worn my feelings right there on my face, and with Shooter, it’s no different. It’s like he can read every single way he affects me, see my every thought.

While it’s quite the opposite for him. He’s a steel wall, letting the outside world—including me—see nothing more than he wants us to see. I don’t have a single clue how he feels about me, beyond what he shows me, which I have no doubt is nothing but a façade.

When I don’t respond, he takes my earlobe between his teeth, dragging it out just enough to add a bite of pain. I gasp, and he huffs out a laugh through his nose, the hot breath on my neck causing a shiver to race down my spine and goosebumps to bloom all over.

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he admits, deep voice like gravel. “About last night, and every other time.”

His admission takes me off guard, and I can’t help but question if he means it or if he’s just saying that to get what he wants. Or maybe, like me, he’s drunk and his filter is a bit watered down. It’s not the first time he’s admitted something like this, but with Shooter, I can’t help but have my guard up.

“Do you think about me, Addams?”

Pulling back, presumably to get a read on me, I smirk and shake my head. It’s a lie, and I’m sure he knows that, but like Collin Raye, that’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

Shooter rolls his eyes, groaning, as his warm, calloused hand slips behind my neck, wrapping around my nape and holding me firm. “Like I believe that,” he murmurs before his lips press down on mine, tongue probing along the seam until I willingly let him in. My hands come up, fisting his shirt at the sides, tilting my head slightly, allowing him to take our kiss deeper. He tastes like nicotine and cheap tequila, and in my current headspace, it’s the most delicious and potent concoction I could ever sample.

“You think you can kiss me like that, and then tell me you don’t think about me?” he asks against my lips before sucking the bottom one into his mouth, pulling a soft moan from me at the same time.

My body is vibrating at a frequency that is wholly Shooter, so lost in him that I’m about to give in and tell him he’s right. He’s all I think about. Thankfully, I’m saved by the bell—or in this case, saved by an interruption.

“Shooter, Sterling!” At the sound of Daisy’s voice, we break apart and he takes a step back, putting some much-needed space between us, but not before Daisy gets an eyeful of us together. Even from all the way over here, I can see her biting down on the inside of her cheek to stop the laugh from escaping. “Well, well, well, what do we have here?” she taunts, and unlike her, I do chuckle.

“What do you want, Daisy?” Shooter snaps.

“Jessie isn’t feeling well, so we’re leaving. Come on.”

Shooter looks at me, but I just shrug and follow Daisy. I’m positive in the morning when I wake up, hungover as fuck, I’ll be thanking her for breaking this up.

But for right now, I’m half-hard and annoyed.

20

Sterling Addams

The steady hum of anticipation has been vibrating under my skin all day. It’s like this every single rodeo, no matter what. I remember the first time I competed bareback. It was in high school, and I remember the electric thrill was unlike anything I’d experienced before. The rush, the adrenaline, the excitement. There was nothing like it—and there still isn’t. The nerves swimming in my gut made me so nauseous, I thought for sure I would puke as soon as I left the bucking chute, and my hands and legs trembled so badly, I’m surprised I didn’t fall right off the bronc. And thank God for the gloves because my palms were slick as a Slip ‘N Slide nearly the whole time.

Rodeo isn’t something I’ve always wanted to do. Sure, I was around it for a good chunk of my childhood, growing up partially in Copper Lake the way I did, but if anything, I grew up wanting to work around animals, period. It wasn’t until high school, when I got the opportunity to be a part of the Rodeo Club, that I got to learn how much I enjoy riding bronc, and how good I was at it. I’ve always felt intuitive when it comes to animals, and the broncs are no different.

I’m competing in my seventh pro rodeo tonight. I’ve won three of those—the most recent being last night—and honestly, I couldn’t be prouder of myself for that. There are many men who go their entire first season without seeing a win. This season so far has been nothing short of surreal, and we aren’t even halfway through. It’s exceeded all of my expectations, and I still can’t even believe I’m here.

Checking my phone and making sure I’m still on schedule, I note that I have about forty-five minutes before I go out; second to the last bareback rider, with Shooter being the last.

The campsite we’re staying at this weekend is a small, quiet location with a creek nearby. Reaching into my duffle, I pull out my rolled-up blue yoga mat, slinging the strap onto my shoulder as I step outside.

If you were to ask any rider, I think they’d unanimously agree to having a pre-rodeo ritual or routine of some sort, and I’m no different. For as long as I’ve been competing, I’ve done the same things in the same order right before. I don’t even think it was a conscious decision I made at first, just something that felt right and it stuck. Step one of my ritual being meditation.

My mom taught yoga classes in the park for many years, and I always thought it surely had to be bogus, the whole meditating thing. Until I was riddled with nerves for my first competition in high school. I couldn’t calm myself down, and I was one heavy breath away from a full-blown anxiety attack. She suggested I meditate with her, because what could it hurt? Even if it did nothing for me, at least I tried.

But it worked. Twenty minutes of sitting in the lawn, focusing on my breathing, and letting everything else fade away did wonders on my nervous system that night. Being able to center myself and bring myself to a place of mental calmness before going out and competing changed everything.

Finding a spot in the shade, I roll out the mat before sitting down on top of it, legs crisscrossed and my hands resting loosely in my lap. It’s a nice day today; the sun’s shining, but it isn’t too hot, especially in the shade. There’s an app on my phone that plays relaxation music, so after I turn that on and set it beside me, I let my eyes drift closed. For the next twenty minutes, I’m at one with myself and with nature, everything else that’s stressing me fading away.

The anxiety over the rodeo.

The uncertainty and confusion surrounding Shooter.

It’s just me and my even breathing, my steady heartbeat, surrounded by a deep and peaceful calm, where time feels like it slows down momentarily. Birds chirp in the trees above me, the water rolling and lapping gently beyond me.

By the time I open my eyes again, I feel refreshed, like a whole new man. Heading back to the camper, I quickly get changed into my riding pants, boots, and the black long-sleeve button-up I’m wearing tonight. Cope and Shooter aren’t in here, but that’s not surprising. They’re both probably out doing whatever ritual or routine they do before a rodeo. After grabbing the hat I want to wear and plopping it on my head, I amble through the camper, to the mini fridge, grabbing a Red Bull and pounding it.

The Red Bull kind of counteracts the effects of meditation, but rituals are rituals, okay?

Heading over to the arena, which conveniently is next to the campsite, I take in the crowd. Even from out here, I can hear the fans cheering from the stands. People flutter around the grounds, getting food, hanging out, or letting their kids play. The atmosphere at these events is always unmatched.

I make my way to the back, hanging out there until it’s time to load up into the bucking chute. The anticipation is a steady buzz as it courses through my body. About five minutes before I’m set to load up, I run through the pre-rodeo stretches—neck, arms, legs, making sure my body is nice and ready. As I’m working on my hamstrings, someone rounds the corner. Peering up, my gaze connects with a familiar pair of baby blues that sends a shock wave through my now warmed-up muscles.

Surprising me, Shooter doesn’t say anything. Instead, he sidles up beside me, getting to work on his own stretches. With his head turned, focusing on his left leg, I let my gaze drag over his form. He’s wearing his usual rodeo night cowboy hat. It’s black, well worn, and faded from the sun. His powder-blue button-up accentuates the bright color of his eyes, and his vest has sponsor patches thrown haphazardly on the back. The Wranglers he’s got on are light denim and faded, tight as hell, hugging his every damn muscle and curve. And the chaps… Whoa boy, the chaps. They’re a simple brown leather with fringe, but there’s something about a man—specifically, something about Shooter—in chaps that just sends a thrill down my spine. A zap of arousal to my groin.

Now I’m fantasizing about things I definitely shouldn’t be fantasizing about… like him bending me over one of them chutes in nothing but those chaps. Feeling the blunt tips of his fingernails biting into the flesh on my hips as he plunders into me, teeth bared, animalistic groans rumbling from his chest.

“Earth to Sterling.”

I’m snapped out of my crude imagination when Shooter waves his hand in front of my face.

“I’m sorry, what?”

He huffs out a laugh through his nose. “As much as I’d love to have you sit here and eye-fuck me, you’re up.”

“I was not,” I hiss, feeling my cheeks heat. I totally was.

“Whatever you say, Addams.” I start walking away, but before I can get out of earshot, he adds, “Don’t choke out there while you picture me dicking you down again.”

His dark chuckle is the last thing I hear.

Asshole.

Sliding down into the chute and straddling the bronc is an experience all on its own. My mind clears of any and everything other than making sure I’ve got a good grip on the rigging and that my spurs are properly marked out, and the way it feels as if I become one with the beast beneath me. All the nerves and the anxiety from earlier in the day vanish, adrenaline and a giddy type of anticipation in its place.

The blood in my veins is pumping hard, pulse hammering as I do a mental run through, making sure I’m in position before giving a quick nod, letting the crew know I’m ready. The crowd waits on bated breath as we burst out of the chute.

It’s showtime.

As a bronc rider, being able to think on your toes is one of the most important things you can possess. Hesitating even minutely or making the wrong snap judgement can cost you everything. You have to be able to read the bronc, to think quick, and you have to have your head in the game all eight seconds. Even a millisecond of resistance can be the difference between a win and a disqualification.

Those eight seconds feel like an eternity while that fifteen-hundred pound horse is writhing and thrashing you around. You simply do not have time for errors. It’s why I’m so adamant about my pre-rodeo ritual.

So, when that buzzer sounds and I’m pulled off the bronc, and the announcer boasts a ninety-three score for tonight, I couldn’t be prouder. My blood is pumping for an entirely different reason and my cheeks hurt from smiling so damn big, because I know I went out there tonight and gave it my all. I did everything in my power to win.

Getting out of the arena, I watch from the sidelines as Shooter goes out. Shooter rides broncs like it’s an art form. Like it’s his God-given right. I’ve never seen anything like it. The way he anticipates every single move the horse makes, the way his body is so fluid. When I first decided I wanted to go pro, it was him and his talent that kept me going. Reaching his potential was, and still is, the goal.

Which is why, as I stand here stock-still, it’s so jarring watching what happens next after the gate opens and they exit the chute. Not even three seconds into the ride, the bronc jumps to the left, in a move Shooter evidently wasn’t anticipating. That becomes abundantly clear as Shooter gets bucked off.

My jaw drops, eyes going wide as I snap my head to the right, finding Cope’s equally surprised expression. Returning my gaze to the arena, the pick-up man gets Shooter up right away. He isn’t hurt, or at least doesn’t appear to be.

But he is disqualified tonight. Something that has rarely happened to him in his entire rodeo career. And it hasn’t happened this entire season.

This also means I’ve won. As much as I feel for him, at how shitty it is to lose like that—to be disqualified—I can’t deny the chest-swelling pride and excitement filling me right now, and I’m not sure if that makes me an asshole.

21

Shooter Graham

“Shooter, get the fuck up!”

Cope’s aggravated voice cuts through the state of half-asleep I’m currently trying to burrow myself in for as long as possible. I can tell without even moving, my entire body aches. My eyes burn as I peel them open, the sunlight pouring in through the blinds like a drop of acid hitting my corneas. Fuck this.

I’m not sure about the time, but whatever it is, it’s too damn early. It feels like I just passed out ten minutes ago. That guess is probably more accurate than not, knowing me lately. There’s shuffling around me, Cope and Sterling probably getting ready to hit the road. Something I should be doing too.

Something whacks me right on my forehead, my eyes flying open and landing on Cope, who’s standing in the doorway to the bunk beds. “What the fuck, man?” Reaching down, I pluck the navy-blue stress ball off the floor that was just chucked at my head. “What’s your fucking problem?”

“You,” he bellows, throwing his hands in the air. “We have to hit the road and you need to get the fuck up. I’ve tried getting you up for the last half hour. What the fuck?”

“Are you dumb? We’re in a camper… as in, it’s attached to the truck. If you want to leave, then get in the truck and fucking leave. Why do I have to be awake for that?”

Cope huffs out a laugh, grabbing another pair of socks and chucks it at my head again. “Now who’s dumb?” he throws back. “I’m not leaving you back here to sleep so you can throw up from motion sickness. Besides, it’s your fucking turn to drive!”

Narrowing my eyes, I glare at him for a moment, realizing he’s right. It’s ironic as fuck that I get motion sickness in cars, given the fact that I’m tossed around on top of a bronc several months out of the year. Throwing the blanket off of me, I sit up, digging the heel of my palm into my eye socket, yawning.

“You’re such a little fucking bitch, you know that?” I grumble at Cope as I raise off the bed and reach for my pants.

“Says the one throwing a temper tantrum about having to get out of bed,” he snaps back as I shove past him. “You also fucking stink. When was the last time you took a shower, bro?”

“Fuck off.”

“What the fuck’s gotten into you lately?”

“You. You’re always on my ass about this or that. Lay the fuck off.” It’s a lie. The truth is, Cope hasn’t done anything I wouldn’t do if the roles were reversed. I’m being a grade A dick to everybody around me. And while I know this, I also can’t seem to make myself stop either. “You can’t just drive today and let me be?

“No, I can’t, you prick.” He folds his arms over his broad chest, glaring at me down his nose. “It’s not my fucking responsibility to pick up your slack, Shooter. You’re a big boy, and you can stick to the plan and do your part.”

I scoff. “You’re un-fucking-believable. God forbid you do anything more.”

Shoving through the door that leads outside, my eyes are assaulted with the morning light. The ground smells like dew, the grass sprinkled with droplets of mist. Reaching into the pocket of my sweats, I grab my pack of Marlboros, plucking one out and placing it between my teeth as I dig around to find my lighter. Once lit, I take a long drag, letting the smoke fill my lungs while a steady buzz works its way through my body. I need it.

I’m not fucking sleeping, and it’s catching up to me quickly. I can’t remember a single time where sleep has ever been an issue for me, especially during rodeo season. Usually, I’m out like a light as soon as my head hits the pillow after competing. But this entire season, it’s been like pulling teeth trying to calm my mind down enough to get a few hours.

One night last week, when I was on hour four of trying to fall asleep, I pulled out my phone and looked up sleep remedies. I’m desperate at this point for a decent night of sleep, and I can’t exactly take prescription drugs to assist me in that area, because if I ever got injured or randomly drug tested with the PRCA, I’d be fucked.

Anyway, after nearly an hour of searching the internet in the dead of night, I found an all-natural supplement that apparently helps that isn’t melatonin, because that shit never works for me. I picked some up in the last town we were in, but it makes me groggy as hell—like, run-over-by-a-bus type groggy. I felt like straight garbage last weekend because of it, the sluggishness costing me the rodeo both Friday and Saturday. I’m still so fucking pissed about getting disqualified last Saturday. Getting bucked off a bronc is a fucking rookie move, and something that hardly ever happens to me.

I stopped taking the supplement after that, but it’s shitty because it did actually help me sleep. It’s been back to hours of lying awake, frustrated and tired, all week. Last night, in the midst of my insomnia, I did a little more research and found another supplement that helps with energy. I’m going to pick some up when we get back to Copper Lake this afternoon. Maybe if I take them both, I can counteract the grogginess while still getting decent rest.

Something’s gotta fucking give.

Movement catches out of the corner of my eye, and when I look, I see Sterling walking toward the camper. Confusion catches between my brows and I speak before I can stop myself. “Where the fuck did you come from?”

He startles, clearly not having seen me. “I went on a short hike with your sister.”

“Of course, you did,” I scoff under my breath, bringing the cigarette up to my mouth to take another drag, annoyance unfurrowing inside of me like poison. Dragging my gaze over him, I can’t help but notice how fucking good he looks, compared to how disheveled I probably look. Even with sweat glistening over his skin, the short dark brown curls pasted to his forehead, he’s unbelievably beautiful in the early morning sun.

It's infuriating.

I haven’t gotten another taste of him since the kiss outside the bar almost two weeks ago. Probably because I’ve been nothing but a dick to everybody, including him, for days now. He hasn’t even thrown last weekend’s wins in my face, despite the fact that we all know if the roles were swapped, I would’ve done it. He’s such a gracious winner—and loser. Something I’ve never been.

Sterling has woven into my group of friends so effortlessly, getting close with my sister, laughing with my best friend. Hell, even my fucking dad thinks he’s the best thing since sliced fucking bread. He’s clearly everything I’m not. We’re neck and neck on the circuit, and my father is right, it shouldn’t be that way. I have years of experience on Sterling. There’s no reason a rookie should be tailing me as close as he is.

And yet, despite all of that, I can’t kick this overwhelming urge to bury myself inside of him for comfort or a distraction. I’ve been a fucking dick to him all week over my scores, and this huge part of me has wanted to crawl into bed with him, and have him make me feel better. But the fact of the matter is, he’s my competition—and he’s currently kicking my ass—so these emotions, the cravings and desires, the sex, it’s so much more complicated than that.

We head back to Copper Lake today for the next two weeks. Stampede Days is next week, and it’s one of the largest outdoor celebrations our town hosts. It’s a huge rodeo spectacle. Dread burrows itself deep in my gut the closer we get to going back home. Not because I’m not excited to spend some time at home before we hit the road again for another few months, but because I know my time to avoid my dad and his loud opinions is coming to an end.

There’s no way to avoid him once I’m home. There’s no way to ignore his nitpicking. And knowing that he’ll be there during the event, watching me compete, makes me want to hurl. Which that, in and of itself, is bizarre because I usually always look forward to this event, if not just to prove myself to him. I don’t know what or why exactly that changed, but I’m not looking forward to the next two weeks.

“Uh, hello, Shooter?”

“What?” I snap at Sterling before taking one last drag off my cigarette, dropping it to the ground, and putting it out with my shoe.

“I said you look pretty tired, and I asked if you got any sleep last night.”

He’s always so genuine and nice and wholesome, and I fucking refuse to acknowledge how having that care pointed toward me makes me feel. Not right now.

“Fuck off,” I growl, moving past him. But he doesn’t let me. He grabs my arm, and when I spin around to face him, the concern in his eyes makes my blood boil. Shrugging off his touch, I take his shirt in my fist, getting in his face. “You ask too many damn questions, Addams. Learn to know your place and shut the hell up every once in a while, would you? I don’t need your pity.”

When I go to release my grip, he’s already shoving me off and shaking his head. I don’t wait around for him to say something more, storming away and into the camper.

I find Cope sitting on the edge of his bed, messing around on his phone. Glancing up when he hears me approach, he nods his chin at me. “What’s up?”

“Are you fucking ready to go, dude? You busted my ass to get out of bed, saying we needed to leave so fucking badly, only for me to find you on your bed, dinking around on your goddamn phone.”

Cope frowns, blinking a few times before standing off the bed. He comes to a stop right in front of me, toe to toe. “Yeah, dude,” he replies mockingly. “I’m fucking ready to go.”

He leaves without another word.

After using the restroom really quick, I climb into the driver’s seat of the truck, my eyes lifting to the rearview mirror, seeing Cope planted in the backseat. Huffing out a laugh through my nose, I start the car before Sterling jumps in the front seat, avoiding my gaze entirely.

I hit the road, neither of them saying a word, to each other or to me, so I crank the music. Fuck them.

22

Sterling Addams

Me: Your brother has lost his mind.

Daisy: Why? What’s he doing now?

Me: He’s just being an unbearable dick. Woke up with a stick up his ass. He’s bitten off both mine and Cope’s heads already and it’s barely ten in the morning.

We’ve been on the road for about an hour now, the air in the cab so tense, it feels like we may all suffocate. Movement catches out of the corner of my eye. Glancing over, I watch Shooter roll his window down about three inches before he puts a cigarette between his lips and lights it.

“Uh, can you not smoke in the car, please?”

He shoots me a look before returning his gaze to the road, taking a drag. “Can you suck my fucking dick, Addams?”

I hear Cope scoff from the backseat.

“Are you for real?” I ask, turning down the music.

“Are you?” Shooter throws back. “Last I checked, this is my fucking truck, meaning I can do whatever the fuck I want.”

“Okay, but there’re two other people in here who maybe don’t want to breathe in that shit.”

Shooter laughs darkly, not an ounce of humor in the sound. “Cope smokes, so he don’t give a fuck. So, that leaves just you. What’s the matter? The little baby can’t handle a little smoke?”

My phone goes off before I can respond. Glancing down, I read Daisy’s text.

Daisy: Ride with me when we stop for gas?

Letting out a laugh, I reply.

Me: YES PLEASE.

Shifting my body toward Shooter in my seat, I reply, “It’s common decency to not smoke in the car with people. It doesn’t make me a baby because I don’t want to breathe in the smoke. But it does, however, make you an asshole for not caring.”

“You need me to care about you, Addams, is that it?” He laughs. “I hate to break it to you, but I couldn’t care any less about you, even if I tried.”

An avalanche of anger builds inside of me. Shooter’s been insufferable for over a week now. And not just to me. It’s infuriating, especially because, like this morning, I keep catching myself giving a crap about his well-being. He’s clearly going through something. Looks like he isn’t getting sleep. And like the pathetic glutton I am, I continue finding myself in these situations where I extend an olive branch and check on him, only for him to prove to me over and over exactly who he is. It’s like I keep expecting him to be something I know he’s not.

“What is your problem?”

“Right now? You,” he replies plainly, taking another drag from his cigarette. “Actually, most of the time, you.”

“Now who’s the baby,” I mumble under my breath.

“What was that?”

“I said now who’s the baby, Shooter? You’re throwing a tantrum like a toddler, for what? Because you rode like shit last weekend? Get over it! My God, I’ve never met someone who is such a poor loser in my life.”

Shooter scoffs, his grip on the steering wheel tightening. “Fuck you.”

Nobody has ever gotten under my skin the way he does. He has issues. Shooter has serious issues. One minute, he’s flirty and all over me, and the next, he’s a huge douchebag. I don’t get it, and frankly, I’m tired of trying to figure it out. Having sex with him was a huge mistake. And the fact that I’ve been dying to do it again since it happened, despite his asshole tendencies, says a whole lot about me, and not in a good way.

Shooter reaches over, turning the music back up, and that’s the end of that conversation. We stop for gas about a half hour later, and I can’t get out of the truck fast enough. Before closing the door, I announce, “I’m riding with Daisy the rest of the way.”

Shooter scoffs and grumbles under his breath, “Of course, you are.”

Cope climbs out and says, “That’s foul. You’re leaving me with him the whole ride?” A grin tugs on his lips, and I know he’s not actually upset about it, but he adds anyway, “Nah, don’t worry about it. I get it. He’s insufferable when he gets like this. I don’t blame you.”

“You could probably ride with us,” I offer.

Shaking his head, he opens the front door. “It’s all good, man. I know how to handle him. I’m not worried about it.”

When I step up to Daisy’s truck, I notice she’s alone. Opening the passenger door, I ask, “Where’s Jessie?”

“Riding with Colt and Clem.” She’s got the AC blasting as we pull out of the gas station, and it feels so damn good, even though it’s not that hot out. Arguing with Shooter raises my blood pressure like none other and makes me sweat. Daisy flicks the knob to turn down the music bumping through the speakers. “So, what’s going on?”

I give her a brief rundown of everything that’s happened this morning—the ugly attitude he had toward both Cope and me—still conveniently leaving out the fact that we’ve slept together. Not that I really think that piece of knowledge is relevant to this morning, but I still feel shitty not telling her yet again.

She glances over at me, her blue eyes that match his almost perfectly softening before she returns her gaze to the road. “I don’t really know how much I should be telling you,” is all she says.

Um, okay, ominous. “Well, something,” I reply with a small laugh. “You can’t say something like that and then give me nothing.”

She breathes out a laugh, rolling her eyes. “Okay, fine, but you didn’t hear this from me.”

“I promise.”

Daisy throws me one last look. “If I had to guess, which at this point, I know him pretty well, I’d say he’s feeling antsy about heading back home, and that’s why he’s being such a dick.”

My brows pinch as I try to make sense of what she’s saying. “Why would going home put him on edge? Wouldn’t it cause the opposite effect?”

“I’m sure you don’t know this about Shooter because he doesn’t talk about it, like, ever, but our dad puts an insane amount of pressure on his shoulders. You probably know our dad’s a retired world champ bronc rider too; same with our uncles and our grandpa.”

“Yeah, of course, I know that.”

“It’s just…” Daisy pauses for a moment, like she doesn’t quite know how to word whatever it is she wants to say. “Sometimes I really think our dad expects perfection out of Shooter. You know, for following in his footsteps. I won’t say any more because it’s not my story to tell, but I think the pressure gets to him sometimes.”

“Dang.” I don’t even know what else to say. This explains so much while leaving me with so many questions. Like maybe Shooter isn’t just some cocky, entitled cowboy like I originally thought. Maybe underneath it all, there’s more there making him the way he is.

The conversation eventually comes to a stopping point, and we spend the rest of the drive in a comfortable silence with nothing but the music playing softly. The entire time, my mind is spinning. I hate how I can’t help but see him in a different light now.

When we make it back to Copper Lake, I have Daisy drop me off at Conrad’s on the way to her house. I’m exhausted, and as soon as I make it up to the loft above the barn, I pass out. By the time I wake up, it’s nearly dusk, and my mind is still focused on Shooter. Everything Daisy said. And this need to find out the whole story. I don’t know if my screwed-up mind is just looking for ways to humanize him, to find excuses for his behavior with some deeper explanation… Or if maybe, despite my best efforts, I’m actually starting to care for the guy I can’t stand.

23

Shooter Graham

Mom: Come over for lunch Friday. Please. I miss you.

Staring down at the phone in my hand, I wish I felt anything other than dread while reading that message. I’ve been back in Copper Lake for two days now, and it should be relaxing and nice to be here before we hit the road again. It’s anything but. I knew I wouldn’t be able to avoid my parents forever. It’s a miracle my dad’s let me ignore his text messages as long as he has, but fuck, the very last thing I want to do is face him. Especially after how shitty I’ve been competing over the last few weeks.

Me: I don’t know if I can. There’s a huge get-together at the ranch Friday that everyone from the rodeo is going to.

It’s weak. I know she’s not going to let me off the hook.

Mom: Shooter Baylor Graham. Don’t make your mother ask you twice! And besides, I ran into Conrad at the grocery store earlier and I already know that doesn’t start until 3. You can come to lunch. Daisy will be there too.

Mom: Love you.

Fuck.

Me: Love you too, Mom.

Tossing my phone to the side, I flop back down onto my pillow, staring up at the ceiling. I need to get the fuck out of my head, because I’m doing nothing but driving myself crazy. But I don’t know how. If I’m not obsessing over seeing my dad and anticipating all the disappointment he’s going to toss my way, then I’m obsessing over how fucking shitty I was to Sterling the other day, and how he hasn’t spoken to me since. Not a single fucking word since he left my truck at that gas station to get into Daisy’s.

And why would he, honestly? It’s not like we’re on a friendly basis. We aren’t on the road together, aren’t crammed in a camper next to each other, so why would he go out of his way to talk to me? Especially after I treated him like garbage for no good reason.

It doesn’t stop me from wanting to see him, though. I know we’ll see each other at that get-together at the ranch on Friday… but that’s days away. I don’t want to wait days. I’m used to seeing him every single day, even if he didn’t want to see me.

As if I can’t stop myself, I grab my phone, unlocking it, and I pull up my text thread with Sterling.

Me: Hey, man. I want to apologize for how I behaved the other day.

Ugh. Erasing that message because it sounds fucking stupid, I try again.

Me: I know I was a dick the other day, and you didn’t deserve it. I’m sorry.

“For fuck’s sake,” I grumble, punching the delete key until the entire message disappears. How fucking hard is it to say sorry without sounding like a moron? Why is this so difficult? “Forget it.”

I toss the phone beside me, scrubbing a hand over my face. Friday will be here before I know it, and I can just say something then. In person.

Or not.

A few minutes pass before my phone chimes with a text. At first, I panic, thinking I accidentally sent a message to him after all. I let out a sigh of relief when I read the name across the screen.

Whit: Hey, man. Heading up to the ranch to drop off some medicine. Wanna come with me, and we can grab lunch after?

A smirk grows on my face. It’s as if the universe is on my side today. I can say whatever I need to say to Sterling in person.

Me: Hell yeah. Right now?

Whit: Yup. I can pick you up in like ten minutes if that’s cool.

I send Whit a thumbs-up emoji before jumping out of bed and pulling on some jeans and a clean t-shirt. The dread I was feeling is quickly replaced with something else entirely. Something not necessarily bad, just…different. I can’t quite place it, but I’m also not going to sit here and psychoanalyze it either. Slipping into some boots, I grab a Smoky Boy Whiskey trucker hat off my dresser, putting it on before shoving my wallet and keys into my pocket.

Will Sterling even be at the ranch?

He lives there, so surely he will be… right?

It’s not like he knows a ton of people here, so where would he be if not at the ranch?

He’ll be there. I know it.

A quick honk out front lets me know Whit is here, so after locking up the house, I jog down the steps toward his truck. Climbing in on the passenger side, Whit’s grinning at me as he shifts into drive, taking off. He’s got his dark-framed glasses on, his hair styled perfectly in place, and he’s wearing one of those cable-knit sweaters over his deep purple scrubs.

“Dude, it’s like seventy-five degrees out. Why are you wearing a sweater?”

He frowns, looking down at his outfit. “It’s cold in the clinic.”

Whit always has this scent to him, like trees. He smells like a forest, and I don’t know if it’s a body wash he uses, or something at the clinic, but a fresh forest-y scent fills the inside of the car.

“So, how’s rodeo going?” he asks, taking a right onto the main road that leads straight to the ranch.

“I’d really rather not talk about it,” I grumble as I stare outside with my head leaned up against my arm that’s propped on the window.

“That bad?”

“Not bad, just… I don’t know. Got a lot of shit on my mind.”

Whit’s silent for a moment. He doesn’t even play music in the car. What kind of psychopath rides in a car with no music or anything playing? Finally, I hear him suck in a breath before saying, “Well, in hopes of getting your mind off your own shit, I’ll tell you my shit.”

Glancing over at his side-eye, I arch a brow. “I’m listening.”

“I’m dating someone.”

This time, it’s both of my brows that shoot up. “Someone who isn’t Conrad?”

He shoots me an appalled look. “Why would my ex-husband be the one I’m dating, Shooter? Be for real.”

Holding up my hands, I reply, “Sorry, shit. Just checking. Is this the first person you’ve dated since you guys broke up?”

Without glancing over at me, he nods. Whit and Conrad got together when Whit was freshly eighteen, which means that, if I know Whit as well as I know I do, this is a pretty big deal.

“Anybody I know?” I ask.

Shaking his head, he replies, “No, I don’t think so. He just moved here a few months ago.”

“How’d you meet?”

Whit’s cheeks flush pink. “I ran into him at the grocery store. Like, literally ran directly into him because I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. For someone as professional and in order as Whit is, he’s very much unaware of his surroundings sometimes because he’s off in his own head so much.

“And what? Apologized to him by letting him dick you down?”

Whit narrows his eyes on me. “No!” His cheeks are bright red now. Even the tips of his ears are earning color. “But he did ask me to dinner once he helped me pick up the armful of groceries I was carrying.”

“How romantic,” I quip. “How long’s this been going on?”

“About a month.” Taking a right, Whit drives down the long, gravel road that leads to the ranch. “He’s really nice, and cute. A nurse at the hospital.”

“What’s his na—”

“What the hell?” Whit breathes out, cutting me off. Turning my head forward, I see what he sees, my blood pressure soaring. There, on the side of the house, are Conrad and Sterling. It looks like they were moving bales of hay but got hot because they’re both shirtless as Conrad sprays Sterling with the hose, Sterling laughing as he gets soaked. Like, head thrown back, belly laughing. He’s in athletic shorts that cling to his body since he’s wet. “Does he ever wear a fucking shirt?”

Turning my head, I take in Whit’s narrowed gaze and the tight clench of his jaw.

My heartbeat echoes loudly in my ears as we climb out of the truck. It takes both of them a minute to see us, clearly too enthralled in each other to notice anything around them. Sterling’s the first to spot us, his face falling when he finds my gaze. Conrad looks like the same stoic man he always does. Unbothered to the fullest degree as he turns off the hose.

“Hey, Whit,” Conrad says in that deep, throaty voice of his. Glancing over at me, he nods. “Shooter.”

Giving him a terse nod, I say, “Conrad.” My tone is more clipped than it usually is with him, but something about the situation just grates on my fucking nerves. Turning my gaze to his right, honey-colored eyes watch me with a look I can’t place. “Sterling.”

As much as it annoys the fuck out of me—for a reason I refuse to look too closely at—that Sterling is prancing around in front of Conrad glistening and shirtless, shorts clung to every curve of his bottom half, I can’t deny how fucking hot he looks.

“So sorry to interrupt whatever the hell this was,” Whit growls out, taking me by surprise. “But I have the medicine you needed.”

Conrad’s brows bunch before he schools his features. “Uh, yeah, let me show you where she’s at.”

It’s apparently a group effort because we all seem to follow Conrad into the pasture. I was hoping to get to talk to Sterling for a minute while they were gone, but I guess fucking not. Once we’re done, Whit drives us to the bar instead of the restaurant we were planning to go to for lunch, ordering us a round of shots as soon as we sit down. They get dropped off, and we pound them back, Whit ordering another round. And another. And then one more for good measure.

Apparently, getting wasted mid-day on a Wednesday is the move we’re taking today.

I’m antsy as I sit here, annoyance still flaring inside of me the more the liquor spreads under my skin. Lifting my eyes, they connect with Whit’s, a similar emotion radiating off of him as well. Neither of us says anything for a moment, maybe not wanting to be the first one to admit our frustration. Finally, like I knew he would, Whit cracks.

“What the fuck was that about?”

“I don’t know.” I shrug. “They looked pretty fucking friendly, though.”

“Why the fuck doesn’t that guy ever wear a shirt? And what was so funny? Conrad isn’t even that funny.”

Shaking my head, I murmur, “Sterling is the bane of my fucking existence.”

Whit watches me for a moment, curiosity shining in his gaze. I think he might ask me about it, but instead, he says, “Yeah, well, whatever you do, don’t marry the guy, only to get divorced and have to see him all the time.”

The bite to his tone has me pausing. Most of the time, Whit seems so relaxed and calm. I’ve hardly ever seen anything get to him, but today, it’s different. Like the last time we went together to Conrad’s. “What happened there anyway?”

Eyes darting to mine, he seems surprised that I asked. And honestly, I’m surprised too. It has always been this sort of unspoken agreement to not ask either of them about what happened. It was clear they wanted to keep it private, but hey, we’re both here, drinking and bitching. May as well. I know he’s going to eventually ask me about Sterling. So, tit for tat.

“It just didn’t work out,” is all he says, sadness wrapped around each word.

“Yeah, but why, though? It seemed so out of the blue.”

He flags the bartender down, ordering another round of shots. “If we’re doing this, we need way more alcohol.”

Sniggering, I say, “Fair enough.”

Whit blows out a breath. “There is no one set reason, really, but more of a collection of things that slowly chipped away at our exterior.”

“What do you mean? Like what?”

“Well, his parents dying, for one. Conrad inheriting the ranch. Which, he always knew the ranch would be his someday, but knowing it’s coming in the future and having it dropped in your lap amidst grieving the sudden loss of both of your parents are two very different things.” Whit runs a hand over his mouth. “It wasn’t just that, though. He’s all I’ve ever known, you know? I met him when I was fifteen, working at that ranch. He taught me how to care for the animals and showed me the ropes, and when my family turned their backs on me, his welcomed me with open arms.”

He pauses, going quiet for a moment as he chips away at some invisible mark on the tabletop. His glasses slide down his nose a little, and when he shoves them back into place with his pointer finger, he glances back up at me before continuing.

“I fell in love with Conrad when I was a teenager. He was fifteen years older than me, and my feelings for him terrified me. He’s all I’ve ever known, and I never had a chance to figure out who I was separate from him. So, I guess, the short answer is that we grew apart. He didn’t seem to need me anymore, and I needed to learn to not need him either.”

There’s anguish in his words, all over his face. I want to ask so much more now that I have him opening up, but I don’t. Instead, I just say, “I’m sorry, Whit.”

“It’s all good. Water under the bridge.” He pins me with a stare. “Now, onto you. What’s going on with you and Sterling?”

Chuckling, I take a drink of my ice water before answering. “What makes you think there’s anything going on?”

“Oh, please,” he says with a snort. “I’m not blind. You were enamored with him the first time you saw him at Conrad’s with me, and again this time, except you also seemed pretty stabby watching him with Conrad.”

Shrugging, I guzzle some of my ice water. “Don’t know what you mean.”

Whit pretends to stab me in the hand with his fork. “If I had to tell you stuff, you have to too. It’s only fair.”

Pointing him with a stare, I roll my eyes. “Fine. We hooked up a few times on the road,” I offer him. “That’s it. It didn’t mean anything.”

Whit snorts out a laugh. “Famous last words.”

“Fuck off. I’m serious.”

“Yeah? Then why do you look at him like that?”

“Like what?” I’m being obtuse.

“Like you wanted to claim him in front of Conrad.”

Smirking, I reply, “Just because I’m possessive of my belongings doesn’t mean anything.”

Whit rolls his eyes so hard, I’m surprised they don’t get stuck, and all I can do is laugh and try to believe the words coming out of my mouth.

24

Sterling Addams

“Babe, can you cut up the watermelon for me?” my mom asks as she stands in front of the stove, stirring the pot of noodles she’s going to use to make pasta salad with later.

“Sure.” Setting my drink down on the counter, I grab the large melon out of the fridge, pulling out a cutting board and a knife.

Conrad’s property is buzzing with people from town. It’s the Fourth of July, and my mom offered to help host a party for everybody since there’s so much room here. This is her thing. My entire life, she’s loved hosting get-togethers and parties any chance she got. Back in Texas, everybody in our neighborhood loved our house for this very reason. She loves to go all out, feed everyone, and make them happy.

Quite a few people are already here and have been for a few hours. Daisy and Jessie got here not too long ago, and I thought I saw Cope and Colt out in the yard, but I haven’t spoken to them yet. Boone and his wife are here with their little girl. The only one I haven’t seen is Shooter. I don’t even know if he’s coming. Although, I don’t know why he wouldn’t when all of his friends are here.

Mom and I work in comfortable silence for a while, her prepping the pasta salad and draining the noodles, and me slicing the watermelon. She hums as she works, which is something she’s done for as long as I can remember. It’s either humming while she cooks, or it’s listening to 90s country and singing along to that.

“So, how you been enjoying the rodeo so far?” she asks after a long bout of quietness.

“I’m having a lot of fun,” I tell her honestly.

She glances over at me, her eyes wrinkling at the corners as she smiles at me. “I’m so proud of you, babe. I hope you know that.”

“I do. Thank you, Mom.”

Someone trudges into the kitchen, and when I glance up, my gaze locks with Whit’s. I’ve only met him a few times, but both times were less than pleasant. I get the feeling he doesn’t like me very much.

That’s basically confirmed when his lip twists into a sneer and he says, “Oh, you. Hi.”

My eyebrows dip in confusion about where this aversion to me seems to come from. “Hey, Whit. Have you met my mom yet?”

His gaze slides over my shoulder, and he shakes his head, his expression brightening when she must notice him.

“Hi, dear.” My mom comes up beside me, drying her hands on her apron—an apron she must’ve brought from home because there’s no way Conrad owns that—and holding out her hand for Whit to shake. “I’m Diane, Sterling’s mom.”

“Nice to meet you, Diane,” he greets her back, much more politely than he speaks to me. “I’m Whit.”

“Nice to meet you. Are you in the rodeo too?”

Whit chuckles. “Oh, heck no. I’m the vet. I have a clinic in town.” He drags his gaze back to me, the polite expression still in place, probably more for my mom’s sake than mine. “Have you seen Conrad lately?”

I shake my head. “Not in the last twenty minutes, but I know he was heading out to check on Bertha.” Bertha is one of the mares that Whit’s been coming to take care of lately. She’s pregnant and about to pop any day now. “Have you, uh, talked to Shooter?”

As soon as the question leaves my mouth, I regret it. Especially when Whit’s eyebrow arches, and his lip twists into a knowing smirk.

“We rode here together,” is all he says.

“He’s here?”

Nodding, he grabs a piece of watermelon out of the bowl. “Unless he left in the last five minutes.”

He walks away after that, and I finish chopping up the fruit, an uneasiness growing in my gut knowing Shooter is here. The last time we saw each other, when he came here with Whit, we didn’t get to talk more than a quick hello, but I’ve found myself, more than once, wanting to reach out. Every time the urge arises, I mentally scold myself, though, because nothing good will come from that.

I’m rinsing off the knife and chopping board when I spot Shooter out the window. He’s standing beside a tree, talking to a couple of people I don’t recognize; a guy and a girl. They’re laughing at something he must’ve said. He’s wearing a pair of straight leg, dark wash jeans, a heather gray t-shirt that’s sinfully tight across his chest and around his arms, and he’s got a baseball cap on, and a pair of tawny boots underneath the jeans.

A Solo cup rests in his hand. His cheeks look flushed, even from all the way over here, and it could be the weather, but I’d bet it’s from what he’s drinking. He’s grinning at the people around him, but the smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. If Daisy is right, and Shooter’s shitty attitude stems from his dad, he’s probably not feeling any better since being home.

Concern unfurrows in my chest, similar to how it’s done for days, the need to somehow make him feel better filling me, the feeling strange to me.

My mom asks me to do something else for her, so I step away from the kitchen window. When I look back out, he’s gone. I kind of hate the urge to go find him. That’s ridiculous. We aren’t friends, we barely tolerate each other. Who cares if we’ve hooked up a few times? It doesn’t mean anything.

After I finish helping in the kitchen, I head out back, toward my room. I’ve been on the go since early this morning, and I’m desperately in need of an outfit change. Truthfully, a shower would be great, but I’m not about to do that with a house full of people. That seems like it would be weird.

Climbing up the stairs in the barn, the loft is the entire second level. It’s not a bad space for one person. It’s spacious, and the views are nice from the window. The only downside is it doesn’t have air conditioning, and it gets pretty warm up here, especially times like right now when the sun’s beating down. I have a portable AC unit, which helps a little, but it’s nowhere near as good as central air.

I reach behind me, tugging my shirt over my head before pulling open my dresser and grabbing a fresh one. Swiping my stick of deodorant off the top, I quickly apply some before moving to put the shirt on. But before I can, footsteps sound on the stairs, and when I glance over my shoulder, Shooter comes into view.

My stomach jumps into my throat at the sight of him leaning against the doorjamb. “What are you doing up here?”

He doesn’t reply right away. Blue eyes sharp as they watch me while he stalks toward me, quickly closing the distance between us. Only when he’s right in front of me does he respond. “Can’t stop thinking about you,” he admits, voice raspy.

I can’t stop thinking about you either, I want to say.

The whiskey on his breath surrounds me, and the worry I felt when he first showed up intensifies. It’s barely two in the afternoon, and if his breath and the redness in his eyes is anything to go off of, he’s well past tipsy. And since he’s only been here about thirty minutes, I doubt he showed up here sober.

Willing my heartbeat to slow the heck down, I ask, “Are you okay?”

A lazy grin tugs on the corner of his lips. “I’d be a lot better if you kissed me already.” I really wish he wouldn’t say things like that to me. Shooter’s gaze rakes over my exposed chest, his grin only growing. “You’re hot as fuck…you know that?”

“And you’re drunk,” I toss back, my body heating from his brief perusal.

The touch of his finger sears into my skin as he drags it along my collarbone softly, tracing. Featherlight. Goosebumps blossom in his wake, spreading down my torso as a chill runs through me.

“I’m not drunk,” he counters, lip poked out almost in a pout, finger trailing down until it’s circling the tightened, hard bud of my nipple. I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from moaning. “God, look how responsive you are for me.” The way he says it, almost absentmindedly, it’s like he’s saying it more to himself than to me. “Such a dirty boy. My dirty boy.”

His dirty boy?! My heart catapults against my ribs at that possessive statement, and I’m sure he can feel it with the way his fingers are on my chest.

Clearing my throat, I wet my lips, trying to get my pulse under control. “Y-you’ve seemed upset for a few days now. Wanna talk about it?”

Shooter sniggers, his gaze following the pad of his finger as it descends even further, circling around my navel before dipping inside. “How would you know? You’ve been ignoring me since we got back into town.”

Rearing back, I ask, “How have I been ignoring you? We haven’t been in the same space since we got home, and the one brief time we were, you said hi and I said it back. Hardly call that ignoring you, Shooter.”

He shrugs lazily. “Could’ve texted me, but you didn’t.”

“Because we text so much normally,” I deadpan. “And even if we did, could you blame me for not? You were a huge dick on our way home. But I’m here now if you want to talk.”

“No,” he replies. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

It’s an effort to not roll my eyes right in his face. Leave it to Shooter to corner me in my own room, only to shut me down. Dragging in a deep breath, I exhale before trying again. “W-what, uh…” Jesus Christ, his hands and those laser focused eyes on my body have my mind short-circuiting. “You sure? I’m, uh, a great listener.”

I’m a great listener? Really, Sterling?

Lip ticking up in the most sultry smirk I think I’ve ever seen, his eyes slowly raise from my abdomen up to meet mine, walking us backward until my back hits the wall right beside the huge barn window that overlooks the backyard. “You wanna know what I want?” he asks, gravel lacing his words, giving me a pretty good idea of what it is he actually wants.

Yet, still, I nod, watching him like there isn’t anything else on the planet I’d rather know than what it is he wants right now.

Leaning in, Shooter brings his body flush with mine as I suck in a breath. His gaze alternates between my mouth and my eyes for a moment before bringing his lips right next to my ears. “I want to forget about everything for a little bit while I lose myself inside of you.”

He doesn’t bother waiting for any type of response from me. Bringing his thumb and index finger up to grip my chin, he turns my face toward his, fusing our lips together in the next breath. Tongue plunging into my mouth, he curls it around mine, stroking urgently. Whiskey and desire fill my senses as he floods my taste buds, his hand coming down from my chin to wrap around my throat. Squeezing my pulse point lightly, I feel him smile against my lips when he feels how fast it’s beating for him.

“I got you nervous, dirty boy?” Shaking my head, that only makes his smirk grow wider. He knows I’m lying. “Your heart’s racing a mile a minute, but your dick is hard as stone against mine.” To emphasize his point, Shooter reaches between us, palming my length where it’s sitting against my thigh. This time, the groan slips out before I can stop it, the feel of his grip around me electric. Skillful fingers work my jeans open before he shoves them down until they pool at my ankles. Giving my dick a slow, lazy tug, his eyes lift, meeting mine, his pupils blown. “Turn around,” he orders me. “Hands on the wall.”

My mind stalls for half a second before I kick into gear and do as he says. As soon as my palms are flat against the wall, his hands come up, groping and spreading the globes of my ass. Leaning in, letting out a sound that can only be described as a growl, Shooter says, “You got such a nice ass, man. Anyone ever told you that before?”

Heat blooms on my cheeks as his compliment washes over me. I shake my head.

“That’s a damn shame,” he replies, nipping at the skin of my lobe. “An ass this fucking nice should be praised on the daily.”

The loss of his body heat has me tossing a glance over my shoulder, where I see him drop to his knees. My heart rate speeds up, my palms starting to sweat. “No, no!” My attempts at moving away are unsuccessful when he pins my hips to the wall with his firm grip. “I haven’t showered yet today. I was helping Conrad with the horses this morning, and helping my mom this afternoon. You don’t want to do that.”

His smirk almost looks devious as he peers up at me from his knees, hands spreading me open. “Oh, but that’s where you’re wrong, baby.” Good God, his voice is dripping with lust. “I want all of your sweat, your flavor, your everything. I want my senses drowning in you. The more seasoned, the better.”

With that, he dives in, and my legs tremble on contact. The flat of his tongue laves across my taint, licking a hot, wet stripe up the length of my crease. I choke out the most embarrassing sound, but I don’t even care. His mouth on me feels too good.

Shooter feasts on me like a starving man, the noises coming from him as he licks and sucks and nips sound downright animalistic. It’s more than clear he’s enjoying himself just as much as I am, and that fact turns me on so much more. I gasp when he slips a finger into my hole, alongside his tongue, the stretch minimal but still a shock. After a few moments, he pulls out, tapping my hip with his hand.

“Turn around. I want your cock in my mouth too.”

When I spin around, he quickly shoves my back into the wall. My dick is painfully hard, and I practically yelp when he sucks the tip into his mouth. Tongue twirling around, he has my entire body thrumming with need for him. A need for him to take me deeper. A need for him to put his hands back on me—back in me.

In the back of my mind, I’m hyperaware of the window right next to me. The window that overlooks the backyard…where nearly everybody is. It’s a large, floor-to-ceiling arch window that I know from experience can be seen from down below. While we aren’t directly in front of it, I have no doubt that if someone were to look up here, they’d see something, I just don’t know what.

Shooter grabs my right leg, tossing it over his shoulder as he sinks down, taking more of my length into his mouth. His tongue continues to tease along the underside, driving me absolutely wild. Dark, hooded eyes look up at me from beneath his lashes, and without breaking eye contact or halting his movement, he slips a finger into his mouth, right beside my dick, getting it nice and slippery wet before pulling it out and skirting behind my balls, along my taint, until the pad of his finger is circling my hole. The leg not wrapped around his shoulder shakes as he slips the tip of his finger inside, breaching the muscle.

“Oh, Christ, Shooter,” I gasp, my hand going to the top of his head, holding on to him like an anchor as he works me over from both ends. Simultaneously, he inches more of his finger into my channel while he sinks lower on my dick until I’m seated in his throat. Swallowing around the tip, I throw my head back, crying out at the sensation of him constricting around me. Everything feels too much.

My hips start moving of their own volition, thrusting into his mouth and pushing back onto his finger, the need to come intensifying when he crooks the finger inside of me, hitting my prostate. He does it over, and over, and over until I swear I’m seeing stars. Until I’m sure I can’t hold on any longer.

“Oh, God… Shooter.” My voice cracks as I moan his name, his eyes gleaming, full of unshed tears as he glances up at me. His eyes on me, in addition to everything else he’s doing, are like a sensory overload in the very best way. Heat pools in my groin, tingles spreading to every part of my body as he works me closer to the finish line. “Don’t stop,” I beg, brows clashed together. “Don’t stop, I’m so close. I’m gonna come.”

Shooter’s finger drags across my prostate one more time as his throat closes around me, and I’m done for. The pressure builds and builds until a dam breaks, and I spill into his mouth, a loud hoarse cry falling from my lips as I ride the wave. My orgasm feels like it goes on forever, and Shooter takes every last drop, milking me for all that I have. My legs are so weak, it’s a miracle I’m standing at all.

Standing up, Shooter boxes me in against the wall, crashing his mouth down on mine. He thrusts into my mouth, my cum still on his tongue as he caresses mine, letting me taste myself. I moan, bringing a hand up to wrap around the back of his neck while my other cups him over his jeans. He’s so hard for me, and I love that. I stroke his denim-clad cock for a few moments, before working his belt buckle open. As soon as I get it open and move to work on his button and zipper, someone calls out for me, sending ice through my veins.

“Sterling!” The voice is coming from Daisy, and I freeze. “You up there?”

Shooter stops kissing me, resting his forehead on mine as he grumbles. “My sister is such a fucking cockblock.”

“Move!” I whisper-yell, shoving him in the chest, my heart pounding as I grab my jeans and somehow manage to slide them on without falling over. They’re just barely up my thighs when I can hear her climbing the stairs, Shooter stepping in front of me so I can finish buttoning them. My face is burning hot, and I know it’s beet red.

“Sterling, you in—Oh!”

“What do you need, Daisy?” Shooter asks, sounding like such a dick. Per usual.

Fumbling with the button on my jeans, I finally get myself righted, but it’s too late. It’s very clear what we were just doing.

“I was coming up here to grab Sterling, because his mom said she needed his help.”

Groaning, I drag a hand through the now-sweaty strands atop my head, wishing the ground would swallow me whole. “I’ll be down in a minute.”

As soon as she leaves, Shooter turns around, shit-eating grin on his face. “That was close.”

“Shut up.” I roll my eyes. “She totally knows what we were doing.”

“At least she didn’t catch us with my mouth around your dick and my finger plunged up your ass.” He shrugs, not a single care in the world.

Groaning, I scrub a hand over my mouth, my stomach clear in my throat, heart pounding a mile a minute. “I have to go find my mom. Is my face all red?”

“Oh yeah.” Shooter laughs, reaching down to adjust his hard-on.

He’s such an asshole.

25

Shooter Graham

Fuck, my head is throbbing. I drank way too much yesterday, and now I’m paying for it.

A bunch of us ended up crashing here at the ranch because the party went on well into the night, and the drinks never stopped flowing, so it just made the most sense. After Daisy caught Sterling and me up in his room, I didn’t see much of him for the rest of the night, and what I did see was him scowling across the yard at me like Daisy walking in was somehow my fault. I know he was embarrassed, but really, who gives a shit if she walked in on us. We were both dressed, and is it really the end of the world if she knows we hooked up?

It's early, the sun soft in the sky as I step onto the wraparound porch and sit down in one of the rocking chairs. I left my phone inside, so I don’t even know the exact time, but I know it’s early enough that I have no business being awake. Grabbing a cigarette and my BIC, I light up, letting the smoke fill my lungs.

I’ve got a blanket wrapped around my shoulders, my knees pulled up to my chest. I’m still so fucking tired, but I got too much on my mind. The lunch with my parents before the party here yesterday didn’t go well, but I figured as much. My dad laid into me about getting disqualified, said my performance this season is “laughable.” His word, not mine. I ended up leaving early and getting drunk at the bar.

The thought of skipping this party altogether crossed my mind, and I seriously considered it, but despite my shit mood, there was still a part of me that really wanted to see Sterling. Which is how I wound up riding here with Whit. I was clearly in no position to drive, and his clinic is just down the block from the bar.

The door opens, pulling my attention to the left. Daisy steps out onto the porch, eyes finding mine as she sits in the chair beside mine.

“Morning,” I offer her before taking another drag. She doesn’t smoke, so I’m willing to bet she’s out here specifically to talk to me. Probably about yesterday.

“Morning.” She’s got two mugs in her hand. She hands me one before taking a sip of her own. Coffee.

“Thanks.”

Daisy and I sit in silence for a few minutes as I finish my cigarette. The tension is thick between us, though, and I know she wants to say something. Whether it’s about our dad or about what she saw with Sterling, I’m not sure.

“Just say it,” I blurt out eventually.

Turning her head, she stares at the side of mine before letting out a sigh. “Sterling’s a nice guy. He doesn’t need you fucking him up and hurting him.”

“Yeah?” Dragging my gaze to her, I say, “You saying that because you’re jealous it’s not you he’s hooking up with instead, sis?”

“Fuck you, Shooter,” she spits out, her face screwed up. “I’m serious. I don’t know what your angle is with him, but knock it off.”

“Who says I have an angle?”

Lips pressed into a thin line, Daisy stares over at me with a ‘you gotta be joking’ expression on her face. “Because it’s you,” she replies plainly. “You don’t do anything unless you gain something out of it, and you certainly don’t do continuous hook-ups with the same person.”

I mean…she’s not wrong. At least, not usually.

“I don’t have an angle, Daisy. We’re two guys having fun on the road. That’s all.”

She opens her mouth, only to snap it closed a moment later. Taking a drink of her coffee, she stares out into the yard. Conrad is going in and out of the barn in the distance. Finally, she says, “It may be just having fun for you, but please just be careful with him. He’s… inexperienced.”

My eyebrows knit together at that. “I figured he was kind of inexperienced, but it’s fine, Daisy. You act like what we’re doing is nonconsensual or something. Relax. He’s a grown man. He can take care of himself, sis.”

She’s being fucking weird, and I don’t know if it’s the hangover or her tone that’s pissing me off, but the longer I sit here with her, the more irritated I become.

Letting out a disgruntled sigh, Daisy says, “You’re such a hard-headed jackass sometimes, you know that?”

“And you’re a nosy fucking bitch sometimes,” I toss back, giving her the finger.

She throws her hands up in the air, rolling her eyes as she raises off the chair. “I don’t know why I even bother. It’s not like you give a shit about anybody but yourself.”

Laughter bubbles out of me as I watch her storm back into the house. She’s so fucking dramatic, I swear to God. I light up another cigarette, smoking it while I finish the rest of my coffee. A boiling hot shower and a change of clothes sounds nice, but I’m pretty sure Whit went home last night, and he was my ride, so I need to find another way home.

Could’ve asked Daisy, but now I’d rather not.

Standing up out of the rocking chair, I raise my arms over my head, loving the feeling of my tired, achy muscles stretching. I step off the porch and cross the yard, heading toward the barn. Conrad is loading something in the back of his pickup truck, but I can’t make out what.

He glances up when he hears me walk over. “Good morning, Shooter.”

“Morning,” I grumble, rubbing a hand over my head. “Working on a Saturday?”

“The ranch don’t slow down for weekends,” he states matter-of-factly as he shuts the tailgate. “Animals gotta eat, chores gotta get done, no matter what day of the week it is.”

“Fair enough. You heading into town any time soon?”

He folds his arms over his chest. “In about twenty minutes. Why, need a ride?”

“Yeah. Whit drove me here, but he left last night.”

Conrad gives me a terse nod. “Give me a bit to finish what I’m doing. I’ll come get you when I’m ready to leave.”

“Cool. Thanks, man.”

I head back inside, in search of some more coffee and maybe something to eat to help soak up this fucking hangover. Stepping through the backdoor, I find Cope in the kitchen, frying some bacon and eggs. He’s in a pair of black boxers and a wife beater, barefoot, with a headband holding his curly hair out of his face, looking like he owns the place.

Glancing over as I walk in, a grin splits his face. “Hey, man. Hungry?”

“Starving,” I reply. “And you look fucking ridiculous, man.”

Laughing, he shoulder checks me as I pass him to get to the coffeepot. “And why’s that?”

Using my hand to gesture over his body, I say, “Who walks around in somebody else’s house, with a house full of people, in their underwear?”

Cope glances down, like he’s just taking in the state of his undress for the first time. “Why not? The fly on my boxers is buttoned, so it’s not like anyone’s going to see my dick.”

“Whatever you say, man.” I laugh, taking a sip of the hot coffee. “You seen Sterling?”

“Uh, yeah, last I saw him, he was on the front porch with Daisy.”

Of course, he was.

I’d like to be able to talk to him at least a little bit before I go home since he practically ran out on me last night, and I haven’t seen him since.

Conrad’s house is open concept, bright, and airy. He’s got the windows above the sink and in the dining room open. I stroll through the house, and as my hand reaches for the knob on the front door, I hear my name coming from the front porch—through the windows that are also open.

I know I shouldn’t, but I listen on bated breath.

“…love my brother, but he’s not exactly the best person to fool around with.”

She is such a bitch.

“Daisy, it’s not a big deal,” Sterling tells her in a placating tone. “I’m fine. I know what I’m doing.”

I hear her let out a heavy sigh, and in my mind’s eye, I can see the displeased look on her face. “Okay, but is Shooter really the type of guy you want to do all that with? Does he even know?”

Know what?

“No, and I don’t see why he needs to know. It’s not like I’m some teenager who’s saving it for marriage. It’s not a big deal to me, so why would I tell Shooter?”

“All I’m saying is, if you’re planning on having sex with him, I think you should tell him you’re a virgin so he can, you know, go a little easy on you.”

Virgin?! My throat tightens as my heart thumps painfully behind my ribs, Daisy’s words from earlier coming back to me. “Inexperienced.” Sterling wasn’t a virgin… was he? I mean, yeah, I figured he was inexperienced with how shy and unsure he was… but a virgin? Why the fuck wouldn’t he tell me that?

His first time was in a shower stall at some rest stop in the middle of fucking nowhere. How fucking classy of me.

My hand’s twisting the knob and I’m stepping outside before I even know what I’m doing, both of them looking up at me with wide, surprised eyes. The color from Sterling’s face drains until he’s sheet white.

“Oh, hey, Shooter,” Daisy mutters. God, she’s fucking annoying me.

“Daisy, go the fuck away,” I explode. “What are you still doing out here? This”—I indicate between Sterling and I—“is none of your fucking business!”

Sterling shoots her what I can only describe as an apologetic look before she narrows her eyes at me, raising off the rocking chair, heading toward the door. “Fuck you, Shooter.”

“You’re a real asshole sometimes, you know that?” Sterling grumbles as I return my attention to him.

“Nu-uh. We’re not changing the subject. A virgin, Addams?” I ask, resting my ass on the railing, folding my arms over my chest.

“H-how much of that did you hear?”

Ignoring him, I continue. “You didn’t think to tell me you were a virgin before you let me fuck you?”

“Why don’t you say it a little louder, Shooter. I don’t think the whole freaking house heard you!”

I scrub a hand down my face, trying to get my thoughts together. My pulse is racing, and I have this weird urge to pull him into me, but also smack him upside the head. “Why wouldn’t you tell me?”

Sterling juts his chin out in a clear act of defiance. “It’s nobody’s business but my own.”

“Uh, and your partner,” I throw back. “It would’ve been nice to know.”

Angry eyes glower at me. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why would it have been nice to know? Would you have lit a dozen candles and made love to me had you known?”

The snarky way he said those two words makes me want to smack him upside the head even more.

“No, jackass,” I grit out. “But I would’ve at least made it a little better for you than a fucking shower stall!”

Standing off the rocking chair, he mirrors my stance with his arms crossed over his chest, shoulders pulled back. “So, you’re honestly saying had you known, you still would’ve gone through with it?”

“I—” Clenching my jaw, I work my back molars trying to truly think how I would’ve handled it. “I don’t know, okay? I’m not exactly the greatest person to lose your virginity to. Daisy’s right.”

“See. This is why I didn’t tell you. It’s not some treasured gift I’m holding on to, or some sentimental thing. I wanted to have sex with you, and you wanted to have sex with me. Why should anything else matter?”

Before I can answer, the front door opens and Conrad appears, glancing between the two of us before landing on me. “Ready?”

“Yup. Let’s go.” He brushes past us, heading down the stairs, and before I follow, I lean in close to Sterling and tell him quiet enough for only him to hear, “Because you deserve more than a dingy shower stall for your first fucking time, Sterling. That’s why it fucking matters.”

Pulling back, we hold eye contact, the look in his gaze unreadable. If I had to guess, he’s confused about where that came from, and if I’m being honest with myself, I am too. Why do I care so much? If this were anybody else, I wouldn’t give a shit. I’ve taken people’s virginities multiple times, in places a lot less pleasant than a shower, but with Sterling, it always feels different. He feels different.

He opens his mouth like he may say something, but I don’t give him the chance. I follow after Conrad, climbing into his truck, and leave without a second glance. Conrad doesn’t bother asking any questions on the ride back to my place. Not that I expected him to, but I appreciate it nonetheless. My mind is a fucking mess over what I just learned and how weird it’s making me feel.

Why wouldn’t Sterling tell me that? Why keep it a secret?

26

Shooter Graham

My week has gone from bad to worse.

After I left the ranch the other day, Sterling and I haven’t spoken at all. Neither of us has reached out to the other to talk about this shit I overheard, and honestly, it’s probably for the best. I want to talk to him, but at the same time, I don’t. I wouldn’t know what to say. And what’s most annoying is that I don’t even fully understand why I’m so angry about the whole situation. It’s his virginity. He doesn’t owe me anything. Not a damn thing. I know that. Yet, I’m pissed he didn’t tell me. I’m pissed at myself for not figuring it out, and for fucking him for the first time the way I did. Not that I had any way of knowing, but still.

While Sterling hasn’t tried to reach out to me, Daisy sure as fuck has. She’s getting on my last goddamn nerve. I’ve ignored every call and every text, but I can’t ignore her for long because we have dinner with our folks tonight—something I’m dreading more than the conversation that’s sure to happen between my sister and me.

Stampede Days begins tomorrow, meaning our short break is over. Normally, I look forward to Stampede Days week. The atmosphere is incredible, the whole town comes together to put it on, and getting to compete on home ground is usually exciting. Usually being the keyword here, because this year, I can think of thirty other things I’d rather do than compete in my father’s presence.

I’m dreading it. The whole fucking event.

And this fucking dinner tonight. Daisy and my dad, they both can fuck off.

After spending the afternoon at the gym working out, I head home and shower, changing into a clean pair of jeans, a plain black t-shirt, and a baseball hat. Checking the time, I know I need to leave. I’m running late on purpose, but if I wait any longer, my mom will rip me a new one. I do feel bad, because I am excited to see her, but it’s hard to be excited when I’m dreading seeing everybody else who’ll be there.

She understands the rodeo, and the insane pressure we put on ourselves, to an extent because she’s stood by my dad’s side through his entire rodeo career, but she’s never been part of it firsthand. I know it frustrates her when my dad puts so much expectation on my shoulders, and I know she says stuff to him about it.

I check my phone one last time—seeing if maybe Sterling reached out finally, which he didn’t—before shoving it and my wallet into my pocket and grabbing my keys off the counter. Starting up my truck, I sit there for a moment, letting it warm up. I contemplate texting him myself. With the way I’m obsessively checking my phone, I obviously want to talk to him about this, but what would I even say? I said everything I wanted to say the other day, and he clearly doesn’t want to talk to me, so why should I be the one to reach out? I hate how much the urge is there, the need to want to talk to him. When the fuck did that start?

My phone buzzes, but when I look down, disappointment courses through me when I see it’s not him. It’s my mom.

Mom: Boy, you better get your butt here already.

Laughter bubbles up my throat at her message as I type out a response.

Me: Sorry, running late, but I’m in my truck now. Be there soon.

My finger hovers over my text with Sterling for a few moments, but eventually, I lock my screen and shove it in the cup holder as I start my drive over to my parents’ house. Daisy, of course, is already there when I park in the driveway. Maybe I can stick close to my mom all night and avoid having to talk to her.

I should’ve known I could never be that lucky, though. Daisy’s like a piranha when she wants something. As soon as I’m out of my truck, she comes through the front door, hands on her hips while she waits for me to step up the stairs.

“Can I fucking help you?” I drawl.

“You’re ignoring me, big brother.”

“You’re sticking your nose where it doesn’t fucking belong, little sister.” I try to walk around her toward the front door, but she places a hand on my chest, stopping me. “If you think I won’t pick your skinny ass up and punt you into the yard and out of my way, Daisy, you’re sorely mistaken. Get out of my way.”

“God, don’t be so freaking dramatic.” She laughs, stepping in front of me. “Will you just talk to me for a minute?”

“No! It’s none of your business. What don’t you get about that?”

“It is my business, Shooter. He’s my friend!”

I can feel my blood pressure rising the longer I stand here with her. Can she not take a fucking hint? “Yeah? Then talk to your friend about it, not me. Move.”

“But I want to talk to you about it. More specifically, what you said before you rudely kicked me off Conrad’s porch the other day.”

“Oh my God, you don’t give up, do you? I didn’t fucking know, okay!”

Her face scrunches up. “Didn’t know what?”

“That Sterling was a virgin before we had sex. I didn’t fucking know!”

Daisy’s eyes go cartoon big. “You had sex with him?” she hisses.

I throw up my hands, a groan sounding from me. “What the fuck do you mean, Daisy? Isn’t that what this is about? You’re pissed that he had sex with me?”

“Nope!” She takes a step back, eyes still wide. “I figured you guys hooked up, given the state I found you both at in his room, but I did not know you had sex.”

One hand on my hip, my other comes up, fingers pinching the bridge of my nose. “Lovely. You know what? This is why you should mind your own fucking business, Daisy. I don’t have time for this.”

I shove past her and go inside. One fucking problem down, one to go.

Admittedly, the evening doesn’t go that badly. At least, not at first. Mom asks about the season, we all hang out, eat a delicious dinner, and I start to think maybe Dad won’t pull his bullshit again tonight. Should’ve known better.

Mom announces she’s going to water the flowers outside, and Dad takes the opportunity to herd Daisy and I into the family room to watch rodeo tapes. Nothing good ever comes from watching rodeo fucking tapes with him. Nothing. I should’ve left right then, but apparently, I’m a fucking glutton for punishment. We start with Daisy’s, because why wouldn’t we? He doesn’t hesitate telling her how well she’s doing. What great form she has. What fantastic control she has of her mare. Even when she knocks the barrel over or has a slower overall time.

So great, Daisy.

Proud of you, Daisy.

Daisy’s sitting in the recliner, preening like a fucking golden retriever being told she’s a good girl for playing fetch.

Her tapes are about done when my phone buzzes in my pocket. Pulling it out, I’m more than a little shocked—and oddly enough, relieved—to see Sterling’s name lighting up my screen.

Sterling: Can we talk if you have some time tonight? I know you’re at your parents’ tonight.

Of course, he knows that. Daisy probably told him. Daisy the fucking Great.

Before I can respond, Dad chimes in, letting me know he’s turning on mine. Joy. Can’t fucking wait. Despite me having a damn impressive season so far, scoring more points than Daisy, I know… I just fucking know, it won’t be good enough. I can feel it in my gut. I shove the phone back into my pocket, sitting on pins and needles as he hits play.

Your back should’ve been straighter there, Shooter.

Your hold could’ve been tighter.

There’s no reason you shouldn’t have scored more points on that one, son.

And then, if that’s not bad enough, we move onto other bareback bronc riders and their videos.

See what he did there? You should be able to do that.

I know you’re better than this.

I know you can do better.

Rodeo is in your blood, son. You should be able to beat their score without even breaking a sweat.

If it were me out there…

If that was me…

What I would do different…

My hands are clenched into fists at my sides, and with one look at Daisy, it’s clear she’s uncomfortable sitting here listening to this. I can’t fucking do this. When he goes to put on a Sterling video, I snap. I cannot sit here and watch Sterling compete and have my dad compare me to him. I just fucking can’t.

“Would it kill you to tell me you’re proud of me, Dad?”

His head snaps in my direction, a frown and a pinched brow on his face. “Excuse me?”

“The entire time we were watching Daisy compete, you couldn’t stop telling her how proud you are of her. Would it kill you to give me the same?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, son. I tell you all the time—”

“No,” I cut in. “No, you don’t.” My heart’s beating a mile a minute, as sweat lines the back of my neck, and nausea churns in my gut. I can’t be here. I can’t do this. Not tonight. Standing off the couch, I wipe the moisture from my palms on my thighs. “You know what, I gotta go.”

“You’re leaving?” he balks from his place in his recliner.

“Yeah, I got… shit to do. I’ll talk to you later.”

Barely stopping to say bye to my mom, I barrel out of the house, hop in my truck, and leave. My head’s a mess, my body vibrating with anger.

Anger at my dad for never being proud of me.

Anger at Daisy for always getting the pride I don’t fucking get.

Anger at myself for letting him get to me like this.

My vision blurs, the road before me becoming hard to see. I blink hard, trying to clear it, and only when tears fall hot down my cheeks do I realize I’m crying. My frustration has reached its breaking point, and it’s like I can’t stop now. Years of working my ass off to make him proud. Years of never once being good enough, no matter how much I succeed.

I drive aimlessly, the music off, my face drenched with the years of hurt, and I don’t even realize where I’m going until I park my truck in front of the barn at Conrad’s ranch. I don’t think twice as I turn off the engine, climb out, and make my way toward the staircase inside the barn. I jog up the stairs, and Sterling must hear me coming because he meets me in the doorway of his loft, chest bare, plaid pajama pants slung low on his hips, his hair a mess atop his head like he's been carding his fingers through it.

He frowns when he sees me, eyebrows knit together. “What’s wrong?”

It’s at this moment that I become painfully aware that my face is still wet, the tears are still flowing, and I probably look like a fucking mess. My heart’s pounding in my chest, and I still feel like I could be sick. Trembling hands lift to my head. I just hold them there on top of my hat as I shake my head.

“I don’t know why I’m here. I just…” My bottom lip quivers as I drag in a lungful of air, everything feeling too much right now. “I just, fuck. I didn’t know where else to go. I didn’t want to go home. Didn’t want to be alone. This is dumb… You’re probably busy. Fuck, I’m sorry. I’ll go.”

Before I can even turn around and attempt to go back down the stairs, his hand reaches out, the warmth of it slipping into mine. “Stay.”

Peering over at him through wet lashes, I expect to see amusement or disgust or something. I don’t see any of that, though. His honey-colored eyes are wide and imploring as they watch me, mouth still down-turned like seeing me like this causes him discomfort.

Fresh tears fall, burning a path down my face as he tugs me closer to him, our bodies inches apart. The hand not holding mine reaches up, cupping the side of my face, uncaring about the wetness. “Please stay,” he whispers. “Tell me what’s going on and let me help you.”

Sterling leans in, pressing his lips into mine. It’s soft and tender, the kind of kiss I’m not used to but find myself melting for. He doesn’t use his tongue, doesn’t take it a step further. He just…kisses me. Grounds me. A new wave of emotion bubbles up, and I hiccup against his lips. He doesn’t even laugh at me. I rest my forehead against his, breathing him in, letting his presence calm my erratic heart, muttering four words to him I never expected me to say, but I mean them with my whole being in this moment.

“I need you, Sterling.”

He nods. “I know. I’m right here. Come on.”

Leading me into the loft, I sit on the edge of his bed as he crosses the room to grab the box of tissues off his desk. Handing them to me, he sits beside me.

“What happened?”

There’s so much sincerity in that one question. That, paired with the way he’s sitting next to me, should have me feeling suffocated. Like I need to bolt, or hide how I feel. But it’s doing the opposite. Even though, in theory, it’s probably a terrible idea to give my opponent ammo against me, feed him my weaknesses, somehow I know he would never use that against me.

Somehow, I know I can trust him. And somehow I know he isn’t just my opponent anymore. Somewhere along the way, without me even fully realizing it, Sterling has become more than that.

27

Sterling Addams

The very last thing I expected to be doing tonight is consoling a distraught Shooter. I half expected to hear from him after what he found out, but when I didn’t, I kind of just assumed it was for the best. So, imagine my surprise when I hear footsteps barreling up the stairs in the barn outside the loft, only to come face to face with him—especially after he ignored my text attempt at talking. His baby blue eyes were red-rimmed and glossy, the tip of his nose red too. He looked lost, and not in a physical sense.

I still don’t know what’s wrong that caused this distressed version of Shooter, and truth be told, I’m more than a little surprised it was here he decided to come. That it was me he sought out for comfort or a shoulder to cry on, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t glad he did. In this moment, I realize just how much I want to be here for him. Sure, the urge to reach out and have him open up to me has come up already, to which he always shut me down, but it’s not until right this second it hits me how strongly I want it.

He’s sitting right beside me on my bed, his teeth chomping down on his bottom lip as he stares down at the hands clasped in his lap. Every part of his body language right now is off. I’ve never seen him like this. This dejected. And I very quickly realize I don’t like it. As much as his cocky, self-assured behavior normally annoys the hell out of me, I prefer it over this version of him tenfold. The need to help him in any way that I can is overwhelming. Almost suffocating.

Going on instinct and what I would like if the roles were reversed, I place my hand on his knee, squeezing gently, hopefully relaying silently that I’m here for him whenever he’s ready. He looks up, shiny eyes meeting mine, and he offers me a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. It almost looks… pained. But my touch must do the trick because after he drags in a few deep breaths, he begins.

“I’m sure you know of my dad,” he starts, a humorless chuckle leaving him. “Everybody in the rodeo world does.”

That sentence alone tells me exactly where this is probably heading, and my stomach sinks.

“Yeah, I do,” I confirm, even though I’m pretty sure he wasn’t looking for an actual answer.

“He’s always been pretty clear about his expectations of me when it comes to bronc riding. I grew up having the phrase ‘second place in nothing more than being first loser,’ engrained into my mind. He loves me, I don’t doubt that.” Shooter lifts his left shoulder into a shrug. “But he also loves the rodeo. Loves the win. Winning is, and always has been, the most important thing. Being the best. I know he’s proud of me, or… well, I think he is, but we come from a long line of champions, you know. I have big shoes to fill, a lot of pressure on my shoulders to uphold the Graham name. Uphold the legacy that those before me built.”

Some more tears trail down his cheeks, falling into his lap. He won’t look at me, but he keeps going anyway.

“For as long as I can remember, I’ve wanted to follow in his footsteps. Be the greatest like him, and my grandpa, and my uncles. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.” He breathes out a laugh, but it’s lacking any life. “And in my favor, I’m damn good at it.” I roll my eyes, sniggering at the cockiness that never fails to shine through, no matter what with him. Unfortunately, it doesn’t last, his mood sobering up instantly. “It’s just never enough,” he adds somberly.

My brows pinch in confusion. “What do you mean?”

Shooter leans over, elbows resting on his knees with his hands linked in front of him. “He’s always been hard on me. Always going over my rides, telling me what I could’ve done differently to score higher. Even if I won, there was always criticism he had for me. I’m usually pretty good at tuning it out, or using it as fuel to do better. This season, though…” He scratches a hand over his mouth. “It’s more. He’s almost insufferable, to the point that I’ve dreaded coming back here.”

I’m… speechless. I can’t imagine living with that much pressure on my shoulders all the time. And it explains why he’s so headstrong and competitive. I mean, we’re all competitive to a point, but he’s next level. And for good reason.

“And he’s not like that to Daisy?”

He shakes his head. “Nah. I’m not sure if it’s because he was never a barrel racer, so the intensity isn’t there, or if it’s because she’s a woman, so he subconsciously holds her to different standards, but he’s never rode her ass the way he does me. Ever. In fact, he’s one of her biggest cheerleaders.”

“Shooter, I…”

“Please, don’t,” he cuts me off. Standing up suddenly, he starts pacing in front of the bed. “I’m just so…” He runs his palms over his head, attempting to grip the strands, but they’re too short. “I’m so fucking tired of it all. Tired of never being good enough in his eyes, you know? I have my entire family’s legacy riding on my shoulders at all times. One wrong move, and I let everybody down. It’s a lot of fucking pressure to put on one person.”

“I agree, it is. And it’s not fair to you.” He’s still pacing, and I don’t think he’s even hearing me, but I say it anyway.

He lets out a laugh. “Wanna know the most fucked-up part of it all? Sometimes, I don’t even know if I truly want to do this anymore. Like, do I actually want to pursue rodeo, or am I simply doing it to try to make my dad proud?” Shooter stops pacing, turns to face me as his eyes widen—looking very similar to how I feel hearing him admit that—and fill to the brim with fresh tears. “I’ve never said that out loud before. I can’t believe I just gave a voice to that. Holy fuck.”

Shooter laughs while tears spill over and stream down his face. In this moment, he looks a little maniacal, and I feel like if I don’t help calm him down soon, he’s going to full on spiral. This is clearly years of pent-up frustration breaching the surface.

“Hey,” I say softly, reaching out to slip my hand in with his. He stops pacing, looking down at where our hands are connected before his deep, overflowing gaze lifts and meets mine. Tugging him gently, I murmur, “Come here.”

This—whatever this is that’s going on between us—is foreign. It’s new, and I don’t have a clue what I’m doing. All I know is that Shooter needs someone in his corner right now. He needs someone to lean on. And whatever his reason may be, it was me he chose to come to. Me, he chose to trust with this burden. And I’ll be damned if it isn’t me who helps him find comfort too, even if it’ll bite me in the ass later.

He steps up to the bed between my legs, gazing down at me with the saddest expression I’ve ever seen him wear. It tugs at the corners of my heart.

“I’m sorry you’ve had to deal with that,” I tell him honestly. “I’m sure you already know this, but you’re an amazing bronc rider, regardless of what your dad says. You’re somebody I looked up to before I went pro. Hell, you’re somebody a lot of people look up to. And now that I’ve gone pro, you’re the benchmark for a good ride. You have such natural talent, and the stuff you’ve accomplished in the few years you’ve been in the PRCA is admirable. I mean, Jesus, you’re a three-time world champ. If he can’t see how incredible you are, and be proud of you, he’s blind.”

Reaching up, Shooter cups my face, thumb rubbing along my cheek. “Thank you. I’ve never really talked to anybody about all the shit with my dad. Daisy knows, but that’s only because she’s witnessed it.”

Why he felt like I was the best person to open up to is beyond me, but I can’t deny the warm, fuzzy feeling spreading in my chest because of it. A thick silence covers us, neither of us breaking eye contact for a moment.

Finally, clearing my throat, trying to bring back some of the moisture back to my mouth, I ask, “Do you, uh, wanna hang out? Maybe watch a movie or something?”

Shooter’s lip tilts into a sexy little crooked grin as he nods. “Sure, let’s watch a movie.”

I get up, grab the remote, and turn off the light before we both climb farther up my bed, sitting with our backs against the headboard while I turn on the TV. We end up picking some new action movie that neither of us have seen yet. It’s comfortable, us relaxing beside each other. There’s some chatter regarding actors or parts in the movie, but for the most part, we watch in silence, but it isn’t stuffy or awkward. Our bodies are turned ever so slightly toward each other, knees brushing. That simple physical connection paired with everything Shooter just shared with me makes this moment feel monumental in a way. Like the turning of a pretty big corner.

By the time the movie’s over, it’s pretty late. I don’t know how far Shooter lives from here, but I also don’t love the idea of him driving home this late either. Even though my palms are sweaty and my pulse is roaring in my ears, I ask if he wants to sleep over. I don’t want him to think I’m trying to take advantage of him, or something pervy like that, when I know he’s had an upsetting day, but I also want him to know it’s okay to stay.

Thankfully, he agrees without giving me a hard time. We both strip down to our boxers before climbing back into bed under the covers. I’m hyperaware of him so close to me in the dark, his body heat radiating off of him. It’s not like we haven’t hooked up before, so why is the idea of sleeping next to him, in the same bed, so weird?

I wonder if he’s feeling it too. Probably not. He’s probably cool as a cucumber, trying to go to sleep, completely unaware of my major inner struggle to calm the heck down.

After a while, Shooter lets out a sigh and reaches over to wrap an arm around my middle, hauling me over to him. Suddenly, my back is flush with his front, and his face nuzzles into my neck, causing goosebumps to bloom and a chill to work its way down my spine. His breath is hot against my flesh as he says, “You’re thinking so loud, Addams. Relax.”

So, I do. Somehow, I quiet my mind and let myself melt into his touch like it’s the most natural, normal thing in the world.

28

Shooter Graham

The large arched-style window in the loft that’s positioned directly in front of Sterling’s bed doesn’t have any blinds or curtains on it, so the morning sun is shining in, blanketing the room in a warm glow. It’s early, and I know the only reason I’m awake is because I’m in a bed I’m not used to. Much to my surprise, I slept really fucking hard next to Sterling. I fell asleep quickly and stayed asleep—two things that are kind of a rarity with me as of late.

I lean over the side of the bed, grabbing my discarded jeans off the floor, and rummage through the pockets to find my phone. A few texts from Daisy wait for me, asking if I’m okay and if I want to talk about what happened. I know she wishes I would open up to her more about this, but a large part of me is hesitant to. She doesn’t get the same version of our dad that I do. Not bothering to text her back, I shove the phone back into the pocket and set them back down on the floor.

As I situate myself back in bed, my gaze slides toward the man beside me. His features are soft with sleep, full, pink lips slightly parted, dark curls kissing his forehead. He looks so peaceful. A gnawing ache makes itself known in my chest over everything I divulged to him last night. For the way I let him see me. I can’t remember the last time I cried, but last night, there was no holding it back. If it were anybody else, I’d probably be mortified knowing I let myself be that vulnerable, but there’s something about Sterling that makes me think he won’t judge me. My secrets feel safe with him, and I’m not sure why that is, but I’m also not going to question it.

Stampede Days starts tonight, and a renewed, wicked sense of dread burrows deep in my gut. I know that no matter how much I don’t want to see my dad after our argument last night, I will because, not only would he never miss the opening night of the event, but he’s one of the sponsors, so he has to be there. He would never try to rehash what happened in front of the whole town, but even seeing him puts me on edge.

I meant what I said to Sterling; I’m honestly not sure if I want to keep doing rodeo for the right reasons anymore. It’s a question I’ve refused to give much brain space to because what the answer could be scares the shit out of me. I’m not sure what came over me that had the words spilling from my lips, but it feels really damn good getting them out there, even if I’m still not sure if I’m ready to face it or not.

I’ve never questioned my reasoning for competing, never wondered if my head was totally in or not, until last year. I beat so many of my own personal goals last season, and performed incredibly well. Numerous articles were written about me, my performances were viral all over social media and YouTube, and my name was spoken about everywhere. Last season was my best yet, and that’s saying something because I’ve had many fantastic seasons.

When I won finals in December, I was damn proud. Hell, I was on top of the world. Coming back to Copper Lake after taking the world title—for a third year in a row, might I add—I felt sure my dad would be proud. Ecstatic even. And he was… to a point. But there were still digs he could make, things he could point out where I could’ve done better. Didn’t matter that I fucking won. I’d never gone from such a high to so low after a win as I did then. All my hard work and dedication felt pointless when what I wanted the most was my father’s pride, and I couldn’t even get that.

A weekend-long bender with beer and feeling sorry for myself took place after that, and it was the first time I questioned if I really wanted this. I remember the immense guilt I felt immediately after the thought crossed my mind because there are so many men who would kill for a shot at what I have, and here I was, questioning it all. I’d never felt so unappreciative. It made me sick. Sicker than the hangover that came from all the beer I’d consumed.

That was months ago, and I’m still nowhere near ready to face those questions any more than I was then.

“Somebody’s thinking hard this morning.” Sterling’s sleepy voice pulls my attention down toward him. He’s now lying on his side, facing me with his hands propped under his cheek.

“Morning,” I say in response to him. “How’d you sleep?”

A sleepy smirk crosses his face. “Pretty dang good, actually.”

“Me too.”

Sterling and I have never woken up next to each other like this. Sure, in the camper, our beds are across from one another’s, but one of us is usually up and out of bed before the other is even awake, and even if we do wake up at the same time, it’s not like this. Looking back, I can’t even pinpoint a time when I slept the night with anybody, especially when we didn’t have sex. Sterling and I barely even kissed last night, yet I opened up to him more than I ever have with anybody else. A part of me feels like the embarrassment over coming here so distraught should set in, but it just…doesn’t. Even though I know he’s going to want to talk about it because that’s just who he is.

Yawning, he lifts his arms above his head, stretching his lean, toned body beside me, the sight stirring something within me. Me and my morning wood are tempted to roll over on top of him and wake him up with something a little more fun than awkward pillow talk, but something stops me. Not only do I know I owe him some sort of explanation past what I gave him last night, but I also have questions of my own.

“Thanks for letting me crash here last night,” I mutter as I turn on my side to face him.

Sterling’s honey-colored eyes set on mine, something washing through them I can’t quite name. “No problem. And… I won’t say anything, you know,” he replies with a shrug. “About what you said last night.”

“I didn’t think you would, but thank you.”

“For what it’s worth, I don’t think you should base your success on your dad’s opinion when it’s obviously skewed.” He sits up, carding his fingers through his messy, curly hair. “Probably a lot easier said than done since he’s your dad, and probably someone you’ve looked up to your whole life, but you’re inspiring, and it would be a shame for you to give up something you love and something you’re so good at because one asshole can’t appreciate your talent.”

I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling at his uncharacteristic name calling, but he must take my silence as annoyance because his eyes widen.

“I’m so sorry,” he murmurs. “I shouldn’t have spoken badly about your dad toward you. That was so out of line.”

“Stop.” Without thinking, I bring my hand up to rest on his side. It’s over the blanket, but the feel of him beneath my fingers is still like an electric shock in the very best way. “He is an asshole sometimes. You didn’t say anything that wasn’t true.”

A sleepy smile pulls on his lips, but it doesn’t meet his eyes. “So, what are you gonna do?”

“I’m going to eventually head home, shower and get ready, then show up at Stampede Days, and do what I do best.”

“You’re not going to talk to him about last night?”

Shaking my head, I say, “Hell no. That would throw me off more than the knowledge that he’ll be watching me tonight.”

Sterling’s quiet for a moment. I know he wants to push more. Eventually, he says, “Well, I’m here if you ever need to vent again.”

“Thanks.” I hate how thick my throat feels suddenly. It’s time to steer this conversation away from me and my fucked-up family issues before I do something embarrassing like fucking cry… again. “So, virgin, huh?”

Face turning three shades of red, Sterling rolls his eyes and grumbles at the question. “Well, not anymore.”

“Oh, I know.” I laugh. “I was there. Why didn’t you tell me, though?”

“I already told you why,” he mumbles, looking uncomfortable as hell. “You would’ve made it some big deal it didn’t need to be. I’m fine with how it happened.” Finally, he meets my gaze. “More than fine. I enjoyed what happened and where it happened.”

The determination in his eyes makes my dick twitch behind my boxers. Down, boy. Now is not that time.

Exhaling, I drag a hand down my face. “I still think you deserve more than a shower stall for your first time, and I wish you would’ve told me so I could’ve done something… more.”

“That’s exactly why I didn’t. We’re two guys who hook up. I don’t even know if I’d consider us friends.” My lips part to… I don’t know, say something, but he covers my mouth with his warm hand to stop me as he continues. “You’re under no obligation to make anything special for me, Shooter.”

I’m not sure why, but everything he just said doesn’t sit right with me. My distaste for it all is confusing as fuck, though, so I don’t reply. We’ve had enough deep conversation in the last twelve hours to last a lifetime, so instead of letting myself read too much into the thoughts swirling around in my head, my tongue pokes out, licking the hand still covering my mouth. He drops it, a smile widening on his lips as I lean over, burying my face into his neck before dragging his nearly naked body on top of mine.

His scent surrounds me as I breathe in against his skin. A noise like a half-laugh, half-gasp sounds beside my ear as his hot breath fans over it, and when I swipe my tongue along his flesh, a groan that vibrates from his chest into mine escapes him as he grinds himself into me. It brings a thought to my mind, the possibility of what the answer may be making my cock throb against his before I can even ask it.

I bring my mouth beside his ear, dragging his lobe between my teeth before I whisper, “So, just how much of a virgin were you before I fucked you?”

A shiver rolls through him at my question, his body trembling in my hold. “Wh-what do you mean?”

Fuck me. I love when he gets all shy.

“You know what I mean, Addams.” My voice comes out husky. “Before me, what had you done?”

Sterling sits up, his cheeks stained a brilliant shade of pink, the color seeping up toward the tips of his ears. I push the blanket off of us, very fucking pleased to see the large tent inside his underwear. I knew he was hard from when he grinded on me, but seeing it is a whole different type of sexy.

He bites down on his bottom lip, eyes overflowing with desire. “Nothing.” The single word comes out so quiet, I almost imagine if I heard it, but the way his blush deepens impossibly darker, I know I didn’t.

A grin splits on my face, chest inflating with something I don’t want to put a name to right now. “So, you mean, in Vegas after finals…”

I don’t bother finishing the sentence. He knows what I’m asking. That point’s proven when he nods. “It was my first time doing that too.”

I didn’t think it was possible for my dick to get any harder than it already was, but that’ll fucking do it. “Fuck, dirty boy, you’re killing me here. Do you have any idea how fucking hot that is? To know my hands are the only hands to ever roam this tight fucking body of yours? To know my dick is the only one to ever drag across your tongue? To come down your throat? To be inside of you in every single fucking way?”

Sterling rocks on top of my lap, clearly as turned on as I am, if the wet spot on the front of his boxers is any indication. He doesn’t say anything, he just whimpers, and it takes everything in me to not flip us and rip the material off his body, and sink into his tight little fucking hole. But somehow, someway, I’m able to find some restraint.

He doesn’t seem to have as much restraint, though, because as he watches me, fire burning in his gaze, he shoves his boxers down, shifting his weight onto one side and then the other until he rids himself of them completely. Once they’re gone, he does the same to mine until we’re skin to skin, not a single thing between us, and he utters a sentence that’s my absolute undoing.

“Teach me something, then.”

Fuck me.

My brow arches. “And what exactly do you want me to teach you, baby? You’ve already shown me that you know how to suck a dick and take one in the ass.”

A shiver racks through him, and I know it’s not because he’s cold. “Surely, there’s something you can teach me that we haven’t already done, right?”

Oh, the things I could have him do. The possibilities are endless, and to have him here on top of me, willing and ready… it’s hot. So fucking hot. Knowing we don’t have all the time in the world, I settle for something easy, already planning in my head the hours and hours I can dedicate to being his teacher later, though.

Glancing down, his cock is standing tall, tip red and glistening, and my mouth waters to taste him. I don’t, but I really fucking want to.

“Spit in your palm,” I instruct him. He does, without hesitation, and I fucking soar because of it. “Good. Now, wrap your hand around both of us. Let me feel your cock slide against mine as you stroke us together.”

He does, and the second his hand makes contact, I groan. The velvety soft feel of his shaft rubbing against mine, his calloused hand gripping us, it’s all too much. I grit my teeth as he starts to stroke, the both of us much too thick together for his hand to close all the way, but that’s okay.

Sterling peers over at me from beneath his lashes, lids hooded. “You like that?” he asks, voice raspy and tight.

“I fucking love it,” I reply honestly. “You’re doing so fucking good. Use your other hand too. Rock into your grip a little.”

The lack of blinds, and the morning light spilling into the room, his naked body is on full display, it’s a fucking sight to be seen. His arm and ab muscles constrict with each stroke. His full, pink lip tucked tightly between his teeth. Thick, dark brows pinch together as he concentrates on doing exactly as I ask. His chest rises and falls with each heavy breath. Each exhaled moan. His dusty rose nipples are pebbled and begging for me to play with them, so I do.

I take each one between my thumb and index finger, tweaking them, tugging on them, and am rewarded with the most erotic sounds coming from Sterling.

My hips move of their own accord, grinding up into his hand. “Fuck, yes. That feels so fucking good.”

Sterling’s eyes meet mine, the lust infused in his gaze staggering. His jaw goes lax, his grip tightening around us, and suddenly, we’re both rutting up into them. Both chasing the high. The release. Every thought about last night, or any night leading up to then, gone. Vanished out of my mind. The only thing I’m focused on is how fucking good his rough hands feel around me. Around us. The way his cheeks, his neck, his chest, are all flushed. The way his body glistens with sweat, as I know he’s getting closer. The way his breathing gets quicker, his noises get a little louder, a little more broken. The way I’m getting close too, watching him fall apart on top of me.

There’s something about Sterling that just does it for me. His innocence, yes, but there’s something else. Something that was there long before I found out about that. Something about him that drives me wild in the very best way.

“I’m… I’m so close,” he moans.

A burning, tingling ache rips through my groin. I’m teetering right on the edge of explosion, and when Sterling throws his head back, the tendons in his neck straining, as he cries out, spilling onto my stomach, I lose it. I follow behind him, my cock pulsing as I empty my balls, my release joining his, mixing together. “Oh, fuck…” My entire body vibrates with pleasure as Sterling milks every last drop out of me.

By the time we’re finished, I feel wrung dry. Like I could pass the fuck back out and sleep for an eternity.

Sterling lets go of our softening dicks, running two fingers through the mess on my stomach. His lip kicks up into a sated grin that has no business being that sexy as he lifts the fingers coated in our cum to my mouth. He shamelessly pushes past my lips, dragging along my tongue. I close and suck, our combined taste exploding in my mouth, easily becoming one of my favorite flavors I’ve ever experienced.

Groaning, he mutters, “Damn, that’s hot.”

The eye contact is heady, making my dick twitch all over again. Sterling’s the first one to break it, climbing off my lap in search of a towel. He hands it to me before finding his boxers and putting them back on. After I clean up the mess we made, I do the same, knowing I need to head out, feeling weird about the fact that I don’t want to.

“I should probably get going,” I tell him once I finish getting dressed.

He smiles. “I’d offer to cook you breakfast or something, but my folks are inside and that’s not a conversation I’m really wanting to have first thing in the morning.”

“Nah, I get it. It’s cool. Thanks again for last night.”

“Anytime.”

We both stand there, neither of us seeming to know what to do next. Should I kiss him goodbye? It’s not something we’ve done in the past, but after last night and this morning…it feels different.

Surprising me, as if he can read my thoughts, Sterling closes the distance, pressing his lips to mine. The kiss is gentle and soft, a quick brush of his tongue against mine, and it’s over before it even really begins, but it stuns me, nonetheless.

“Bye, Shooter,” Sterling drawls, a sly smirk on his lips as I turn away from him and leave his room, feeling flustered and turned on all over again.

How does he do that to me?

29

Sterling Addams

Stampede Days is a week-long event here in Copper Lake. It’s a huge deal, and people from all over Wyoming—and even surrounding states—flock in for the celebration. Not only is it an age-old tradition, but it’s also a huge weekend for our region in the PRCA. The event is a multi-day rodeo event, in addition to all the other events that take place.

Today is day one of the event, and it’s also day one of five back-to-back rodeo nights. Excitement is buzzing beneath my skin as I get ready. Not only is this my first ever Stampede Days that I’m competing in, but it’s also the first time my parents will get to see me in action since going pro. Sure, they’ve watched all the rodeos that they could find online, but it’s a way different experience knowing they’re in the audience. I expected to be more nervous than I am.

After Shooter left this morning, I went downstairs into the main house, where my mom was already cooking breakfast. We all ate together before I went and helped Conrad outside with the ranch work. Once we were done with that, I took a shower before heading into town to show my parents around the arena. They lived here for many years before we moved to Texas, but it’s changed quite a bit since we left. It was cool getting to show them my new stomping grounds.

I’m finishing my pre-rodeo ritual, heading into the arena, my heart pounding in my chest. I’m up next, and my blood is pumping with anticipation. Sometimes, I still can’t believe I’m here, doing this. Living my freaking dreams. More than once today, my mind’s drifted back to everything Shooter said last night. Every confession, every shred of pain that passed through his eyes. But mostly, to him saying he isn’t sure if this is something he wants to do anymore.

That statement, above all, shocked me the most. Shooter is the embodiment of rodeo. Of bronc riding. It’s in his blood, and he wears it like a second skin. He’s so naturally talented, and anybody within a fifty-mile radius of him can see how much he loves the sport.

Or at least, that’s what it looks like from the outside.

Seeing a deeper, hidden-away side of him last night was eye opening. It solidified my feelings about him after Daisy vaguely clued me in about their dad. He truly isn’t just the cocky persona he lets the world see. There’s so much more there.

Jumping into the chute and sliding onto the top of the bronc, I situate my positioning and make sure my ropes are tight and sturdy. Something I’ve learned in the years I’ve been practicing this sport—something that was very hard for me to grasp in the beginning—is how much of a difference posture can make in your ride. If you don’t keep your core completely tight, or if your shoulders are even a hair too forward, your whole performance will be off. It’s so easy to get bucked off if you aren’t zoned in and aware of what your body is doing the whole time.

Positioning is key.

The horse I’m on tonight is a beautiful black mare. She’s got a shiny coat and a thick mane. It’s my first time riding her, but I’ve seen others ride her in previous rodeos, and she’s a wild one, which could mean there’s potential for a higher score. In bronc riding, it’s not just about staying on the horse; it’s also about how hard you have to work to do it. The better the buck, the higher the score.

Once I’m sure I’ve got the rigging grasped tightly and my feet are in position, I give a nod, and a moment later, we’re flying out of the chute. Everything happens so fast, it’s nearly impossible to think while being flung around. Relying on muscle memory during these eight seconds is important. Trusting my body to know what to do while my mind hones in on one thing—waiting for that buzzer.

As soon as it sounds and the pick-up man drags me off the bronc, my cheeks hurt from smiling so hard and my heart is galloping inside my chest. I nailed it, I know it. And knowing my parents are in the stands, and they got to see the whole thing, fills me with an enormous amount of pride.

Sweat lines my forehead and my neck, dripping down into my button-up shirt. My hair’s slicked to my forehead, and I’m dying to get out of these chaps. Once I’m in the back, I pass by Shooter, who is up after this next guy. Our eyes meet, and he gives me a nod, a small smirk sliding on his face. I return the gesture, and when he mouths “good job,” my stomach does a quick flip-flop before I duck outside to meet my folks.

Things between us have been changing, but I think last night really sealed the deal. At least for me. I feel something for Shooter that goes beyond my annoyance, and it goes beyond just the physical stuff. My pulse kicks up when I see him, my chest aches when I don’t. Having him sleep in my bed last night, and getting to wake up to him this morning, was really nice in a way I never knew I wanted. And to be honest, that frightens me more than a little bit.

Daisy’s warning comes back to me, though. How Shooter doesn’t do relationships. And how I was so adamant about not becoming another notch next to his belt buckle… but is that what I’ve become? Once the season is over, will his interest fade? Sure, we live in the same town, but outside of training and the circuit, we have no reason to see each other. Am I simply something of convenience? But even as the thought swirls around in my mind, it doesn’t feel right.

My parents come into view, bright smiles on their face as they run over to me with wide open arms.

“Honey, you did so good!” my mom squeals as she squeezes me in a tight hug. “I’m so proud of you.”

“You did damn good, son,” my dad chimes in, my chest swelling at the pride in his voice.

Blinking away the blur in my vision, I pull back and say, “Thanks, guys.”

They lead me back to where they were sitting in the stands, and it’s just in time to watch Shooter go out. It’s rare I get to watch him anymore because he either goes out before me—and I don’t allow myself to watch anybody prior to me going out—or he goes out immediately after me, and I’m already heading back to the camper to get changed out of the hot, sweaty clothes.

Bad to the Bone echoes throughout the arena as the gate to the bucking chute is ripped open. The bronc comes barreling out, and from the moment they hit the dirt, I can tell something’s off. Shooter isn’t riding like he normally does. He’s stiff. His posture is all wrong. My stomach sinks as the seconds drag on, and when that buzzer sounds after his eight seconds are up, I let out a held breath that he at least didn’t get bucked off and disqualified again.

Somehow, as if there’s a glaring red sign above his head, I shift my gaze, finding Shooter’s dad in the crowd immediately. The lump in my throat intensifies as I think back on everything Shooter admitted to me last night, and I just know, he’s kicking himself in the ass right now.

The announcer shares Shooter’s score, and while it’s not bad, it’s also not anywhere near winning either.

Suddenly, all I want is to go find him and be there for him in any way that I can. But how can I do that with my parents here? It’s their last day in town before heading back to Texas, so I don’t really want to ditch them to go comfort someone I’m not even sure wants me to. I try to shove him and his ride and the disappointed look on his father’s face out of my mind as we exit the stands and make our way off of the grounds.

Normally, I like to stay for the whole rodeo, because I enjoy getting to watch Daisy perform, and she’s one of the last ones to go out before the bull riders, but given my parents leave tomorrow, we decide to grab dinner in town instead.

The wait to get sat once we get there is nonexistent since nearly everybody in town is at the arena. The three of us order some Cokes and burgers, my stomach growling loud enough for the whole establishment to hear, I’m sure.

“What time’s your flight tomorrow?” I ask my parents.

“Seven in the morning,” my mom offers. “It’s an early one.”

“I can take you guys.”

“That’s okay, honey.” She offers me a warm smile. “Conrad already offered. Said he has to run into town anyway.”

“You sure?”

“Of course. And besides, you’ll probably want to sleep in after that amazing ride you had. I’m so proud of you!”

I chuckle at her excitement. “Thanks, Mom. I appreciate that. I’m really glad you guys were able to fly up here.”

Our food comes a short while later, and as we dig in—it’s so freaking good—my mind keeps drifting back to Shooter. Wondering how he’s doing. In between bites, I slip my phone out of my pocket, wanting to send him a quick text.

Me: How’re you doing? I’ll be home a bit later if you want to stop by.

I hit send before I can overthink it, already hating what I said. He’s probably busy tonight with the guys, or with his family. A bit presumptuous of me to think he’d want to spend his night coming to my house again. Shoving my phone back into my pocket, I let out a sigh.

“Who’re you talking to?” The question comes from my dad, and when I glance up, he’s got an amused grin playing on his lips and his eyebrows are lifted.

“Oh, just a friend,” I reply, realizing how freaking stupid that sounds. “One of the bronc riders,” I add.

The amusement twinkling in my father’s eyes is apparently contagious, as it flits over to my mom’s features too. “That wouldn’t be the same friend who was sneaking out of the barn early this morning, would it?”

Jesus. Clenching my jaw, I mentally berate myself for not being more careful. I’m an adult, and my parents know I’m gay, but it’s a little awkward rubbing my hookup in their face.

“Nobody was sneaking,” I reply. “But yes, same guy.”

They share a look.

Love this for me.

“Shooter Graham, huh?” my dad murmurs.

“How do you know it’s him?”

My mom looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. “Honey, we are old, not blind.”

I can’t help but laugh at that, and at me, for finding myself in this situation to begin with.

“Okay, yes. It’s Shooter, but can you keep it down. We aren’t exactly advertising it.”

The smile on my mom’s face grows, as does the sinking lead in my gut. “Are you guys, like… dating?”

I shake my head, wishing the ground would swallow me whole. “No, it’s not like that. It’s—you know what? I’m not having this conversation with you guys.”

They both laugh, but thankfully, drop it.

After we finish eating, I pay the bill, and we head back to the ranch. Conrad’s got a fire going by the time we get there, and we sit around it, have a couple of drinks, before they call it a night. By the time I get up to the loft, it’s almost ten, and there’s still no response from Shooter. To say I’m disappointed would be an understatement. It’s silly of me to want to be his comfort. Just because he came here one night doesn’t mean it’s going to be an occurring thing.

He has friends. Tons of them. And people who are probably throwing themselves at him. He doesn’t need some inexperienced, barely non-virgin to keep his bed warm. Shooter Graham, three-time world champ, has options. Even if he had a bad night—hell, maybe especially because he had a bad night. I’m probably the last thing on his mind.

30

Shooter Graham

I’m on beer number who fucking knows. It’s a lot, though. That’s for damn sure. Cope’s hosting a BBQ and bonfire at his place. It’s something he does every year after Stampede Days before we hit the road again. Tomorrow is our last full day in town before heading back onto the circuit. Monroe, CO. is our next stop, a two-day rodeo there. I wish I was more excited about it. Wish the enthusiasm that is usually present with me when it comes to competing was there. But it’s not.

The sun’s set, splashing the sky with burnt oranges and crisp reds, and everyone around me seems to be having the time of their life. And then there’s me; way more than tipsy, not quite wasted, wallowing in my issues and hating myself.

Hating myself for feeling like such a fucking letdown.

Hating myself for caring what my father thinks in the first place.

But mostly, hating myself for being such a fucking coward. It’s been four days since Sterling sent me that text, inviting me to come over again. Four days since I ignored that message and never responded. I’ve done my very best to avoid him at all costs ever since. I’m not sure if it’s more because I’m embarrassed that I let him see me break down like I did that night at the ranch, or if my pride is wounded, knowing he saw me ride so horribly, and knowing he knew my dad was there watching the entire thing.

There’s a reason I haven’t told people about this issue between me and my dad. There’s a reason I don’t let people in. It’s embarrassing, even though I know it shouldn’t be. Logically speaking, I know I’m good. I know I’m talented. I know, deep down, that everything he says is bullshit, and he’s being too hard on me, setting his expectations to an unattainable level. But logical has no place inside my mind when his harsh words echo, wrapping around the part of my brain that houses the ability to be logical.

Whatever the reason may be, I haven’t been able to face Sterling. It’s not fair to him. I’m the one who went to him when I needed someone to talk to you. It was his bed I crashed in when I didn’t feel like being alone. He didn’t ask me to open up to him, didn’t force his way into my business, yet the minute he tries to be there when he clearly knew I needed someone, I pushed him away.

He'll be here tonight, I’m sure of it. I haven’t asked Cope to confirm, but I know he’ll eventually show up. Probably with Daisy, because she isn’t here yet either. For that reason alone, I should’ve stayed home. I’m not sure I’m ready to face him, but at the same time, I feel like deep, deep down, I want to see him. I need to. Being near him gives me a sense of comfort I haven’t had in who knows how long. He listens without judgement. He hears me. He offers his opinions in a way that doesn’t feel pushy, and he knows when I need him to be quiet. It’s like he gets me on a level that nobody else does, and I don’t understand it.

There’s a bonfire going about a couple of yards in front of me, the bed of my truck down, and I’m sitting in the back of it all by myself, drinking this beer and watching everyone else have a good time. A figure moves in my periphery, and when I glance over, I watch Cope amble over, a beer of his own in his hand, and a smile on his face that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. I know he’s worried about me, and I know he wishes I’d open up to him. Join the club.

He hops up, sitting right beside me. Looking straight ahead, he takes a pull off the can, watching everyone else, similar to how I am. It’s silent between us two for a moment, but it won’t last. I know he wants to talk. I wait him out, because I sure as shit aren’t going to be the one starting this conversation.

Finally, after several minutes of a tense silence, he asks, “What’s going on with you lately, man?”

I toss the question around in my mind while I take another swallow of my beer. It’s nearly empty; I’ll need to get a new one soon. I can’t—or I guess I should say I don’t want to—tell him one of the reasons I’m so in my own head, but I need to tell him something. He deserves that much. I can’t keep pushing away everybody in my life; otherwise, before I know it, I’ll be alone and even more miserable.

So, swiping my thumb along the corner of my lip, still unable to look at him, I go with what seems to be the easiest confession. “I think I have feelings for Sterling.”

Cope is quiet for a moment, but he’s staring at the side of my face. I can feel the weight of his gaze like a thousand-pound brick. Honestly, he’s probably in shock. I don’t think, in all the years we’ve been friends, that I’ve ever told him I have feelings for somebody. Sure, we’ve talked about people I’ve hooked up with plenty. But feelings? Hell no. It’s not what I do.

“Do you think he feels the same?” he finally asks.

Scrubbing a hand down my face, I finally look over and meet his gaze. His dark brown eyes hold not an ounce of judgement or humor.

“I don’t fucking know,” I blow out. “Yes? Maybe? I haven’t asked him.”

His soft chuckle reaches my ears. “Do you think maybe you should start there?”

“Gee, thanks,” I deadpan. “Never thought of that.”

A few beats pass, and he takes another sip of his beer.

“Real feelings?” he asks. “Or like you just want to get him underneath you.”

I finish the rest of my beer before mumbling under my breath, “Well, already did that.”

Glancing over, I could laugh at how wide Cope’s eyes are, if I wasn’t in such a shit mood. “How long’s this been going on?”

“A while.”

“How’d I not know?”

“Because I didn’t tell you.” My answer’s flat as I stare at him with a bored expression.

“Not what I meant. Although, I don’t know why you didn’t, but that’s neither here nor there. We share very close quarters on the road. I don’t understand how I never picked up on this.”

“Well, you sleep like the dead, for one.”

He reaches over, shoving me with his arm. “So, what’s the big deal? You like the guy.”

I don’t even know how to put words to this without sounding ridiculous. “Cope, I couldn’t even tell you the last time I had feelings for anybody. Like, it had to have been early in high school. I’m so used to being alone, only thinking of myself.” As I get the sentence out, I spot Sterling. He’s across the yard, and it’s a miracle I can see him at all, given how dark it is, but I think I could spot him anywhere. He hasn’t seen me yet, for which I’m both thankful and disappointed about. Turning my head, I meet Cope’s gaze. “What if I don’t have what it takes to treat him the way he deserves to be treated? What if I really am a selfish dick?”

Cope stares at me for a moment, lips parted, eyes widened slightly. “Ho-ly shit, dude.”

My brows pinch together. “What?”

“You’re down real fucking bad for him, aren’t you?”

“What? Why do you say that?”

“Well, for one”—he counts on his fingers—“when you spotted him just a moment ago, you practically got hearts in your eyes. And for two, the fact that this is even a concern of yours at all speaks volumes, bro. You’re the type of asshole who finds enjoyment in pushing people’s buttons. If this were any other bronc rider you were hooking up with, there’s no way you would’ve kept your mouth shut. You would’ve blown this up to try to get in their head in a twisted game to fuck up their performance in the arena. He’s your competition, Shooter, and you haven’t told a single soul in an attempt to use it against him.”

Well, shit.

Cope reaches over, gripping a hand on my knee. “Give yourself a little bit of credit, Shooter. There’s a lot more to you than the cocky dickhead you let the world see. Don’t hold back with him just because you’re worried you don’t have what it takes. I think you’ll likely surprise yourself if given the chance.” He slides across the bed of the truck before he stops on the tailgate and adds, “And for what it’s worth, home boy spotted you a minute ago, and the look in his eyes tells me everything I need to know. The feeling’s reciprocated. Just talk to him.”

I’m at a loss for words. Throwing him a weak smile, he winks before jumping down and walking away. His advice running through my mind on a loop, I let it sit with me for a moment before I get up too, and go get a refill. I want to go to Sterling, explain what’s going on in my head, but at the same time, something’s holding me back. What if I open up even more to him, only for him to decide I’m not worth the effort. He decides I’m too much trouble.

I find him easily. He’s sitting around the fire with Jessie and Daisy. As if he can feel my gaze, he turns his head, eyes locking with mine. A small smile slides on his lips, and he lifts his hand in a quick wave. I return the gesture before heading back to my truck with my next two beers.

I’m not totally sure how long I sit here, drinking those beers, and feeling sorry for myself, but eventually, Sterling comes over. He looks timid, like he’s not sure if I’ll turn him away or bite his head off. It stings. I hate that he feels like that because of me.

Climbing up, he sits right beside me. Much closer than Cope did. Our arms brush as he gets comfortable, a zap of electricity passing through us at the brief contact. “Hi.”

Hearing his voice brings a smile to my face. “Hi.”

“You okay?”

“Not really,” I reply honestly. Why lie? Sterling can read me like a book, and I think I even kind of like it. Not that I’ll ever admit that to him.

Sterling hums softly, not giving me a reply, but making it clear he’s giving me space to go on.

My stomach twists into knots. “Does your offer to listen still stand?”

His eyes meet mine, and he nods. “Of course, it does.”

It’s not a good idea, I know this. I’m dancing along the line of drunk, and my lips are looser than they would be if I were sober. But fuck, getting all this shit off my chest sounds good. Which is probably why the words leave my mouth before I even have a true chance to make up my mind.

“I don’t think I’m going back on the road.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m not finishing the circuit. I’m done. I can’t do this shit anymore. The stress from feeling like I need to prove myself to my dad is eating away at me, and I’m not fucking sleeping. My anxiety is sky high all the time lately. I can’t fucking do it, and I don’t want to.”

Silence falls upon us, and it makes me antsy. I regret the words as soon as they leave my lips. I sound like a spoiled fucking brat quitting because he doesn’t get his way, and it’s not even about that. My breath catches in my throat when I feel Sterling’s warm, calloused hand. His fingers lace with mine, and he gives a couple of solid squeezes, as if telling me he’s here for me. I don’t look at him. I can’t. My throat’s thick and pressure is building behind my eyes. I’m scared if I look at him, I’ll crack and break right in front of him… again.

“I won’t even pretend to understand the way you’re feeling, Shooter. The pressure on your shoulders, the shoes you feel like you have to fill… I can’t imagine. My heart hurts for you and the way you’ve been feeling. Sports are never easy; professional level sports even harder. The pressure is immense, the expectations always high, but it should never be coming from someone who’s supposed to be in your corner. I’m so sorry that you’re even considering this. That you feel like this may be the only option.”

Glancing over at him, I know right away it’s a mistake. The care shining in his honey-colored eyes is enough to knock me over. My vision blurs, and I look up at the sky to keep the tears from spilling over. I do not want to fucking cry in front of him again. This is getting to be ridiculous.

Another squeeze to my hand, Sterling continues. “While I don’t think any decision, especially one this large, should be made while under the influence, I do think you’re valid in considering this.”

As if it’s the most natural thing in the world, I rest my head on Sterling’s shoulder, emotions overwhelming my nervous system. “Why are you so nice to me?”

Body shaking with a chuckle, he replies softly, “Because as much as I thought I hated the haughty, smug side of you, I’ve quickly realized I’d do just about anything to see it come back. I care about you, and seeing you hurting hurts me.”

My chest aches listening to him. I don’t even know what to say back, so I don’t say anything at all. Nothing I say will compare.

I don’t know how long we sit there like that, but eventually, he nudges me. “Come on,” he rasps, sounding half asleep. “Let me take you back to my house to sleep all this beer off. I don’t want you driving.”

“Trying to get in my pants again, dirty boy?” I tease, but climb out of the truck bed anyway.

“Not a chance, Graham. I don’t make it a habit to take advantage of drunk guys.” He winks at me as I follow him over to where his truck is. I don’t miss the way he called me by my last name, like how I do to him, nor do I miss the way it makes my heart thump a little harder.

Cope was right… I’m down bad for Sterling Addams.

31

Sterling Addams

Stepping out of the shower, steam billows around me as I dry myself off before using the towel to clean the condensation off the mirror. I slip on the pair of sweats I brought in here, yanking on clean white t-shirt, before running my fingers through the wet, unruly strands atop my head. Coming out of the bathroom, my eyes immediately land on the bed. Or more specifically, the person occupying it.

Shooter’s still sound asleep, curled up on his side, hugging one of my pillows to his chest. I cross the room, coming to a stop right in front of the bed, and I let myself watch him for a moment. Not like that’s creepy at all. His long, dark lashes fan across the tops of his cheeks, and his full, red lips are parted as he breathes softly, his chest rising and falling in even succession. His features are soft, making him appear younger than he is, and he looks so peaceful right now. Such a harsh contrast to how he was feeling last night.

My chest still aches, thinking about how dejected he looked last night, and how it’s not the first time he’s been like that. I hate all the pressure on his shoulders, and the doubt running rampant through his mind. He doesn’t deserve that, and I don’t know how to help him, but I want to. Deciding to let him sleep a while longer, I head down the stairs and out the barn, making my way toward the house in search of some fresh coffee. It’s just barley eight in the morning, and if I’m correct, Conrad should be in the kitchen, making himself breakfast and brewing some coffee before he heads out to do the ranch chores.

The backdoor’s unlocked, like it always is in the morning, and when I step inside, the savory scent of bacon reaches my senses, and I know I’m right. Conrad’s back is to me when I walk into the kitchen, but at the sound of my footsteps, he glances over his shoulder, giving me a warm smile that makes the wrinkles around his eyes deepen.

“Good morning. You hungry?”

I nod. “I could eat, but mostly, I’m needing some coffee.”

“Help yourself.”

Things at the ranch are so much less awkward than when I first moved here, for which I’m thankful for. Conrad has been open and kind since the moment I arrived here, but living with someone you barely know, and feeling like you’re in the way or like you’re a burden, is a crummy feeling. Even though I’ve been gone for the rodeo circuit most of the time, we’ve still managed to get to know each other a little better, and things are comfortable around here. I don’t get nervous about coming in here to eat anymore, I’m glad to help him around the ranch with whatever he needs, and we’re able to co-exist pretty well.

This isn’t a forever home for me, by any means, but it would be nice to be able to stay here until I can buy a house. I spent a lot of time in Texas, renting apartment after apartment, and I don’t think I want to do that anymore. I’d like to put down roots and buy some land of my own. A pasture for Lottie to graze and roam. Maybe even get another horse or two, and some other farm animals. It’s kind of a far-off dream, especially while I’m traveling a huge chunk of the year for rodeo.

Two cups of coffee in hand, I take a seat at the table just as he’s setting two plates down. Bacon, sausage, scrambled eggs, and toast.

“Thank you. This smells great.”

He nods silently, bringing the mug up to his mouth to take a sip of the coffee. “How was the BBQ last night?” he asks.

“It was fun. I went with Daisy after we took our horses on a trail ride.”

Eyeing me across the table, brow arched, a look of what can only be described as amusement across his features, he says, “So, went to the party with one Graham, and left with another?”

Fork midway to my mouth, I freeze. “How’d you know that?”

Conrad chuckles, the sound deep and rich. “Was having trouble sleeping last night, so I got up to walk around and get a glass of water. It just so happened to be the same time you were getting home. Saw you two from the kitchen window.”

My face heats, and I know without even looking, it’s bright red. “Oh, uh, yeah. Shooter got drunk, and I didn’t want him driving himself home.”

“So, the only logical thing to do was drive him to your house, not his own. Makes sense.”

Eyes narrowed on him, he cracks a smile, which has one spreading on my own face. “Well, yeah, how else would I make sure he got back to his truck this morning.”

“Of course,” he agrees with a nod, his grin growing wider. “How long has that been going on?”

I bring the coffee mug up to my lips, eyeing him over the top. “Don’t have a single clue what you’re referring to.”

“Sure, you don’t,” Conrad teases. “For what it’s worth, I think you’re good for him.”

That makes me sputter my coffee. “Wh-why?” Reaching for a napkin, I clean the dripping coffee from my chin, gawking at him. “I mean, you do?”

He nods. “I do. I’ve seen how he looks at you, and how you two are together when you think nobody else is paying attention. I’ve never seen Shooter look at anybody like he looks at you.”

I avert my gaze because, suddenly, eye contact is too hard. I’m saved from having to respond, though, when the back door opens, in walking a sleepy Shooter. Although, seeing him in the flesh only makes my cheeks flame hotter, like he magically knew what we were talking about before he walked in. His eyes go from me to Conrad to the food on the table before back to me again. Rubbing his eye with the heel of his palm, he yawns.

“Morning,” he rasps.

“Hungry?” Conrad asks, by way of greeting.

“Nah, I feel like shit, and my head’s pounding,” he grumbles, crossing the room and grabbing a mug from the cabinet. “But I will take some coffee.”

You’d think he’d been here a million times with how comfortable he looks.

Conrad glances over at me, a smirk playing around the corner of his lips as he shovels the last of his breakfast into his mouth. “Well, I’m gonna head outside.”

“I can help,” I offer, scooting my chair back to stand.

He holds up a hand. “No worries. There’s not much to do today. I got it.”

“You sure?”

“Yup. Besides, you leave tomorrow, so you probably want to relax as much as you can.”

At the mention of tomorrow, my spine steels as I remember what Shooter said last night about not coming with. I wonder, in the light of day, sober, if he feels the same.

“Thanks,” I manage before ambling over to the sink to rinse our plates and put them in the dishwasher. After I dry my hands, I turn, resting my ass on the counter as I watch Shooter sit down and take a drink from his steaming cup of coffee. His eyes lift, red-rimmed, slightly puffy, and a little groggy, meeting mine. I can’t read the expression passing through them. Nodding toward the door, I say, “Come on. Let’s go talk in my room.”

We cross the yard, into the barn, and up the stairs in silence. When we get into the room, I take a seat at the chair in front of my desk while he sits with his back against my headboard, coffee in hand.

“Why do I feel like I’m about to be scolded?” he asks teasingly, a smirk tipping up on his lips.

Chuckling, I shake my head. “I’m not going to scold you, weirdo. I just want to talk about what you told me last night, now that you’re sober.” Shooter looks away, biting the inside of his cheek. A niggling of worry builds inside my gut that maybe I’m overstepping, so I add, “Only if you want. You don’t owe me anything. It’s your business, but I’m here if you do want to talk.”

Shooter’s crestfallen eyes lift, meeting mine from across the room, and my heart aches for him. “I just…” he starts, brushing his open palm over the top of his head. “I can’t keep doing this anymore. I can’t keep living with this weight, this hopeless, never-good-enough feeling. I think I need some time away from the rodeo. Some time to figure out what I really want. To figure shit out without the daunting feeling of each new rodeo on my back.”

“And you’re sure this is what you want?” Even as I ask the question, I know the answer. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Shooter look more sure of anything.

He nods. “I’m not saying I’m walking away for good. I just can’t keep doing what I’ve been doing. I need some time away to figure out if I really want this for me, or if I want this for him. And if it’s the latter, I don’t want it anymore.”

Rolling the chair across the carpet, I come to a stop in front of the bed, loving the way his eyes track my movement. I reach out, taking his hand in mine. “I think you should do whatever you feel is right, regardless of how that’ll make anybody feel. Your happiness and your mental health matters more than what anybody else wants from you right now, Shooter. And if that means taking some time to step away, then I think you should.” A thought forms in my mind, but I pause for a moment, unsure how he’ll take it. “Have you thought about maybe talking to someone about this. You know, like a professional?”

Shooter’s eyebrows knit together tightly. “Like a therapist?”

I nod. “Yeah. Maybe they could help you work through all these thoughts running through your mind, and help you sort out your feelings toward the rodeo and your dad, and I don’t know, maybe help you figure out if you really do want to quit the rodeo, or if maybe you resent it a little because of your dad and the discrepancy between you and Daisy in his eyes.” Shrugging, I add, “It’s just a thought, but it probably couldn’t hurt.”

“Please, come here,” he croaks, voice broken and barely louder than a whisper. With my hand still in his, he pulls me onto his lap, and without hesitation, I bury my face into the crook of his neck. His body is coiled tight, but it relaxes some now that I’m pressed against him, and his scent fills my nostrils, making my head feel light. I savor his warmth, pressing my lips down on his flesh. “Thank you,” he murmurs, hands rubbing up and down along my back.

“You don’t need to thank me for anything.”

Shooter turns his face, nose rubbing around in my hair as he inhales. “Yes, I do,” he insists. “I don’t think you know how much you being here, listening to me, and even offering to try to help, means to me. You’re the first person I’ve ever opened up to about the shit that goes on between my dad and I, and I just…” He clears his throat, and I can hear the emotion thick between his words. “Just thank you, Sterling. For being here. It means a lot.”

I sit up, palms flat on his chest as I let the enormity of this moment blanket us. The sincerity in his tone, the appreciation in his expression, and the way he looks up at me like he may crumble if I weren’t right here to ground him. It’s heavy, the weight of his gaze. Shooter’s hand comes up, fisting the material on the front of my shirt as he pulls my mouth down on his. His lips are pillow soft and greedy as they part, tongue slipping between mine, licking in every corner he can reach.

Unfettered need explodes inside of me as my body melts into his, fully submersing myself in this kiss. He’s kissing me like he’s trying to convey every single thought in his mind that he doesn’t know how to put words to. My hands come up, cupping his rough, stubbled cheeks, and when he sucks on the tip of my tongue, I can’t help the groan that bubbles up my throat.

Shooter brings his hands to my hips, gripping onto me with bruising strength before he flips us. Not breaking the kiss, he positions himself between my spread legs, which I gladly wrap around him, holding him as close to me as possible. With every stroke of his tongue against mine, my heart feels frayed and wide open for him. Even if I wanted to, there’s no way I could deny the way I feel about Shooter anymore, just like he can’t either.

Things are changing between us, and even though that fact makes me nervous as hell, I can’t even pretend to be mad about it. He makes me feel free, like I can do anything. I can be anyone. And I hope I do the same for him. I hope he feels safe with me, to be who he really is, to want what he really wants.

We’re both rock hard, but neither of us moves to take this any further than making out. It’s thrilling, even though I feel like I’m going to explode any second from overflowing desire. I couldn’t even say how long we sit there, him on top of me, kissing like we may never get the chance again, but by the time we break apart, we’re out of breath, lips swollen and cherry red, eyes dazed and a little glossy.

It's wild to think that the sweet man towering over me right now on my bed, with emotion so deep and thick swimming in his gaze, is the same cocky man from all those months ago in the bathroom at a bar, taking exactly what he wanted from me. Oh, how time can change so much.

32

Shooter Graham

Iconsidered going down to the bar and getting shitty wasted all day, but that required more brain power than I currently possess. So, instead, I’m parked on my couch in my pajamas with crappy re-runs on the TV, feeling sorry for myself. There’s not even any beer here because, up until a few days ago, I had planned on leaving to finish the circuit. I didn’t bother restocking, meaning I can’t even get pathetically drunk in the privacy of my own home.

Probably for the best.

The crew left today for their next stop. While I’d made up my mind and knew I wasn’t going with them, it didn’t really hit me until this morning. It’s like the gravity of my decision hasn’t sunk in yet, but it’s starting to, and the doubt is beginning to creep up on me. Did I make the wrong choice? Am I being a fool for risking my career over this? Am I going to regret it when finals come, and I can’t compete?

My gut reaction is to say no, I’m not making the wrong choice, that I’m not being a fool, but I have no way of knowing for sure.

Sterling and Cope stopped by on their way out of town this morning, claiming to want to drop off a hat I left in the camper, but I’m convinced Sterling just wanted to see me one last time. I’d imagine he’s going to miss seeing this cute face every day, even though he’d never admit it.

It’s going to be weird not seeing him all the time after being around him in such close quarters for the last few months. It wasn’t until this morning when he kissed me goodbye that I realized how attached I’ve become to Sterling without even realizing it. He’s about to be gone, on the road where I should be, while I’m here, hoping like hell to figure my shit out.

We made plans to stay in touch, and we agreed to not see other people during the time, so I, at least, have that going for me. I turn down the TV, huffing out a laugh at the thought. Never in a million years did I think something like that would make me so happy. Monogamy.

Boy, how the fucking times have changed.

Raising off the couch, I head to the bathroom to empty my bladder before grabbing some water and chips from the kitchen. As I’m walking back, a pounding sounds at my door, and my stomach drops. First instinct has me thinking it’s my dad, and he somehow already found out I stayed back. My palms immediately start to sweat as I set my snack down on the coffee table and meander to the door.

Before I can even reach the handle, whoever it is on the other side bangs hard enough to rattle it. “Hold your fucking horses, I’m coming,” I grumble.

Yanking the door open, I come face to face with a very annoyed looking Daisy. She shoves past me, not even bothering to wait for an invitation.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” I ask, confused. “You should’ve been on the road by now.”

Spinning to face me, she points a finger in my direction. “Funny, I could say the same thing for you. And while we’re on the topic of being on the road, please tell me why the hell I had to find out from Copeland and Sterling that you are supposedly quitting?”

Rolling my eyes, I blow past her, plopping down on the couch. “I don’t have time for this, Dais.”

Daisy sits down beside me, grabbing the remote out of my hand, and turns the TV off. “Actually, it sounds like all you have is time. You’re not getting out of this. What the hell is going on, Shooter? Quitting the rodeo? That’s not you. You love competing.”

“Do I?” I bellow, feeling my blood pressure rising by the second. “Do I love it, Daisy, or do I just want to make our father proud?” Her eyes widen, her lips parting like she may say something, only to snap it closed again. “I know you don’t understand this, because Dad isn’t hard on you—at least not in the way he is with me—but I can’t take it anymore. I cannot fucking do this anymore. Not until I figure out my true motive. I need time to figure out if this is something I’m doing for me, because I enjoy it.”

She remains quiet for a few more moments, her eyes softening. I have to look away because I don’t know what I’ll do if it’s pity in her gaze.

“Shooter, why haven’t you ever talked to me about this?”

My pulse is roaring in my ears, limbs trembling with all the pent-up frustration I feel about all this shit.

“Because you wouldn’t fucking get it.”

Daisy rears back like I physically struck her. “How dare you assume, just because I may not know exactly what you’re going through, that I can’t empathize and still be there for you as your sister.” She scoffs. “You know, somebody who freaking loves you and wants you to be happy.”

She looks and sounds hurt, and honestly, that’s like a knife to my chest. Daisy and I may not always see eye-to-eye, nor do we always get along, but hurting her is never something I want to do.

My throat clogs, and I’m mentally kicking myself in the ass for being such a jackass. “I’m sorry, okay?” I blurt out, my voice cracking on the apology. “I’m not the best at opening up to people.”

“You don’t say,” Daisy deadpans, looking less than amused.

Shoving her leg, I grumble, “Don’t be a bitch.”

“Don’t be a dick,” she counters before adding in a much softer tone, “So, what now?”

I blow out a breath, wishing like hell I had a more solidified answer to that question. “I don’t know, Dais. Now, I sit at home the rest of the season and try to figure out what the fuck I want out of life, and hope I’m not making the biggest mistake. Hope I’m not ruining my career.”

She gives me a sad smile. “I know you’ll hate the idea, but maybe visiting Dr. Payne might help.”

My brows pinch as I try to place where I know that name from. “Who the fuck is Dr. Payne?”

Daisy snorts. “My therapist.”

I roll my eyes and nod. “Sterling suggested the same thing.”

“Knew I liked him,” she beams.

“Yeah, yeah,” I grumble. “Anyway, I was planning on checking that out while I’m home.”

“Really?” Her eyes go so comically big, I’d make me laugh if I wasn’t annoyed.

“Yes, don’t act so fucking surprised. I’m taking this seriously if you can’t tell.”

We fall into a thoughtful silence, my shoulders already feeling lighter after filling Daisy in. My heart squeezes at the thought of every time she tried to be there for me, and I basically told her to get fucked. I think back, trying to pinpoint when exactly I started shutting everyone out. When I started bottling my feelings up. I can’t. It’s been that long.

Finally, Daisy whispers, “I’m gonna miss you out there.”

I chuckle. “Yeah, right. You’ll probably love not having my asshole self around.”

She smiles, rolling her eyes. “I’m serious. I’ve never competed without you on the road with me. You’ve always been there, and I don’t know…it’ll be weird.”

Now it’s my turn to soften as I take her in, truly hearing what she’s saying. She’s right, I’ve been on the road every year she’s ever competed professionally. “Daisy, you’re a fantastic rider, and you’ve more than earned your place out there. I have every confidence that you’ll be just fine without me there bugging you and getting under your skin.”

Her eyes become glossy as she searches mine. “Wow, I think that may be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me, Shooter.”

We laugh, but I pull her in for a hug.

“I’m proud of you, big brother,” she mumbles against my chest before pulling back and meeting my gaze. “For doing what’s best for yourself. I hope you figure it out, and please, let me be there for you from now on. We’re on the same side, you know.”

“When are you hitting the road?” I ask her.

“Tomorrow. When I found out about you staying behind, I couldn’t leave without talking to you first. I’ll meet everybody at their first stop in the morning.”

A grin tugging on my lips, I say, “I have one request.”

“Oh, gosh. Do I even want to know?”

“Hey, you said you wanted to be there for me,” I remind her. “This is being there for me.”

She rolls her eyes. “What?”

“Keep an eye on my boyfriend, and keep those fucking buckle bunnies away from him.”

Daisy throws her head back and busts up laughing. By the time she contains herself, she’s got tears streaming down her face. “Oh, fuck,” she breathes. “That was good.”

“What is so funny?” I hiss.

“You.” She chuckles some more, her face red as a tomato. “All growly and possessive. It’s just…I’ve never seen you like that. It’s different.”

“Okay, well, I’m serious, Daisy.” That makes her laugh even harder. “Glad I’m so amusing,” I grumble.

After that, we end up going out for lunch. We spend the whole day, just her and I. Something we haven’t done in ages. It was…nice. I think I needed that more than I knew.

33

Shooter Graham

Me: Miss me yet?

Sterling: It’s been three days.

Me: It’s okay to admit you miss me. I’d miss me too.

Sterling: I see the arrogance is back with a vengeance.

Me: Dirty boy, it’s cute you think it ever left.

Two Weeks Later

Sterling: Good luck at therapy today. Can’t wait to hear how it went.

Me: Thank you. I’ll Facetime you later.

One More Week Later

Me: YOU KICKED SOME FUCKING ASS TODAY, BABY!

Me: I know you won’t see these texts until later, but holy fuck! I’m watching the live stream of the rodeo, and the way you smashed all the other riders out of the fucking park.

Me: I’m so fucking proud of you! The way I wish I could give you a celebratory blow job for that win.

A Few More Days Later

Sterling: It’s late. I tried to call, but I think you’re already asleep. Wanted you to know that I’m thinking about you. It feels like forever until I’ll be back home. I wish you were here, but I’m so proud of you for the steps you’re taking for yourself.

Sterling: I’ll probably regret this come morning when you shove it in my face, but I miss you. Xoxo.

34

Sterling Addams

The four tequila shots I just tossed back are making themselves known as I stand up off the camping chair I’ve been occupying for the last little while. A warmth spreads through my limbs, my head fuzzy and light, as I shove through the people crowding the campsite to get to the cooler for a bottle of water. I need to slow down; otherwise, I’ll pay the price for it in the morning when it’s time to pack up and hit the road to our next spot.

It’s my turn to drive, and there’s no way Cope’s letting me off the hook just because I’m a little hungover.

I’ve had a dang good few nights in Ryder, Wyoming, for their annual Rodeo Nights. The event is similar to Stampede Days, but on a much smaller scale. Won overall two out of the three nights I competed, and I’m riding that high tonight. I’m not the only one either. We all managed to score high this weekend, hence the campsite full of random-ass people I’ve never met before.

If I had to guess, I’d say Colt, and possibly Cope, recruited a ton of buckle bunnies from the rodeo tonight, inviting them here with the promise of free liquor and sex with a cowboy.

Cold water bottle secured, I dip my head, rounding another group of drunk strangers as I make my way toward the camper. Tossing a quick glance behind me, I scan the area, finding Cope talking to Daisy and Jessie with a beer in his hand.

Good. That means he won’t be coming to the camper any time soon, hopefully.

Stepping into the camper, I snigger to myself as I pull out my phone, feeling the liquor flowing freely through my bloodstream. I cross the small space, kicking off my shoes and shoving my jeans down as soon as I reach the bed.

I plop down, but not before I whack the back of my skull on the top bunk—I mean, really, whose freaking idea was it to put a double set of bunk beds in this camper? For grown men? Idiotic, if you ask me. Finding the contact I’m looking for right at the top, I hit the FaceTime button, holding my phone at a seriously unflattering angle as it rings a few times.

Just as I’m starting to think he won’t answer, the line connects, and Shooter’s groggy face comes into view. His baby blue eyes are slightly bloodshot, probably from sleep, and there’re pillow imprints on his cheek. A goofy-looking smile grows on my face as I take him in, imagining how warm and cozy it would feel to snuggle up to him. How he would smell like sleep and clean bedding and Shooter, all at the same time. I can vividly imagine how his hands—roughened, yet gentle—would feel on my waist as I buried my face in the crook of his neck, breathing him in like I needed to, to survive. How the base of his neck and the expanse of his back would be slightly sweaty because he’s a hot sleeper. It’s why he always goes to bed in next to nothing, even when we’re on the road.

And after all of that, I think about how much I miss Shooter. How much I miss him being around. How much I miss us sleeping in the same camper, even when we weren’t sleeping in the same bed. I miss his arrogance. The cockiness. I miss his smartass, sarcastic comments. The way he looks at me.

Annnnnd I must be drunker than I thought because I sound like a freaking sap.

“Earth to Sterling,” Shooter says, voice rough and raspy.

“Huh?”

Shooter snorts. “You called me in the middle of the fucking night, and then just stared at me without saying anything. What’s up?”

“I’m drunk,” I blurt out, my cheeks warming. From the alcohol, or the fact that I’m drunk and he’s not, I’m not sure.

“I can tell.” He turns on his side, propping the phone against something—if I had to guess, I’d say the lamp on his nightstand—before resting his hands underneath his cheek on the pillow. This new position and the tiredness in his eyes make him appear much more boyish than he is. It’s endearing. And adorable. Two words that six months ago I’d never think to describe Shooter.

My brows knit. “What? How?”

“Your cheeks are flushed and your eyes are glazed over, for one.” He clears his throat, running his tongue over his bottom lip. “And for two, you’ve got this goofy-ass grin plastered on your face as you look at me. You never look this enamored when focusing on me.”

“That’s not true,” I huff.

“Oh, yes, it is.” Shooter laughs. “Take it you had a good night?”

“Yeah, it was good. Won tonight,” I beam. “Colt swarmed the campsite with buckle bunnies.”

He chuckles. “Sounds like him.”

“Daisy bet Cope that she could beat him in a game of flip cup. She did.”

“Of course, she did.” The sense of pride in his eyes warms my chest. I know—from both of them—that Shooter and Daisy had a heart-to-heart when she found out he was staying back. They needed that, and I’m happy they got to have it.

“What’d you do today?” I ask him, moving to lie down. I’ve got nothing to prop my phone with, so I just hold it.

He blows out a deep sigh. “Had therapy; that went okay. Went to the gym, did some training. Then hit up Lou’s for lunch with Whit.”

“Sounds like a good day.”

“Could use you telling me you miss me again,” he retorts, a smirk tilting his lips.

I roll my eyes, sighing loudly. “Not gonna happen.”

“Come on,” he pouts. “It’s been a solid three days since you sent me that late-night text, spilling your feelings to me.”

“Yeah, then reread it if you need it so bad.”

The truth is, I don’t regret admitting that. I honestly just enjoy sparring with him and giving him a hard time. We both know we care about each other, we both know we’re not seeing other people right now… So, it’s no surprise that I would miss him, even if we’ve spoken every day since I’ve been back on the road. Just like I’m sure he misses me. But yanking his chain is fun, and we both know it’s a bunch of bull anyway.

“What if I say it first?” he asks, voice dipping.

My brows lift. “I’m listening.”

“I do,” he states so confidently. I can practically see him metaphorically puff his chest out. “Miss you, that is. It kind of more than sucks not getting to see you regularly. And I’ve come to realize I sleep better with you. Even if you’re not in my bed, just having you close by in the other bunk helps my mind settle.”

This is way more than I thought I’d get out of him. He’s always been the more open one with his feelings, but it’s still jarring—and heartwarming—to hear him admit I make his life better.

“Only a few more months,” I say softly, knowing that it feels like a million years away. Mid-season is a terrible time to start a relationship, especially when one of us isn’t on the road. “I miss you, too.”

The door to the camper yanks open, and before Shooter can reply, I see Cope step into the small space, closing the distance between us in large strides. “Hey, there you are.”

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah, Daisy’s just looking for you.” His eyes flit to my phone. “Hey, Shooter.”

“Sup, fucker,” he mutters, a smirk loud in his tone.

“I’ll be right out,” I tell Cope.

He nods, turning on his heel and leaves.

I glance at the sleepy face on my phone. “Well, I guess I’ll let you get back to bed.”

“Have a good night, baby” he offers. “Text me in the morning.”

“Goodnight.”

The call ends, and I lie there for a minute, smiling. That one simple ask from Shooter gives me butterflies every time.

35

Shooter Graham

“He doesn’t know anything, right?”

I’m at a rest stop about two hours outside of Copper Lake, phone hooked up to Bluetooth as I stick a wad of dip into my lip. My nerves are shot, mostly from excitement for what this weekend will bring, and since I refuse to smoke in my truck, dip it is.

Cope chuckles on the line. “Nah, bro. I told you, I haven’t said anything.”

“Okay, good. Keep it that way,” I grunt, putting the truck in drive as I head back toward the highway. “I’ll be there in about two and a half hours, so it’s cutting it pretty close, but I should get there before he goes out.”

“Sterling’s going to be pumped. He’s been sulking around for weeks.”

That shouldn’t bring a smile to my face, but it does. Sue me. It’s been six long weeks since Sterling and the crew hit the road again. Six weeks since I’ve seen him in the flesh, which, after how incredible we left things, it feels like an eternity. The FaceTimes and the texting are nice, but nothing beats the real deal. It’s why I’m currently driving down the highway, heading toward Buckey, Wyoming, where they’re at for the next two nights for a rodeo event. I’m surprising Sterling in more ways than one, and I can’t fucking wait.

It's been a while since something’s gotten me this excited. I’m soaking it up, though, because this distance from Sterling aside, these six weeks have been challenging. A lot of self-reflection, a lot of time alone, but also, a lot of time with my new counselor, Benjamin. I hit the ground running almost immediately after they all left town, and I’ve been seeing him twice weekly. To be honest, I was pretty hesitant at first. I’ve never seen anybody professional for shit like this, but I have to admit, I think it’s actually helping. And I have Sterling to thank for that, because without his suggestion, I never would’ve thought to go this route.

He’s having a killer season. I’ve watched every single rodeo performance, and he’s kicking ass. Now that I don’t have the stress of disappointing my father on my shoulders, I can actually let myself be proud of him. Really fucking proud. With the way his first pro year is going, Sterling reminds me of me when I first started. The raw talent he possesses, the way he dances so effortlessly with the broncs. I feel like I’m exploding with pride for him. I’ll get to watch him compete tonight—assuming nothing stalls my arrival—and I can hardly wait. And the fact that he has no fucking clue I’m coming makes it so much better.

Cranking up the music, I kick back, letting the road take me as I go through tonight in my mind. Every part of tonight. Anticipation builds the closer I get, and by the time I’m parking at the Buckey Creek Arena, my body is thrumming with excitement. I shoot off a text to Cope, letting him know I’m here, but when I enter in through the front, I make sure to stay back to avoid Sterling possibly noticing me. I’d hate for him to spot me and have it throw off his game.

The guy currently out in the dirt is someone a few years older than me, who I’ve competed against for several years now. He’s good, but not great. He’s got nothing on Sterling and the way he’s been competing this season. His form’s a little sloppy and a little too loose, but he manages to score a decent eighty-one. The crowd goes wild when he jumps off his bronc, and if I’m not mistaken, I think he’s actually a local here, which would make sense.

As he leaves the arena, the song changes to Cowboy by Kid Rock as the announcer comes over the loudspeaker. “Next up, visiting us from just down the mountain, Copper Lake, Wyoming, a fresh face who’s having a hell of a season. Ladies and gentlemen, give it up for Sterling Addams!”

Standing here, next to the bleachers, hooting and hollering for Sterling as he busts out of the bucking chute on top of a black and white beast, I feel like a proud mama watching her baby ride for the first time…but you know, less incestual. The smile on my face hurts my cheeks, it’s so wide, my pulse races as the seconds tick on by, and my stomach clenches and flutters as I watch him ride through it all.

The bronc is wild, set on tossing him off, but Sterling knows what he’s doing. With every single buck, he rolls the spurs up the horse’s side, straightening his legs out against her shoulders when she descends. Up, down…up, down. Over and over. He’s focused, intent to win, and there ain’t nothing going on inside his head right now except following that bronc’s lead.

That eight-second buzzer sounds, and I already know he performed impeccably well. That’s proven when a score of ninety-seven is announced. There’s no way someone’s beating that tonight. Fuck yes! My feet are moving, body weaving around all the people in here as I make my way toward the back. My heart is pounding, head light and fuzzy, but I know it’s from excitement.

There’re tons of people in here, the place buzzing with the feel good energy that comes from rodeo. It’s so different being on the opposite side of things this time, but I can’t deny how much I loved watching Sterling kick some ass without the dreaded fear of what my father’s going to say once I’m done.

I step outside, around the back of the arena where I know Sterling will come out of, and I wait. Reaching into the pocket of my jeans and pulling out my pack of cigarettes, I pluck one out and place it between my teeth, lighting it. The smoke fills my lungs, calming the buzzing going on underneath the surface, as my eyes stay trained on the door he’ll probably exit through. Pulling out my phone, I consider texting him, but the odds of him having his phone on him, and not in the camper, are slim to none. So, instead, I scroll through my notifications, gut sinking when I see one from my mom.

Mom: Hi, honey. Miss you. Call me later if you get a chance. Xoxo.

Guilt unfurrows inside of me, reading her message. The past few weeks haven’t been the most civil with my family. Specifically, my father. And in turn, that has affected my mom. I know it shouldn’t, but I just need some time. To say he was less than supportive about taking the rest of the season off would an understatement. I’ve never seen him look as disappointed as he did when I sat them both down and told them.

It blew up pretty quickly into a heated argument, and I left before it could get too explosive, and I haven’t talked to my dad since. I’ve talked to my mom, but it’s been sparingly. She’s asked me to come over for dinner a few times, to which I’ve declined. She knows why, but I know she wishes I’d put it past us. And eventually, I will have to stop avoiding him, and I’ll have to sit down with him and hash it all out. But today isn’t that day, and frankly, I’m not ready to do it yet.

Me: Miss you too, Mom. I’m in Buckey this weekend visiting the rodeo crew, but I’ll give you a call once I get home. Love you.

Mom: Well, that sounds like fun. Be safe.

“Shooter?” My head snaps up at the sound of Sterling’s rich voice, a smile splitting his face that matches my own. “What are you doing here?” he practically squeaks as he closes the distance between us, throwing his arms around my neck.

“Surprise!” The way my heart’s hammering in my chest, it’s like it’s trying to break free and latch onto the man in my arms. “I missed you, and didn’t want to wait another almost four weeks until you’re home.”

Sterling pulls back, his hands resting on my shoulders as his gaze travels over my face. Sweat has his hair slicked to his forehead from where he took off his hat, and his eyes are wide and full of what I can only describe as happiness. Looking around us for a moment, he smirks as he asks, “Am I allowed to kiss you?”

Sniggering, I say, “I’d be a little disappointed if I drove all this way and you didn’t.”

Stepping forward, his mouth crashes down on mine messily, teeth clanking into mine, tongue surging into my mouth. His longing and his want are potent, and I want to taste it all. Walking us forward until Sterling’s back hits the side of the arena, I press my hips into his, letting him see just how much I missed him. Just how much I need him. With him, it’s easy to get carried away, and when we finally manage to break apart, we’re both breathless, lips swollen and red, slick with our combined spit, and I already want more. So much more.

A smirk tugs at the corner of my mouth as I nod my head to the side. “C’mon. We gotta go.”

His brows pinch adorably. “Where are we going?”

Glancing over my shoulder, I click my tongue at him. “Patience, grasshopper.”

36

Sterling Addams

“Ahotel room,” I say appreciatively as we enter into the space we’ll be occupying tonight. Wagging my brows, I joke, “You wining and dining me?”

Reaching behind his head, he drags his shirt over and off before stepping up to me, fingers coming to the buttons on my shirt, undoing them one by one, gaze never faltering from mine. “There is absolutely no way I was going to sleep in that camper with you and Cope tonight,” he mutters, brows furrowed as he works open my shirt. “After how long I went without seeing you, a shared space just won’t do. Not for what I have planned.”

The last sentence sends a bolt of arousal down my spine.

When he reaches the last button, his palms slide up my bare abdomen until they reach my shoulders. Shoving the material down my arms until the shirt hits the floor, he leans in, lips pressing against my clavicle.

A shiver works through me at the contact, my body immediately wanting more, and more, and more.

Him showing up tonight took me by complete surprise. I had no clue he was coming, but I’m so happy he’s here.

Peppering my neck and shoulders with kisses and sharp little nips, his fingers find my belt buckle, popping it open before working my jeans open next. The sound of my zipper sliding down echoes in the otherwise quiet room, the promise it leaves burrowing in my balls. Arousal blossoms and spreads through my bloodstream. Shooter shoves them down to my ankles, and I step out of them as he works his own pants down his legs. Only once we’re both standing there naked does he speak… and it’s not at all what I was expecting.

“You fucking stink, Addams.”

I can’t help it; I throw my head back and laugh. A deep, belly laugh, and so does he. “Well, sorry, jackass. Maybe if somebody didn’t whisk me away immediately after getting off a bronc, or at the very least, given me a heads up, I would’ve had time to shower and change.”

His shoulder lifts lazily into a shrug. “Yeah, but then I wouldn’t have been able to wash you myself, now would I?”

My brows pinch. “What?”

“You heard me,” he quips. “Now, get your smelly ass in the bathroom right now so we can jump in the shower.”

He slaps my ass, the sound reverberating around us, leaving no room for argument.

Steam quickly fills the small space once we get in here, and he turns on the water. My throat feels thick, and something I refuse to put a name to flutters in my stomach. Memories of the first time we were in a shower together. The first time we had sex. Despite the confusing state of our relationship, he still took his time, washing me, getting me ready for him. It was one of the first times I saw a softer side of Shooter. One of the first times I knew deeply that he was more than what he shows the world. That shower changed everything, and I didn’t even know it at the time. Something tells me tonight will change things too, but the difference between then and now is this time, I’m welcoming that change. I’m welcoming him. Jittering nerves aside, I climb into the spacious stand-up shower, stepping under the stream and turning just in time to watch him do the same.

His bright blue eyes are darkened as they rake unabashedly over my body. I’ve always had a lot of respect for the way Shooter always goes after what he wants, no matter what. He doesn’t get shy or timid, doesn’t beat around the bush. He’s upfront and unapologetic about his wants and needs, no matter how dickish it can make him look sometimes.

“You’re so sexy,” Shooter says in a hushed tone as he closes the distance between us. He’s hard. So am I. And when he brings our bodies flush, I hiss through gritted teeth at the shock of pleasure that soars through me at his dick brushing against mine. “And so goddamn responsive for me. I have missed you, Addams.” He presses a kiss down on my cheek. “Missed this face.” Another kiss on the other cheek. “Missed this neck of yours.” Sharp teeth nip right there before his hot tongue soothes away the ache. “Missed this body.” Kiss, kiss, kiss along my clavicle, and down my chest, tongue flicking against my hardened nipple before doing the same to the other one. “Missed this beautiful fucking cock, and the way it weeps for me, the way it stands tall and proud for me.” A rough, calloused hand wraps around my length, giving me a few lazy strokes before he lets go, a whimper falling from my lips that I don’t even try to stop.

Shooter turns us so my back is to the spray, and he runs his fingers through my hair, getting it fully wet. My eyelids flutter closed at the feeling, only opening once the sensation leaves my scalp. I watch him grab the shampoo and pour a small amount into his palm, lathering his two hands together before bringing them back to my head. He carefully massages the suds into my strands, making sure to not miss a single spot.

It's quiet while he washes my hair out, only the sound of the water cascading over us. It’s a comfortable type of quiet, though, even with the heavy anticipation thrumming around us like a cloud of undiluted lust.

Once he seems to be sure he’s got all the shampoo rinsed out, he grabs the soap, promptly getting to work on my body. He’s thorough, washing every inch of me, and despite how hard we both are, he keeps to the task at hand, and nothing more. As soon as he rinses me off for a second time, he turns off the faucet, and reaches outside of the stall to grab a towel that he dries me off with before wrapping it around my shoulders. Doing the same with himself, we get out, and he leads me back into the room.

Shooter takes the towel from me before nodding toward the bed. “Lie down.”

Turning his back on me, he unzips his duffle, pulling something out that I can’t make out. Not that I’m really trying to…not with the plump, round view he’s blessed me with. Doing as he asks, I climb onto the bed while never taking my eyes off of him. His body is a work of art; it’s clear to see he takes very good care of it. I mean, we all do to an extent. We have to be in shape to do what we do, but his body… it’s gorgeous. Long, muscular legs, strong thighs, firm globes that sit right below two deep dimples, an impressive abdomen that leads to strong, broad shoulders. Shooter is…breathtaking.

He turns, completely catching me drooling over him, and he smirks devilishly. “Like what you see?”

“Uh…” I point to my very obvious, very hard erection. “What do you think?”

Laughing, he rounds the corner of the bed, and that’s when I take in what he’s got in his hands. Lotion. I don’t bother asking what he’s doing because I know his stubborn ass won’t tell me. Instead, I watch as he climbs onto the bed, positioning himself between my legs as he uncaps the bottle, squirting some into his hand before rubbing them together.

“I remember my first pro rodeo season,” he starts, lifting my leg, and kind of letting it rest on the top of his thigh. “My muscles ached like a motherfucker after every rodeo. Almost nothing helped, and I swear to God, after the first dozen or so, I walked bow-legged from how sore they were.”

Hands lathered in lotion, he gently massages my calf, the pads of his fingertips applying just the right amount of pressure in the right places to feel soothing, and so good. He’s focused, eyes tracking the area on my leg that his hands are working.

“My Uncle Mike told me how he used to get massages from his wife after rodeos,” Shooter continues. “It became a routine he did. A wind-down. And it helped with the sore, tired muscles.” His hands move a little higher on my leg, wrapping around and rubbing the back of my knee. Gentle, but firm. I feel his touch everywhere. “So, I gave it a try. I didn’t have a spouse, of course, so I hired a masseuse where I could find them. It worked.”

Shooter’s index and middle finger apply a little bit more pressure, and I grit down on my molars as I exhale a moan. It feels so good. His baby blues lift to meet mine, the hint of a smirk playing around the corners of his lips, eyes alight with not quite humor, but… he knows what he’s doing, that’s for sure. My dick thickens the more his hands work me over, the higher up my leg he gets. A throbbing ache settles deep in my core, and I desperately want him to put me out of my misery, but I know he won’t. Not yet, at least.

Pausing to pour some more lotion onto his hands, he rubs them together again before returning them to my thigh. “I tried to find someone for you, but as I’m sure you can imagine, the options for mobile masseuses in this bumfuck town were pretty slim.” Shooter flashes me a mouthwatering grin before he adds, “And besides, I’ll take any reason to have my hands on you and make you feel good, especially after going six weeks without it.”

I suck in a breath as his fingers inch higher, settling into the fleshy part of my thigh that nearly connects to my groin. He applies the perfect amount of pressure, rubbing the area with precision, working out aches I didn’t even realize I had, while completely ignoring the standing soldier not even two inches from the back of his hand. On the one hand, I’m in heaven with this massage. My body is relaxing, my limbs feeling loose. But on the other hand, I’m freaking dying. I feel like I could explode at any given moment, like my dick is a hair-trigger, and even a heavy breeze could have me tipping over the edge. And we’ve barely gotten started. He hasn’t even moved on to my other leg yet.

After he finishes with my thigh, he moves back down my leg, surprising me when he turns his focus to the sole of my foot. Same with the back of my knee; when he presses down just right on the arch, it sends a bolt of pleasure through my body, landing in my groin. I can’t help but squirm in place, a groan vibrating in my throat at the feeling.

We easily fall into a comfortable silence as he focuses on his task, moving to my other leg and doing the same thing. My breathing picks up, cock hard and leaking onto my stomach. I’m not the only one affected, though. Shooter’s still just as naked as I am, and he’s rocking a pretty impressive hard-on himself. Once he’s finished with my leg, he moves on to my arms. Working his way from my fingers up to my shoulders. He’s thorough, and he’s clearly got magic hands.

Nudging my hip, he says, “Turn over.”

I swallow thickly, doing what he says, hissing as my oversensitive dick rubs against the bedding as I settle in place. Shooter takes his time, working both of my ass cheeks in his hands, massaging firm circles, kneading into the flesh.

Once he’s seemingly satisfied with his work there, he climbs up my body a little before I hear the lotion cap open again. His fingers find my shoulders, and I let out a groan—partially from how good his hands feel massaging my shoulders, but also because in this position, I can feel his erection drag along my lower back. How easy it would be for him to sink right into me, and take me just like this. My body is relaxed and pliant, it would take next to nothing to work me open enough to take his length.

I consider begging him, but I somehow manage to keep my mouth closed. I know my patience will be rewarded in spades. I just hope I don’t bust before that happens.

37

Shooter Graham

Sterling is putty in my hands right now, and I fucking love it. Everything I’ve told him is true. The massages really do help after a rodeo, especially if you aren’t used to doing so many back to back to back. It also happens to be a major plus that my hands on his body are turning him on so much.

We’re both so amped up right now, and I need to take it slow, because I don’t want it to be over before we even get started. We have all night in this hotel room, uninterrupted, just him and I, and I’ll be damned if I don’t take full advantage of that.

After I finish working the knots out of his shoulders, I have him flip over to lie on his back again. The sight of him, bare, relaxed, and so goddamn hard, is such a beautiful sight. Part of me wishes I could snap a picture so I can look back on this moment forever. The way he gazes up at me, his eyes such a rich honey color, practically overflowing with lust and need and desire for me. It all hits me so hard, my throat burns and my chest tightens. I need to be consumed by all things Sterling, and it feels like if I don’t, I’ll perish. I need him right now, and with the way he's sweeping his gaze over me, I’d say he feels the same.

The air between us is humming, my lips already tingling in anticipation, and when I dip down, bringing my face a mere few inches from his, his eyes flare, darkening to nearly black, telling me everything I need to know. Our mouths fuse together, his hands planting on my hips, mine landing on either side of his head on the pillow. Lips parting together, my tongue sweeps inside, gliding along his, and I can taste how much he wants me, how much he wants this. I lick into his mouth, lips moving against his with the gentleness he deserves. The gentleness I want to give him tonight that he didn’t get the first time we had sex.

When our lips break apart, we’re both breathing heavy. Brushing a stray hair out of his face, I take in his features, memorizing them. Cherishing them. “Tonight, I want to have a re-do,” I tell him, my voice quiet. Nothing more than a faint whisper meant only for him.

“A re-do?” The lines on his forehead crinkle with his confusion.

“I want tonight to be the first time you should’ve had. I want to show you how it should’ve been. How good I could’ve made it for you.” My voice is deep, gritty with the desire coursing through my bloodstream for him. “I’m going to worship your body tonight, baby. Show you what you do to me. Show you just how much I missed you.”

Sterling trembles beneath me, biting down on his bottom lip, his nails digging into the fleshy part of my hip as he leans forward, pressing his mouth into mine again. We proceed to kiss like we have all the time in the world. Like it’s our favorite hobby. We kiss each other like we couldn’t possibly imagine living without each other. We kiss until we’re dizzy, until our lips are swollen and slick. We kiss until I feel like I can’t hold on any longer, until we’re both rutting into each other, desperate for more.

Reluctantly, I end the kiss, climbing off the bed in search of supplies. Sterling whimpers at the loss of contact, and it makes me smile. Reaching blindly into my duffle bag, I pull out the bottle of lube and the condoms I stashed in there. Tossing the latter onto the bed beside him, I position myself between his legs, uncapping the former, and pouring a generous amount onto my fingers. I lean down, closing my mouth over the slippery-slick tip of his cock, loving the taste of his arousal on my tongue, as I trail my lubed fingers through his crease, taking my time to tease him a little. The sweet noises coming out of him are music to my ears, and have pre-cum spilling out of my cock onto the bed. I’m so turned on, it’s insane.

Finger circling his rim, I sink down farther onto his cock as I apply more pressure back there. His body is so relaxed, probably from the massage, but it makes my chest swell with pride that he trusts me so much to do this for him. With his dick in my throat, my nose brushing along the thick, trimmed, dark hair at the root, I slip my finger into his hole, past the ring of muscle, and fuck me, his channel is hot and tight, and I already can’t wait to sink into him again. It’s been far too long.

Sterling hisses, and when I peer up at him, he’s already watching me, pupils blown to the max, cheeks flushed, nearly dry hair hanging over his forehead. Bobbing up and down on his length, I set a slow pace as I work my finger in deeper. I fuck him gently with that one finger for a minute, getting him used to the intrusion before I pull out, going back in with two this time. His body’s practically vibrating with need, and his little gasps fire me up.

Taking my mouth off of his cock, I sit up, focusing on really working his hole open for me. His legs are spread wide open, pulled back slightly, my free hand gripping him right where his thigh meets his groin. I crook my fingers ever so slightly, dragging along his prostate, eliciting the sexiest noise from him as he throws his head back onto the pillow. The tendons in his neck flex, the long column of his throat enticing as it’s extended, my teeth aching to sink into it.

“Oh, my God, Shooter,” he pants, hips rocking against my hand. “Please, please, please…”

I smirk. “Please, what, baby?” I taunt, knowing full well what he’s begging for, but desperately wanting to hear him say it. “What does my dirty boy want?”

“You know what I wa—ahhh!” I cut him off mid-sentence when I peg his prostate again. “Please!”

“Let me hear you say it, baby.” This fucker actually rolls his eyes at me, and I can’t help but throw my head back onto my shoulders and laugh. He’s trying so hard to appear annoyed, but everything about his body language is giving him away. “Come on…”

“Shooter… fuck me, please.”

I don’t think I’ll ever understand why I enjoy hearing him say that four-letter word so much. Probably because he insists on not saying it, so when he does, it sounds so much dirtier than it should. But fuck, it gets me going. A thrill shoots down my spine, and I have to wrap a hand around my length and squeeze to stave off the excitement.

“See?” Leaning over him, I seal my lips to his for a quick, but hot kiss. “Was that so hard? Don’t worry, Addams… I’m going to fuck you so good, you’ll never be able to forget me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says breathlessly.

Withdrawing my fingers, I apply a little more lube before going back in with three this time, doubling down on stretching him and working him open. “Let me see you stroke yourself for me,” I tell him huskily.”

Even though his cheeks flame even redder, he does it anyway, wrapping a timid hand around his thick, hard length, pumping himself while his bottomless gaze never leaves mine. I cannot take much more of this. I’m going out of my mind with need. Once I’m sure he’s stretched properly, I pull out, grabbing a condom out of the box and ripping it open with my teeth. He’s still jacking himself, lips parted with pleasure as he watches me roll it on and lather it in lube.

My heart is hammering inside my chest as I line myself up to his pink puckered entrance. Glancing up at him, I ask, “You okay?”

He nods. “Yeah, I promise.”

“If it gets to be too much, tell me.”

“I will.”

Sterling’s hand is resting over the top of his thigh, so I reach out and take it in mine, lacing our fingers together, while I keep my other hand on his cheek, spreading him open for me as I begin to sink inside. Little by little, I push farther in, breaching the surface, and feeling him start to relax around me.

“That’s it,” I coo. “Just breathe. You’re doing so good.”

His hand squeezes mine, and he nods. He feels like heaven wrapped around me, and the farther I get inside of him, the deeper I know I never want to leave here. Not this room or this town, per se, but this. Him. I don’t know when exactly it happened, but I started falling for him a while ago, and the distance and the time apart haven’t done a damn thing to tamp it out. If anything, it’s only amplified it. Showed how much I miss him when he’s not around. Showed me how much I want him, and only him. It’s something I never saw coming, but I’m certainly not even mad about it.

Sinking the rest of the way in, I let out a sigh, giving us both a minute to adjust—him to the size, and me to the sheer tightness and the heat surrounding me, making me want to finish already. I bring our joined hands up, resting them by his head on the pillow, using my other hand to do the same to the other one, before leaning down and brushing our lips together. He exhales into my mouth as my tongue surges forward, licking against his.

Slowly—so fucking slow—my hips begin to roll against his ass, my dick pulling out before sinking back in, the feeling ethereal, sparks of unbridled pleasure soaring through every inch of my body at the feeling of him wrapped tightly around me. The snug way I fit inside of him, like I’m meant to be here. Like he’s meant for me.

Our bodies move together, grinding and rocking, lips kissing, tongues tasting, this moment unlike anything else I’ve experienced. This feels so much bigger than just two bodies using each other to get off. It’s larger, more significant than that. The air is thick, stifled. Our hearts and minds and bodies in tune with each other. Our hands joined together. I lick a hot, wet trail along his jaw, burrowing my face in his neck as I thrust in and out of him.

Sterling cries out, his hole constricting with each move, and I know with the way our bodies are flush, his cock is finding friction against my abdomen. I can feel it leaking on us. This, right here, is more intimate than we’ve ever been. More intimate than I’ve ever been with anybody. The organ in my chest tightens, aching with this need to consume all of him. To never let him go.

Needing to see him, see the pleasure passing through him as I fuck him, I sit up, hands coming to his hips as I lift him ever so slightly until my cock’s hitting that spot inside of him with each pump.

“Who’s hole is this?” I ask, my voice sounding almost foreign to me with how husky it is. How full of lust it is. “Tell me who you belong to, baby.”

“Yours,” he cries out. “You… I belong to you.”

A smirk tugs on the corner of my lip, chest swelling with pride. “That’s right, you do. And I fucking belong to you.”

“Yes, yes…yes!”

Release creeping up, I won’t be able to hold out much longer, so I wrap my hand around his red, swollen length, stroking in time with my movements, and Sterling loses his mind. A string of nonsensical words flies from his mouth as I pick up the pace, setting a rough onslaught while we both inch closer to the finish line. Sweat lines my brow, the back of my neck, my chest. The room feels a hundred and twenty degrees, but I couldn’t care less. The only thing in my mind is Sterling, and getting us both there.

“You’re gonna make me come,” he moans. “You want me to come?”

“Fuck yeah, come for me, dirty boy. Let me have it all.”

“Oh, God… nrgh… I’m gonna come!” His nostrils flare, as his hands reach out, wrapping around my wrists, head thrown back as I watch rapt as his cock explodes, thick ropes of cum landing on his chest, and even up to his neck as he cries out, a guttural sound, as his hole squeezes the life out of my cock, sending me over the edge. I spill into the condom, the sound leaving me inhuman as he milks every last drop from me.

I collapse beside him on the bed, our chests heaving with ragged breaths.

“Fuck, that was good,” I murmur.

We both laugh before Sterling says, “It was amazing.”

Leaning over, I kiss him. It’s short and sweet, but I love every second of it.

“Okay, nap time,” I announce. “Then, I want a repeat of that a few more times before sunrise.”

“No, no, no.” Sterling sits up, and before I can voice my confusion, he adds, “Food first, then repeat.”

Shit, can’t argue that.

38

Shooter Graham

We ended up going another two rounds last night before we finally crashed in a pile of sweaty, tired limbs in the middle of the bed, where we stayed wrapped up in each other until just now. Sterling’s head is resting on my chest, my fingers raking through his messy, sleep-covered hair, as we talk about any and everything under the sun. There’s three weeks left until the rodeo season is over. Three weeks until everyone is back home, until finals roll around in December. With how well Sterling’s done this season, there’s no way he won’t make it to the finals.

“How’s therapy been going?” Sterling asks quietly as his fingertips softly trail along my stomach muscles. He knows I’ve been going, and that I think it’s helping, but I haven’t delved into deeper details, because I didn’t want to do or say anything that could throw off his game.

“It’s going well,” I admit honestly. “Daisy thinks I should try to get my dad to come with me to hash out all our shit.”

“Yeah? Think he will?”

“Fuck no.” I laugh because pigs had a better chance of flying before that would happen. “I love my dad, but he’s not exactly a ‘let’s talk it out together’ type of guy. Hell, to be honest, I didn’t think I was either until now. So, shit, who knows.”

Sterling moves his head off my chest, glancing up at me. “Do you think you want to return next season?”

“I don’t know.” It’s the truth. I really don’t know what I want to do yet. “Part of me is screaming yes. It’s killing me to not compete. It’s part of who I am. But another part of me kind of likes not feeling like I need to impress anybody.” And by anybody, I mean my father. “I also know I’m going to have to eventually sit down and hash this shit out with my dad, and maybe after I do that, I’ll have a better understanding of where I stand and what I want.”

“That makes sense.” He smiles at me. It’s warm, genuine. “I’m really proud of you for taking the time you need to figure it all out. I’m sure it’s not easy to do, to step outside of what you’re used to, and try to make your own happiness and mental health a priority.”

Emotion lines my throat, making it hard to swallow. Sterling somehow always knows what to say at the right time. He’s got this way of putting my mind at ease, and I don’t even know if he realizes he’s doing it. I’m afraid if I say anything, my voice will crack, so instead, I lean down, capturing his lips with mine. Sterling smiles against my mouth, and when I slip my tongue inside, he sucks on the tip, pulling a groan from my chest.

It blows my mind how comfortable I feel with Sterling. How being here with him, kissing him, being intimate with him, feels right. Wholly and completely right. I’ve never had that before with another person. I certainly never thought that person would be a rival of mine.

Eventually, we pull apart, even though I’m positive I could lie in this bed all day, doing just that, and be more than happy about it. But soon it’ll be three long weeks before we see each other again, so I’d like to spend as much time together as we can.

“How are you feeling about your season, and the fact that you’re definitely finals bound?” I ask Sterling, my fingers threading with his. I love the way our hands look together. The way our bodies look together. Two rough, gritty men.

Sterling winces, mouth turned down into a frown. “You sure you want to talk about this? I totally get if it’s a sore subj—”

“No, stop right there,” I reply, cutting him off. This isn’t the first time he’s been wary about talking about this with me, but I shut him down every time. I’ve noticed he’s fine discussing the individual events, but any time finals are brought up, he gets squeamish, like it may piss me off or hurt me. That couldn’t be further from the truth, and I need him to know that. “Yes, I miss competing, but of course, I want to hear about your feelings and your thoughts. I can be bummed for myself and still be happy for you. Which I am, and proud. This is your rookie season, and you’re fucking killing it. Never, ever feel like you can’t be open about that with me. I want to know it all. I want to be there for you. Cheer you on.”

He's quiet for a moment, as if he wasn’t expecting that response. And I get it. For the better part of this season, I’ve been a cocky asshole who cared more about winning than anything else, but I meant every word I said. His thumb rubs circles against the palm of my hand before he continues.

“Well, in that case, I’m feeling really freaking good. This season has exceeded any of my expectations, and it’s surreal to know that I’ll even get to compete in finals. I can’t believe it, but God, I’m nervous. Like I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

“You should be really fucking proud of yourself. Not many guys can come right out of the gate and do what you’ve done. Regardless of what happens at finals, or even the rest of this season, you’ve done so fucking well.”

His cheeks bloom red, but before he can respond, my phone goes off. Groaning, I roll over, grabbing it from where it’s charging on the nightstand.

“Hey, Cope. What’s up?”

“Where you guys at?”

“The hotel. Why?”

“Uh, because we’re supposed to be at the river in twenty minutes.”

Oh, shit. “Sorry, lost track of time.” Chuckling, I climb out of bed, looking around for some clothes. “We’ll get dressed and be there in a bit.”

“You’re killing me,” he groans. “Hurry up.”

Cope hangs up, and I toss my phone on the bed, meeting Sterling’s questioning gaze. “We’re all going rafting today, and I forgot.”

Laughing, Sterling says, “Of course, you did,” before tossing the covers off of himself and jumping out of bed.

Somehow, we’re able to get dressed, teeth brushed, bags re-packed, and out the door in ten minutes, racing over to the campsite to meet everybody else. The rafting place is only a few minutes from the campground, so by the grace of God, we’re on time, and you bet your ass I rub it in Cope’s face.

Everyone, aside from Boone and his family, is here. We rent a massive raft, hitting the waters after we strap ourselves into life vests and get a quick rundown of what to do and what not to do from the instructor who joins us on the river. Cope, Daisy, and I have all already done this before, but everyone else are rafting virgins. Sterling looks very unsure and nervous, and it’s fucking adorable as he sits beside me on the raft.

The waters aren’t too rough today, just enough to make for an interesting and wet trip. The sun’s out, not a cloud in the sky, but being right on the river, the temperature is comfortable. We paid for a three-hour trip, and by the time we’re pulling up to shore, we’re all starving and Sterling is rocking a pink, sun-kissed nose.

After taking my helmet off, I set it on the table, going to do the same to him. Without thinking, I lean in and press a kiss to the tip of his burnt nose. “Somebody forgot their sunscreen.”

Huffing out a laugh, he rolls his eyes. “Shut up. I have fair skin, okay?”

“Uh…” Sterling and I turn our heads toward Colt, the source of the sound. “What the hell is happening?”

I hear Cope snort beside me, and it’s only then I realize what Colt’s talking about. My closeness to Sterling. The kiss. And I can’t help but laugh too. “Oh, shit. Surprise?” I mutter with a smirk and a shrug.

“You two?” he asks. “Since when? And who else knew about this?”

“I did,” Daisy chimes in, sounding mighty proud of herself.

“Me.” Cope raises a hand.

Glancing at Sterling, humor dances in his eyes. “Basically the whole season,” I say in response to Colt’s first question.

“Well, for the sake of full transparency, we technically met the night of finals,” Sterling corrects me, my dick twitching behind my pants at that memory.

“Well, fuck both of you for keeping that from me,” Colt grunts out, but there’s no fight behind his words. He’s giving us shit. “But this makes so much sense.”

I throw my head back and laugh, giving him the finger before we all head to grab some lunch. Well, that was easy enough.

Ending up at some burger joint in the middle of this tiny town, we all scarf down enough food to feed an army before Sterling, Colt, and my sister ditch us to go play the arcade games that are in the back of the restaurant. Jessie and Clem went outside for some fresh air. Leaving Cope and I the only ones inside at our table.

He takes a drink from his soda, eyeing me over the cup. “You look happy,” he murmurs with a smirk.

“I’m getting there.”

“You done with rodeo?” Cope’s been great about giving me space, even though I know he’s overflowing with questions. I know he’s worried, and I’ve admitted a little bit to him, but not all of it. Maybe when the season’s over, and we’re all back in Copper Lake, I will.

“I may come back next season. Who knows.”

Cope sets his drink down on the table, letting out a deep breath. “Listen, I may not know what’s going on with you fully, but I’m really fucking glad you’re taking the time to figure your shit out. You’ve been angry and detached for a while now. Whatever you decide, I’m here. Always.”

Hearing that chokes me up a little. I wasn’t as good as I thought I was at hiding my shit. Cope’s my best friend, so sure, if anybody would pick up on it, it would be him. I just didn’t think he noticed. Not because he’s a shitty friend or oblivious, but because we all have our own issues.

“Thanks, man,” I croak. “I really appreciate that.”

“So, you and Sterling,” he drawls. I’ve been waiting for this ever since I confessed my feelings for Sterling the night of Cope’s party. “Never saw that coming, but I think you’re good for one another.”

The shit-eating grin on my face is unavoidable. “He makes me happy, man. I don’t know, I can’t explain it.”

“I didn’t think I’d ever see the day the Shooter Graham settled down, but I’m happy for you.”

“Thanks, Cope.”

We finish the rest of our fries before everyone comes back. It’s nearing the time I should be hitting the road to head back to Copper Lake, but this nagging feeling of not wanting to go yet keeps gnawing at me. When we all leave the restaurant, before we pile in the trucks, I pull Sterling aside.

“What’s up?” he asks.

“You can say no,” I tell him. “But what do you think about me tagging along for the rest of the season?”

Honey eyes go wide as a grin tugs on his lips. “Really? You want to?”

“Only if you want me to. My therapy is all online anyway, and there’s nothing really for me at home right now.” Nerves coat my gut as I worry he won’t want me to. Putting myself out there isn’t something I’m great at, and even though our feelings are out in the open now, being vulnerable is still hard for me to lean into. “So, what do you think?”

“I think having you around all the time sounds pretty dang good to me.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he says, stepping closer until we’re nothing more than a breath away from each other. “Stay. I want you to.”

Pressing my lips down on his, I kind of love that all of our friends know now, so I don’t have to hide this anymore. Don’t have to hide how in deep I am. I’ve respected that Sterling wanted to keep it under wraps since it’s his first year pro, but I have no desire to hide anything anymore.

39

Sterling Addams

One Month Later

“What the hell are you doing in there, Addams?” Shooter calls out from his bedroom, where I told him to wait right on the end of the bed ten minutes ago. I snicker to myself, thinking about what’s about to happen, and while I think it’s going to be hot as hell, I also think, from the outside looking in, it’s a little comical. Something you’d see in a cheap porn film.

“Patience, grasshopper,” I holler back, reciting his words to me from several weeks ago.

I hear Shooter scoff before mumbling a “fuck off,” under his breath, and I can’t help but laugh. It’s been about a week since the rodeo season ended and we got home. As fun as the last several months have been, and as thankful as I am for the experience and where it got me, I’m beyond thrilled to be back in a regular bed every night. The camper is great, but man, after a while, it gets old. I surprisingly—or maybe not so surprisingly—haven’t been at the loft much in the week we’ve been home, instead staying at Shooter’s place. Luckily, he has a really freaking comfortable—and huge—bed.

Which is where we’re at now. We just finished eating dinner—a nice meal Shooter grilled for us—and we had several drinks leading up to right now, so it’s safe to say we both got a little bit of a buzz going on. It’s doing wonders at providing liquid courage for the crap show I’m about to put on for him.

Looking in the mirror, I don’t know whether I want to laugh or call the whole thing off, standing here in nothing more than my cowboy hat, chaps, a jockstrap, and my boots, I look somehow both ridiculous and… sexy at the same time. I don’t know how that’s possible. Regardless of what I think, though, I know Shooter is going to lose his mind.

I grab my phone off the counter, opening Spotify, and pick the song. My phone’s already hooked up to the Bluetooth speaker in his room, so the distinguishable beat to Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy starts playing. I can hear Shooter laugh, then immediately after, whistle appreciation for what he can probably guess is to come, over the music. Setting the phone back on the counter, I yank open the door, letting him take me in, in all my nearly naked glory, as I lean seductively against the doorjamb.

Shooter’s eyes go wide, jaw dropping, as he claps his hands. “Fuck yes, baby!”

Trying, but failing, to stay in character, I laugh a little before composing myself as I cross the room, coming to a stop in front of him. Grabbing the hat off the top of my head, I place it atop his, and say in my deepest, sexiest voice, “Hey there, cowboy. Heard you need a ride.”

He bites down on his lip, raking his baby blue eyes down my body, before he murmurs, “You fucking bet I do, dirty boy. Show me what you got.”

Oh, I plan to.

Planting my hands on his thighs, I spread his legs open before sinking down between them. Fingers working his belt buckle open, I’m pleased to see the start of an erection already popping up. Once I get the belt undone, and his jeans open, I pull him out, my mouth watering at the sight. I run the flat of my tongue along the crown of his dick, gathering the pre-cum waiting for me.

Shooter grits his teeth, breathing hard through his nose as he watches me. His pupils are blown, the blue nearly looking black from how turned on he is. I love him like this—aroused for me and unable to hide it. Not that he’d ever want to hide it. He’s always been shamelessly open about his wants and needs. Sometime between the end of season and right at this moment, I’ve come to the realization that I’ve fallen in love with Shooter Graham. At some point, unbeknownst to me, the cocky, sure of himself, take-no-shit, bronc-riding cowboy has stolen my heart, and in turn given me something so completely special, I can’t even fathom walking away from it.

Of course, right now, as I’m licking his tip like a lollipop, getting ready to mount him like a horse with my pre-prepped ass, is not the proper time to tell him this realization of feelings… but soon. Soon I will tell him, and hope like hell he feels the same.

Once Shooter is nice and hard and throbbing for me, I reach under the bed where I stashed the bottle of lube and the condoms earlier, pulling the latter out and sliding it down his length before grabbing the former and dousing him with it. The heat of a thousand suns burns in his gaze as I stand up and straddle his lap, reaching behind myself to line him up to my entrance. Realization dawns on him seconds before I sink down, and he stops me.

“What are you doing? We need to prep you.”

With a smirk, I bring his finger around the back, letting him feel for himself, leaning in to press my lips down on the overheated flesh of his neck before whispering right next to his ear, “I already did that.”

Dragging his earlobe between my teeth, I relish the shiver that racks through him. I love knowing I pull such a visceral reaction out of him, and wonder if it’ll always be like this with us. I sure as hell hope so. A chest-deep groan falls from Shooter’s mouth as he places both hands firmly on my hips while I resume my task at hand.

Body thrumming with a desperate type of need, I don’t waste a single moment, sinking down on his length the second I get us lined up. His impressive girth stretches me, filling me to an almost unbearable fullness. My head drops back onto my shoulders as I sit all the way down on his lap, taking all there is to take from him.

Shooter leans in, sinking his teeth into the meaty part where my neck meets my shoulder, and it sends a zap of electricity down into my balls. “Goddamn, baby, you feel so fucking good wrapping around me,” he growls against my throat.

My hips begin to rock against him, my chest brushing up against his. Something about the way he’s still fully dressed while I’m nearly naked really fucking does it for me. Makes it seem filthier, what we’re doing. The song’s changed to another boot-knockin’ country song that I’m not paying any attention to anymore. His hands move from my hips, around to my ass, grabbing fistfuls of my cheeks as he uses it as leverage to rock me faster. His dick slides in and out of me with ease, brushing against my prostate with every stroke.

A groan, long, deep, and low sounds from me as pleasure radiates into every crevice of my body. “Oh, my God, Shooter…”

His hand slaps down on my ass. “Get up, let me fuck you bent over this bed.”

I stand up, begrudgingly pulling his dick out of me, and feeling way too empty as I do it. As soon as he spins us and bends me over the edge of the bed, he thrusts back inside. Crying out, my hands fist the bedding, letting my head hang down as he drills into me, giving me no time to adjust. Not that I’d want him to.

“Fuck, you’re so tight, dirty boy,” he grunts out between each punishing thrust. “The way you squeeze the life out of my cock every time I plunge inside of you.” Thrust. Thrust. “The way you stretch to take all of me like such a good.” Thrust. “Fucking.” Thrust. “Boy.” Thrust.

Nonsensical words fly out of my mouth. I don’t even know if it’s English at this point. I glance over my shoulder at him, taking in his dark eyes, hooded lids, flushed cheeks, and the way his teeth are bared as he plunders into me like I may disappear if he slows down. Shooter wraps his hand around the jockstrap, using it as leverage to pull me back into him until I’m meeting him thrust for thrust. The loud, vulgar slapping of his pelvis hitting my ass echoes in the room over the music, the scent of sex heavy in the air, getting me high on him. My chest heaves, lungs expanding rapidly, trying to suck in oxygen.

Cock throbbing and dripping behind the cotton, I’m going out of my mind, needing to touch myself but also knowing if I even try, I’ll fall forward from how hard he’s screwing into me. Like he can read my mind, Shooter wraps an arm around the front of my throat, pulling my body back into his until we’re flush. With his free hand, he dips underneath the strap, wrapping a sure, hot fist around my aching length.

“Ah, fuck!” I cry out, the double stimulation setting off an inferno in my blood.

“That’s right, dirty boy. Let me hear you swear. Let me hear it all. Let me hear how much I fucking turn you on. How much this cock turns you out. Tell me how much you’re dying to come.”

“I am, I am… I’m so close to coming. D-don’t stop, Shooter. Please, don’t stop.”

“Well, when you ask so fucking nicely, how could I deny you.” His lips are right beside my ear, his voice sinister as it washes over me. It’s so hot.

The pleasure soaring through me is so strong and so good, I can hardly see straight as my balls tighten up into my body and I spill into the jock and all over his hand.”

“Such a dirty fucking boy,” he coos. “So good, so tight. So perfect.” I swear, him talking me through my orgasm makes me come even harder. If it weren’t for his arm around my throat, I know I’d fall over. My body’s Jell-O.

Shooter removes his hand from under the jock strap, bringing his cum-soaked fingers up to my face, and shoves them into my mouth as he doubles down on his efforts in my ass. “Look at you, tasting yourself off my fingers. Starving for more, aren’t you? Ready for me to come in this tight, sweet ass of yours, huh?”

I nod as best as I can, but there’s not a lot of range of motion available with his fingers lodged in my mouth and his arm around my throat. It takes no time at all for his movements to get jerky, and eventually, he stills inside of me, his dick pulsing in my ass, and I know he’s filling the condom, and every part of me wishes he was inside me bare, covering my insides in his cum.

We’re both out of breath and slick with sweat by the time he pulls out of me. I watch him rip the condom off and tie the end, before tossing it in the wastebasket in the bathroom. After rinsing his fingers off, he comes back into the room and pulls me into him, kissing me hard enough to steal my breath all over again.

“Holy shit, that was incredible,” he breathes into my mouth. “I need a cigarette after that. Come on.”

He slaps my ass before taking me by the hand through the house until we get to the back door. Thank God, he lives on some land and his neighbors aren’t nearby because I’m still in nothing but a jock and chaps when we step outside. The rest of the night is spent curled up near the fire outside—once I get some actual clothes on—drinking and bullshitting until we get tired enough to go back inside and pass out.

I could get used to this.

40

Shooter Graham

Sterling: Whatever happens tonight, whatever he says… you got this.

The talk I’ve managed to put off for the last almost three months is finally happening tonight. Daisy and I are going over to our folks’ house for dinner since the season is over. It’s something we always do once we’re back in town, and normally, I look forward to it. I wish that were the case today. My stomach is in knots, and while I know that everything is already said and done, that I can’t change anything, I’m still worried about what type of disappointment my father is going to throw my way. Even though I know what I did was for the best for me and my wellbeing, that little boy deep in my mind that wants to make his dad proud is still there, holding on tight.

I’ve gone over how this conversation could go about a couple dozen times over the last few months, and I’ve tried to figure out what would be the best outcome of it all, and I’m still just as clueless as I was when I first made up my mind. I think deep down, I want my dad to understand where I’m coming from. I want him to see what the pressure he’s thrown on me has done, and I want him to be proud of me for making that tough call. Maybe even apologize for his part in it.

The latter two will probably never happen, but one can hope.

As I stare down at the phone in my hand, reading and re-reading the text Sterling sent me, the warmth in my chest grows insurmountably. The warmth that is ever present whenever he crosses my mind. He knows how nervous I am for tonight, and this one short text means so much to me. Last night, he asked if I wanted him to come with me. And while, yes, I do, I also know it wouldn’t make anything better. There’s also a part of me that simply just doesn’t want him to see me like that; belittled and small while my dad harps on me, tells me how disappointed he is, how much better he would’ve handled the situation. Sterling has already seen me at such a low point, and my pride can only handle so much of that.

Locking the phone, I shove it into my pocket before doing the same with my wallet. The drive over is quiet, no music playing, only my thoughts filling the void. By the time I park in front of their house, I’m no less relaxed, no less at ease. The one plus is that Daisy’s car is already here, so at least I don’t have to go in there completely alone. I didn’t realize how much I was leaning on my sister until this very moment. Knowing that she’ll be inside when I have this conversation does a lot at calming my racing pulse as I climb out of the truck and make my way up to their house. The front door is open, probably letting fresh air in like Mom likes to do. As I reach for the screen door, I pause when I catch the sound of my name. It’s coming from Daisy.

“You’re way too hard on him, don’t you see that?” She sounds pissed.

I hear my dad scoff, mouth probably down-turned into a frown. “You have no clue what you’re talking about, sweetie.”

“Like hell I don’t,” she booms. I can picture her standing in the living room in front of my dad’s recliner, hand on her hip. “When was the last time you told him you were proud of him, huh?”

“I always—”

“Without then pointing out something he could improve on.”

“Daisy, this is ridiculous,” he grunts, face probably turning red as he loses his patience.

“Is it, Dad? Is it really that ridiculous? Or is maybe your skewed way of thinking what’s ridiculous?”

I don’t think I’ve ever heard Daisy talk to our dad like this.

“The men in this family ride broncs. We push ourselves, and we’re the best! That’s how it’s always been. There is nothing wrong with improving. Nothing wrong with me giving your brother a little constructive criticism. He shouldn’t run and hide like a little fucking baby because he can’t handle that. That’s not who we are!”

The volume of his voice has raised significantly with that last sentence. Heart pounding behind my ribs, hands shaking, I’m about to storm in the house and give him a piece of my mind when Daisy speaks up again, even louder this time.

“Do you hear yourself? That’s not who we are? Who we are is human. Who we are is a family who loves one another unconditionally. Who we are is proud of one another’s accomplishments. And Shooter has accomplished a lot. A hell of a lot more than I have in my career, yet you constantly tell me how proud you are of me. You’ve never once treated me the way you’ve treated him.”

Daisy sighs, and I finally pull open the screen door. Before I can get too far into the entryway, my mom steps out of the kitchen, wet eyes on me as she shakes her head, holding a finger up to her lips and a hand up to stop me. I bite down on my molars as I stand here while Daisy continues.

“I love you, Dad, but you’re the problem.”

“I beg your pardon?” he scoffs.

“Shooter is an amazing bronc rider. More than amazing. He’s one of the greatest of our time, but the way you get into his head messes with him, messes with how he competes, and he shouldn’t have to take that. Whether you want to believe it or not, you’re the one who pushed him to leave this season. It was you in the back of his mind when he quit. And frankly, I don’t blame him. He’s only human, and can only take so much. You should be ashamed of the way you’ve behaved, Dad. Ashamed of the way you made Shooter feel. He is a three-time world champ who doesn’t feel good enough. You did this. You broke him, and it’s time that you fix him.” Her voice cracks, and I know she’s crying. “You know, he’s been going to therapy for the last couple of months, trying to work through everything he’s feeling. That was hard for him, Dad. Hard for him to make that first step, but he did it, and he’s really been working on himself, but he needs you to step up and fix the mess you’ve made. He’d never ask you or tell you that, but he needs it. This family needs it, Dad.”

My throat is thick, my eyes burning with the weight of everything she said. The way she confronted our dad. The way she stood up for me to him. I’m speechless.

Hands clenched into fists at my sides, my gaze drops to meet my mom’s, a tear falling down her cheek. Did her and Daisy plan this?

She reaches up, cupping my cheek in her warm, soft palm, and says quietly, “I love you, honey, and I’m so proud of you.”

That one sentence hits me right in the chest, like shattered glass puncturing my heart, making it hard to breathe. It’s nothing she hasn’t said a hundred times before, but in this moment, it’s like everything I needed to hear. The growing moisture in my eyes spills over, wetting my face as my vision blurs. I’ve spent more time crying in the last three months than I have in the last decade, and I’ve gotta admit, I’m fucking over it.

Mom gives my arm an encouraging squeeze before stepping aside to let me pass. When I walk into the living room, Dad is sitting in his recliner and Daisy is standing in front of the couch. Both of their eyes snap toward me when they hear me come in. Daisy’s face is red and wet, Dad’s just red.

“Son…” Dad says, but nothing else. I think Daisy’s rendered him speechless, which hasn’t ever happened before. If the moment wasn’t so tense, I’d probably laugh.

Daisy comes over and wraps her arms around my middle, pulling me in for a hug before she whispers, “Please don’t be mad at me. I couldn’t stand to see you hurting anymore. I love you.” She doesn’t give me a chance to reply before she scurries out of the room. Probably to join Mom in the kitchen.

Once she’s gone, I go and sit on the couch, eyes drifting over to my dad. “Well, guess we can just jump right into it now, huh?”

His lips are pressed into a thin line as he watches me with blue eyes that mirror mine. The emotion splashed on his face is one I can’t read. It’s not quite anger, I don’t think. “I’m assuming you heard all of that?” he asks, deadpan.

“Not all of it, I don’t think. But enough.”

He nods. “And you think what she said is true?” There it is—the nameless emotion. It’s hurt. I can see it now. He’s hurt by what Daisy said, and I’m not sure if it’s because he doesn’t believe what she said so he’s offended…or if he’s hurt that he’s realizing he may have made me feel that way. Either way, the realization chokes me up. My throat’s dry, and I swallow thickly, but the words don’t come. My ears heat under his gaze. “Shooter, what’s going on with you?”

“I…” Brushing a hand over the top of my head, the short strands of hair scratching my palm, I think of how best to say this. I want to be honest, get it all out there for once, but I also don’t want to hurt his feelings. Above all, I truly think he means well. “I’ve always wanted to follow in your footsteps. In grandpa’s footsteps. And I’ve always loved bronc riding, you know that. But…” I blow out a breath, my thoughts jumbled. “But somewhere along the way, I lost the spark I once felt, the thrill to ride. I lost my desire to keep going because it never felt good enough for you. Every time I’d compete and do really well, every time I won, every time I was so excited to show you what I had done, it just felt like there was always more you expected of me. It was never just pride for what I’d accomplished. I eventually got tired of letting you down.”

“You never let me down, son,” he grunts, thick, bushy brows pinched together.

“Dad, after every single rodeo, you’d call me and tell me ways I could’ve improved. Even when I won.”

“Shooter, don’t be ridiculous,” he scoffs. “It’s called constructive criticism. How are you supposed to improve if you don’t hear where you went wrong?”

My heart rate speeds up, my chest squeezing. “Sometimes I don’t want to hear what went wrong. Sometimes, all I want is for my dad to tell me how proud he is of me. Especially when I worked my ass off and took the win. Can’t you see that?”

He shakes his head, face getting redder by the second. “My father did the same thing to me, and look where it got me. I succeeded and made a name for myself, using his feedback to push me along. It fueled the fire under my ass and made me a better rider.”

I breathe out a laugh that’s lacking any humor. He’s not getting it. “I’m glad it worked for you, Dad. Honestly. But I’m not you. All of this hasn’t lit a fire under my ass. It’s burnt me out. It’s made me not want to continue. I don’t even know if this is something I want to do anymore. All I’ve ever wanted is for you to be fucking proud of me.”

My voice cracks at the end of that sentence, and I fucking hate myself for it. I feel like some small kid standing before his dad, begging for his approval. Begging for his love. It’s goddamn pathetic. My skin’s crawling, every part of me wanting to dash out of the door right now and pretend this never happened.

“Shooter, you’re being ridiculous. Of course, I’m proud of you!” My dad’s voice booms so loud, the neighbors probably hear it. “How could I not be proud of you? Look at all you’ve accomplished, but this is a hard world to be in, and you need thick skin to make it. All I’ve done is make sure you’re ready for it.”

“Yeah, rodeo is a hard world, and I do have thick skin. I can handle criticism from the outside world, but I don’t always need it from my family, Dad. Sometimes I just need you to be my dad. Not my critic. Sometimes all I need after winning a rodeo or winning a world fucking championship is to hear my father, the man I look up to the most, tell me how proud he is of me, how much he loves me. You’ve never done that, ever. And again, I’m glad this hard-ass approach worked for you with your own dad, but it doesn’t work for me. All it’s done is stress me the fuck out and make none of this enjoyable anymore. I fucking refuse to live my life doing something that doesn’t bring me joy, and I’m not sorry if that doesn’t make you happy. It’s not your life, it’s mine, and I hope with time you can learn to respect that.”

I angrily wipe the stray tears away that have fallen down my face, my eyes trained on the coffee table in front of me as silence descends upon us. Pulse roaring in my ears, it’s about the only thing I can focus on as my throat feels like it’s closing up on me. We sit there for what feels like hours, but what’s actually only probably a minute or so before my dad lets out a weighted sigh. His hand rubs up and down on the top of his thigh, leg bouncing, a telltale sign that he’s agitated.

What he says next, paired with the softness in his tone, surprises me more than anything.

“Shooter, I’m… God, I’m sorry, son.” Sitting forward, his hands rest on his knees. “I had no idea you felt this way. I am proud of you. So proud, and I’m sorry I ever made you question that.”

I’m… speechless. Literally.

I’ve wanted to hear those words for as long as I can remember, and now that I have, I don’t have a clue what to say back, or how to process it. My emotions feel too big, too heavy right now, and I desperately wish Sterling was here. When he asked if I wanted him to come, I should’ve said yes.

“Are you really seeing a therapist?” he asks, pulling me out of my thoughts. “Daisy said something about it before you came in here.”

I nod. “Yeah, I am. Have been since I decided to leave this season.”

“Are you okay? Is it because of me?”

“I’m fine,” I tell him truthfully. “I went to figure out how I was feeling toward the rodeo, and hopefully figure out what I wanted to do moving forward. Yes, part of that includes you.”

My dad’s face screws up before he schools his features. “And what do you want? Going forward.”

“I don’t know yet, but whatever I decide, I hope you’ll support me and respect my decision.”

He opens his mouth like he wants to say something, but eventually closes it. I know he has an opinion he wants to give, but I’m thankful he doesn’t. I don’t expect a one-eighty to happen here. This is a lifetime of beliefs and thinking engrained into his mind, but I’m just happy I was able to get it off my chest. Say how I feel, and put it all out there. Whatever happens now is up in the air, but I’m hopeful he’ll respect my choice as best as he can. I believe him when he said he never meant to make me feel this way. It’s all he’s ever known, and I get that. Maybe with time, we can find a common ground together.

Shortly after our talk, dinner is done, and surprisingly, it’s not as awkward as I assumed it would be. The entire time, my phone is practically burning a hole in my pocket, the need to talk to Sterling overwhelming. More often than not lately, the urge to simply be near him is about the only thing I can focus on. Not even because of sex, even though that’s a huge plus. Being around him, seeing him, getting to touch him, breathe the same air as him, it calms me. Calms my mind. It makes me feel comfortable. I debated telling my parents about Sterling and me tonight. In the end, I decided not to. To wait until things with my dad have hopefully blown over even more. My parents are more than supportive of my sexuality, so it’s not that I think they’ll frown upon it. It’s more like I’m not ready to let them into this bubble just yet.

As soon as it’s socially acceptable to, I say my goodbyes to my family, and jump in my truck with one destination in mind. It doesn’t take long for me to reach the long, windy road that leads to the ranch, and before I even have time to get out, Sterling is jogging out of the barn, eyes filled with concern.

“Is everything okay?” he asks in a hurry. “How did it go?”

First, I pull him into me for a kiss, relishing the warmth that comes from him. Then we head inside and I go over everything that happened, including what Daisy said before they realized I was there. When I’m done, his eyes are bright and glossy, and there’s a dopey smile on his face as he reaches up and cups my face.

“I’m so proud of you, Shooter.”

Out of everything that’s happened today, out of everything that’s been said to me or on my behalf, that hits me the hardest. Those six words choke me up the most. Hearing them come from Sterling, hearing the reverence… it’s everything.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” I admit hoarsely. “You’re my lucky cowboy hat, my early morning sunrise, my even thinking, and my deep breaths when my mind can’t settle down. You’ve become such a huge part of my everyday life in such a short time, and I honestly cannot picture being here, making it to where I am, without you.”

Sterling smiles, even as a fallen tear wets his lips. “You would because you’re so much stronger than you believe you are. But I’m so happy I got to be here to see you get here.”

Biting down on the inside of my cheek, my gaze roams over his beautifully carved features, a storm of emotions swirling around in my gut. “I love you, Sterling. And to be honest, I didn’t know if I’d ever say that to someone in my lifetime. I never saw this for me, never thought I was capable of it, but with you, everything is different. And I mean it; I am in love with you.”

Climbing into my lap, his arms wrap around my neck, eyes overflowing with emotion that matches everything filling inside of me. “I love you,” he breathes like a whisper. Like it’s only meant for me to hear.

A small, knowing smile plays on the corner of his lips before he seals his mouth to mine. Sterling kisses me like he’s trying to prove how much he means those words, and I kiss him back all the same. Being here with him, with the weight of today’s conversation off my shoulders, I feel truly okay…maybe more than okay, for the first time in I don’t even know how long. Like maybe the light at the end of the tunnel is finally in sight.

I don’t know what the future holds for me and bronc riding, but I know, without a shadow of a doubt, whatever it is, I’ll be okay.

41

Sterling Addams

December, Two and a Half Months Later

You ever have adrenaline coursing through you at a speed unheard of that it makes you a little queasy? That’s where I’m at right now. My limbs are shaking, my stomach’s twisted into knots on top of knots on top of knots, my heart is pounding behind my ribs, threatening to punch straight through, and bile sits at the base of my throat, inching its way up before creeping back down.

Over and over and over again.

The seconds tick by too dang fast. No amount of steady breathing and downward dog could’ve prepared me for this level of intensity. This caliber of nerves hitting me all at once. The noise in the stadium is deafening, the air practically vibrating with enthusiasm and excitement. An enthusiasm and excitement I match underneath the nausea and the jitters.

I’ve dreamed about this day for so many years. Never did I truly think I’d find myself here—especially not in my first year—but alas, here I am.

National Finals Rodeo.

Unlike last year, where I was sitting in the stands—a watcher, a bystander, a crowd goer—this year, I’m in the thick of it. I’m competing… for a chance at the world title. I could walk out of here tonight with the buckle, the cash, as a champion. But even if I don’t leave here with all of that, I still made it. I still worked my ass off and secured a spot in the lineup.

I did this.

It’s my time to show the world what I’m made of. As I lower myself onto the bronc, I give a quick glance around the arena. Taking in the lights, the music, the people, but I don’t stare too hard. I don’t want to spook myself. I can feel one gaze in particular. One that I refuse to meet, because it’ll make my stomach do somersaults for an entirely different reason, and those aren’t nerves I need right now in addition to everything else going on inside my system.

Shooter’s in that crowd. If I had to guess, somewhere near the very front row, close to the chute. He wanted to stay in the back with me, but I refused. Similar to how I won’t let myself watch my competition before I go out, for some reason, I can’t look at, talk to, breathe the same air as the current bareback bronc world champ. Don’t ask me why, I don’t have a clue. It’s been a little over two hours since I saw him last, and the words he whispered into my ear before he kissed me still ring through my mind as if they were just spoken.

“Go out there and kick some rodeo ass, baby, and a repeat of last year will wait for you after.” Then he proceeded to slap my ass and tell me how juicy it looked between my chaps.

Such a romantic, that one.

After ensuring all the ropes and bells and whistles are adjusted to my liking, I give a nod to my team, and by the time I drag in a lungful of air, I’m catapulted out of the chute. Earlier this morning, I was worried I’d get out here and freeze, or forget what I’m supposed to be doing under the pressure of what’s on the table. I couldn’t have been more wrong. I don’t even have to think; my body knows exactly what to do as it fluidly moves to-and-fro. Like we’re linemates, the bronc and I move as one. I easily predict her next move, following her lead.

Blood roars in my ears, my head light and free of any doubt. I was made for this. Made to ride, to compete.

The eight-second buzzer goes off, and the next minute and a half goes by in a blur of crowd roaring, clapping, and a steady hum in my mind. By the time my feet hit the dirt, I’m ready to take off and find Shooter, no matter the score, no matter the outcome. As if we’re thinking on the same wavelength, I hear my name shouted through the crowd, and when I glance up behind the plexiglass, in that front row is a wide-eyed, toothy-grinned Shooter, hands closed into fists as they pump into the air.

Our eyes lock, and it’s like everybody else in here vanishes. It’s him and I, and the radiating pride fluttering out of him.

“You did it!” he shouts. I can barely hear him. It’s more reading lips with how loud the arena is right now. “You fucking did it, Addams!” His hand slaps against the glass before he adds, “I’m so fucking proud of you. I’m sucking your dick so good after this!”

My heart stops beating entirely, dropping directly into my gut as my cheeks flame hot and what I’m sure is bright red. Eyes snapping to the left and right of him, I relax a little when I see it’s just our friends beside him, but mortification washes over me when the people behind him snicker at his comment.

I’m going to kick his ass.

Shooter, oblivious to my humility, points over toward the back, silently indicating he wants me to meet him over there. I nod, heading into the back before the next rider has a chance to come out. There’re still a few guys left who have to ride before the winner can be announced, and I’m positive I’m going to hurl before that time comes. I’d rather have been the last one to go so I could find out right away, but of course, things don’t work out that nicely.

My stomach is clear in my throat by the time I reach Shooter, and he wastes no time hauling me into him. I probably stink, and I know I’m all sweaty, but he clearly doesn’t care. His arms squeeze me so tight, I’m surprised I can still breathe, and his soft, hot lips land on my neck, peppering the sensitive flesh with kisses.

“So proud of you.” Kiss. “You kicked ass out there.” Kiss, kiss. “God, that was so hot watching you.” He seals his lips to mine, tongue surging into my mouth, showing me just how hot he found it. “I’m so hard for you right now.”

A groan rumbles from my throat. “People can hear you,” I breathe against his mouth.

He snorts. “You say that like I give a fuck.”

The last few months with Shooter have been incredible and interesting… to say the least. He’s still going to therapy, but he’s down to once a week now, and his relationship with his dad isn’t anywhere near perfect, but it’s eons better than it was before. I was worried how it would be leading up to finals, since it is his first year not competing since going pro. I worried he may pull away, or hold some resentment toward me, but it’s the complete opposite. Shooter’s been more supportive and encouraging than I ever could’ve asked for. He’s gotten rid of any doubt or imposter syndrome that’s attempted to wriggle its way into my mind.

He hasn’t made up his mind out loud yet, but I’m almost positive he’s coming back next season. With time, he’s found his love of the sport again, and even though he seems hesitant to admit it, I can see it. Whichever way he goes, whether he comes back or he doesn’t, I’m still so freaking proud of him. He’s come so far, and he’s exponentially happier since the start of the season. If anybody deserves to be free and happy, it’s Shooter.

About ten minutes later, the crowd goes wild, letting me know the final contestant just finished. Suddenly, my throat feels tight and my chest aches. It’s time. The announcer’s loud, cheerful voice booms over the loudspeaker, and my mouth goes dry as I listen.

“Ladies and gentlemen, give it up for this year’s world champion winner for bareback bronc riding, his first year on the circuit, Sterling Addams!”

Time seems to stop as my name reaches my ears. As it sets in… I’m the winner. I. Did. It. There’s no way. My feet leave the ground as Shooter hoists me up, jumping up and down as people swarm us. With my hands planted on his shoulders, I peer down at him, our eyes locking.

“I did it,” I say with sheer disbelief.

“You fucking did it, baby.” Shooter’s smile is so wide, so bright. It warms my insides and makes me melt. He sets me down, hands cupping the back of my head as his breath fans my lips from our proximity. “I’m so proud of you, Sterling.”

Pressure builds, tears stinging the back of my eyes as Shooter lowers his mouth onto mine. I can’t even help the moisture leaking down my face as everyone I love manages to find their way to us. Our friends, my parents, our agent. Everybody is here, and it couldn’t be more perfect.

“I love you,” I whisper low enough only for Shooter to hear, the truth behind those three words staggering. We started this season off rocky at best. I never could’ve imagined a year from when Shooter and I first met that this would be where we ended up.

He grins, eyes squinting as he speaks over my lips. “I love you.”

42

Shooter Graham

Juno’s is packed by the time we arrive. Rowdy fans who either just came from the arena or who watched it on TV are fawning over all of us as we weave through the small space toward the bar. The energy in here, and between our group, is unmatched. I’m riding a high so strong, you’d think it was me who won that world champ title. If you would’ve asked me this time last year if there was any possibility I’d be happy—truly ecstatic—for someone winning the title I was gunning after, I would’ve told them they were fucking out of their mind for asking such a ridiculous question.

Yet, here I am. Grinning ear to ear, excitement and pride coursing through my blood as I watch Sterling meander off with Cope to set up the pool table. Colt and I order a couple of rounds of shots for everyone before joining them in the corner of the room. The music is up loud enough that you gotta shout a little to be heard, which is exactly how I like it in a place like this.

Across the pool table, Sterling’s gaze locks with mine, and I swear, my knees get weak. It’s been exactly a year since I met him, and while nothing about the last twelve months has gone according to the plan I needed to follow, I wouldn’t have it any other fucking way. Sterling settles something inside of me. He balances me out. He tests me, and pushes me, and fights for me in ways I never knew I needed. He believes in me, like I believe in him. He’s a royal pain in my fucking ass sometimes, but honestly, I love it.

The hours pass, and the establishment gets more and more crowded as the night gets later. After a couple of rounds of pool, we’ve all moved on to the dart boards, but when Sterling steps away to order us all some more drinks, an idea sparks in my mind, and I can’t help the grin that slides into place as I follow after him.

As I approach him, I watch with a building arousal as he lifts the baseball cap that he replaced his cowboy hat for back at the arena off his head, running a hand through the sweaty, messy locks before putting that hat back in place. He rests his elbows on the top of the bar, one leg bent as he waits for the bartender to notice him. I keep my distance for a moment because it doesn’t take long for her to spot him and come take his order. She’s making heart eyes at him, either because she knows he kicked ass tonight or because he’s fucking hot. Or hell, probably both.

My chest swells and my stomach flutters, knowing that what she’s looking at is all mine. That gorgeous man with the dark brown curly hair, eyes like honey, dimples sweet enough to make you fucking melt, and the timid expression that I know only masks a confident man dripping with sex appeal is all mine.

And fuck, I couldn’t be prouder. Or luckier.

He walked away with the title and the belt buckle, yet here I am, standing about three feet behind him, feeling like I’m on top of the world.

Biting down on the growing smile, I close the distance, coming up from behind him, and sidling up to his left. “You were great tonight,” I murmur, with my lips right up against his ear. His scent envelops me. Musk, a little sweat, and that underlying sweetness that’s all Sterling. It makes my mouth water.

When he turns his head to the left, his molten gaze connects with mine, a sultry smirk tugging on his full, pink lips.

“I know,” he replies with a smirk.

Déjà vu hits me like a wave, the reminder re-directing all the blood in my body south.

I step a little closer, our bodies nearly flush against this bar as he turns his so he’s facing me directly. “And incredibly modest, I see,” I throw back, mirroring his words from a year ago when the roles were reversed.

“What can I say?” He shrugs, giving me his best cocky boy impression. “It’s been quite a night, riding that winning high, you know?”

The bartender drops off the round of shots. Taking one off the tray, I hand it to my man before grabbing one for myself. Holding it in the air, I toast, “To you, a first-time world fucking champion.”

He laughs, cheeks flushing pink as he clanks his shot glass to mine before we both toss the liquor back. Slamming them down on the counter, we hold eye contact for a moment, the air sizzling as we both drink the other in, the desire and the want clear as day. Anybody in the vicinity can feel it, I’m sure.

My fingers hook into the belt loop on his Wranglers, holding his body against mine. Hot breath tinged with liquor fans my face as Sterling’s pupils dilate in anticipation for where he knows I’m about to take this. “What do you say I help you celebrate that win, dirty boy?”

As if he can’t help himself, he lunges forward, sealing his lips to mine. Somehow, we manage to keep it tame, not giving the patrons of this bar too much of a show. “Lead the way, Graham,” Sterling drawls into my mouth.

Something about the way he called me by my last name in the very same way I do him has my cock giving an appreciative throb behind the tight confines of my jeans. Taking him by the hand, I lead him through the area, heading to the same bathroom we defiled a year ago. My gaze snags with Cope’s across the bar, where he’s showing his little boy next door how to properly throw a dart, and similar to last year, his chest rumbles with a chuckle as he drags his eyes from me to Sterling before returning his attention to the man in front of him.

The roaring chatter dulls tremendously as I lock us behind the large black closed door of the bathroom. I shove Sterling’s back against the door, pinning his body with mine as my lips dive in, sealing with his. My tongue thrusts into his mouth, and the kiss quickly turns heated and handsy. In an eager move I don’t see coming, Sterling presses his palms flat on my shoulders as he shoves me to my knees. I watch as he unclasps his belt buckle, pops the buckle, and slides the zipper down on his jeans, pulling himself out.

Giving his length a few pumps, a smirk tilts on his lip before he says, “Well, what are you waiting for, baby? It’s not gonna suck itself.”

I can’t help myself. My head throws back, and I let out a laugh entirely too loud for the small space we’re in, listening to him toss back my own asshole words from before. “Touché, baby. Touché.”

Smacking his hand away, I replace it with my own. The velvety hard feel of his cock in my grip is enough to make my head swim, and I waste no time at all leaning in and flicking my tongue against the tip, gathering the delicious pre-cum pooling for me there. His head hits the back of the door as he groans, and I relish the way his hand jumps out, gripping my shoulder with force as I sink farther, taking more of him into my mouth. His length thumps against my tongue as it twitches, another pool of the salty flavor hitting my taste buds as I work up to a steady bob up and down.

My mind is hazy, my heart thrashing around in my chest, and my dick is so hard, it hurts. When I glance up at Sterling through my lashes, I’m nearly knocked off my axis as I get a good look at just how wrecked he is right now. His pupils are nearly the size of saucers, eyelids hooded, cheeks flushed, and he’s got that delicious, plump bottom lip bit between his teeth so hard, the skin is blanching.

Unable to stand it any longer, I pull my cock out, stroking it with fervor as his heated gaze watches me. His eyes alternate between the way his dick is disappearing behind my lips and the hand that’s working myself over. It’s too much. This sight of him turned inside out, the scent of him in my nostrils, the taste of him on my tongue. I can hardly hold on, and I know he’s getting close too. His moans turn into whines, and his fingers dig in a little deeper into the flesh on my shoulder. The bite of it stings, but feels so damn good at the same time.

“I’m gonna come,” he cries out. I groan around his length, the vibration of it sending him over the edge. A moment later, his jaw drops open and he empties himself down my throat.

Tasting his cum sets me off, my cock throbbing through my release, shooting thick ropes all over this bathroom floor, wave after wave of pleasure ricocheting through my body as I suck every last drop from Sterling.

Pulling his cock from my mouth, I sit back on my haunches, working to regulate my breathing. Sterling is practically pasted to the bathroom door, his chest rising and falling just as quickly as mine. “Holy shit,” he breathes.

Rising to stand, I grab a couple of paper towels and clean up the mess on the floor before tossing them in the trash and washing my hands. Once I’m done, I pull Sterling into my arms, burying my face in the crook of his neck, breathing him in.

“Have I told you tonight how fucking proud of you I am?”

He chuckles softly. “Once or twice.”

“Well, I am.” I pull back, holding his gaze as I continue. “And feel free to thank me, you know.”

“Thank you?” His brows lift as an amused grin slides on his face, like he knows exactly where I’m going with this.

I nod. “Yeah. You know, for taking myself out of the running and giving you the chance to win. Real gentlemanly of me, if I do say so myself.”

Sterling clucks his tongue at me, shoving me away. “Oh please.” He laughs. “Same old cocky Shooter.”

We both laugh before my expression sobers. “I’m serious, though. You kicked fucking ass out there, and I couldn’t be more proud. I swear, watching you win felt like I was winning. I love you, Sterling, and I love that I got to watch you take that title.”

His eyes get a little glossy, and he glances away for a moment, probably feeling the same overwhelming emotion I’m feeling too. It’s hard not to with him. When he looks back at me, he smiles. “Thank you, Shooter. I can’t even begin to imagine how hard it was for you to not compete at the finals this year, but having your support means more to me than I’ll ever be able to voice.”

Shaking my head, I say, “It wasn’t hard at all because watching you get to shine is worth a thousand titles. Honestly, I’m not even sad. I’m so, so happy for you. And so proud.”

Sterling presses his lips to mine for one last kiss before we head back out to our friends. A warmth spreads in my chest as we settle back into the night, the truth of my words washing over me. I meant every last word I said to him in there. Watching him win and secure that title was nothing short of incredible. I wouldn’t trade this feeling for anything.

We started this season as rivals, and we’re ending it as so much more.

The End

Click here for an Eight Seconds to Ride Bonus Scene

Turn the page for a sneak peak at Dirt Road Secrets, Copper Lake Book Two

DIRT ROAD SECRETS

Chapter 1

Cope Murphy

Fall is by far my favorite season. I know there are the die-hard summer lovers, with the beach and the heat and the bikini’s, and then there’s the winter wonderland fanatics who go ape shit over the snow, the holidays, and the cold weather, sitting in front of a fire with eggnog.

Eggnog is disgusting, first of all.

And the snow is nothing more than a nuisance. Yeah, it’s pretty to look at until it comes time to drive in it, and then you’re surrounded by a bunch of idiots who don’t know what the hell they’re doing. Then the snow turns into sludge, and suddenly, it’s not so pretty anymore. Growing up in Copper Lake, I’m quite acquainted with the snow and the cold during the winter months, but that doesn’t mean I like it.

Spring’s okay. It’s the start of the rodeo season after all, so it deserves its recognition. But fall is where it’s at. The crisp, cool air, the leaves changing colors, falling all around us, all the hoodies that can come out of hibernation. You just can’t beat it.

It’s early October, the season fully upon us, and I’m in my element as I’m driving home from the gym this afternoon. The sun is shining down, the temperature a crisp sixty-four degrees, the driver’s side window is rolled down in my pick-up, and Zach Bryan is singing through the stereo. Taking a right onto the long, dirt road that eventually leads to my property, I take in the trees surrounding the road, the animals grazing in the grass to the left and right. Mr. and Mrs. Timmins just got a couple new cows that are hanging out in the pasture right now, and I make a mental note to go over there this week.

When I bought my house, I did it with the intention of one day having a family to fill the inside and some animals to occupy the yard. That day is not today, and while my house may be a little big for just myself, I loathe the process of home buying and moving in general, so when given the opportunity to go big or go home, I chose go big. It’s nothing huge and outrageous, but I definitely don’t need four bedrooms and fifty acres for just me, but I work hard and deserve it, okay? And besides, I’d rather have room to grow than to outgrow my home.

My house is toward the end of this long, narrow dirt road. It’s a couple miles long, and it’s one of those where you have to pull off to the side if someone else is driving down the opposite direction. Which is why it’s not unusual for there to be a car pulled over on the shoulder as I near the end of the road. What is unusual though, is that I’ve never seen this car before, and typically it’s the same several vehicles going up and down this road on a daily basis, and the fact that this car’s hood is lifted and the driver’s side door is swung open, a foot coming from inside planted on the ground.

Curiosity has me coming to a stop behind the car. It’s a dark green Nissan Altima that’s seen better days with Washington plates on the back. I leave the truck running as I hop out, shoving my phone into my pocket just in case, and approach the open door. A guy with black shaggy hair sitting beneath a hot pink beanie sits in the driver’s seat. He’s wearing a black hoodie and a pair of ripped jeans with Vans on his feet. When he hears me approach, he turns his head, our gaze colliding. Ice blue eyes meet mine, and there’s a furrow in his dark brows, most likely from frustration over whatever’s going on with his car if I had to guess. He looks to be a little bit older than my twenty-four, but I could be wrong.

“Oh, uh, hi. Hey.” His head turns, and he looks into the rearview mirror before returning his attention to me. “Am I in your way? I’m so sorry. My car broke down, and I don’t know what to do. I’m the least car savvy person I’ve ever met. It started smoking and it freaked me out. I didn’t know if it was going to catch on fire or what. I’m not even that far from where I’m supposed to be going, but the stupid thing won’t start.” He lets out a disgruntled sigh, the stress he’s feeling damn near emanating out of his pores.

I breathe out a small laugh before I can stop myself. “No, you’re good. I could easily get around you, but I wanted to make sure you were okay?”

He looks at me like I’ve grown a second head. “You’re… you stopped to see if I—a stranger—was okay?”

“Yes?”

“Why?”

“Um…” I frown, my brows pinching together in confusion. “Because you’re clearly having car trouble and it’s the least I can do.”

“No, I’m a complete stranger to you. The least you could do is drive right on past me and get to wherever you need to be because you don’t owe me—again, a stranger—anything.”

The wind’s kicked up in the last few minutes, and his pale cheeks have turned pink. I glance around him into the car. Starbucks cups take up both cup holders, and there’s even one in the door, and it looks like his back and passenger seat are filled with shit. “You’re not from around here, are you?” I ask him, ignoring his weird comment from before.

“What makes you ask that?”

“Well, it looks like everything you own is in the car with you,” I reply plainly, indicating behind him. “And the Washington plates are kind of a dead giveaway.”

“Right,” he mutters, but offers nothing else. His hands are in his lap, fingers fiddling with one another and picking at the skin around his thumb. Chipped black polish litters a few of the nails, while others seem to have none.

“If you’re this far down the road, you’re probably heading one of three places. My house, Ms. Dawson’s, or the Hendrickson’s. And seeing as how I’ve never seen you in my life, I’m assuming it’s not my place. So, which of the two are your destination?”

He tosses me a look I can’t decipher. “Dawson,” he supplies. “My aunt.”

Taking a step back, I say, “Come on. I can give you a lift.” Motioning my arm toward my truck, I watch as confusion takes over his face all over again. He doesn’t move. “I’m her neighbor, and once we get back there, I can grab the stuff from my garage to hook your car up to the back of my truck and tow it to her place.”

When he still doesn’t make any attempt at getting out of the car, I trudge back to my truck before pulling out my phone and checking the time.

“Come on. I swear, I don’t bite, and it’s on my way anyway.” I open the door before adding, “And once we get your car back, I can call my buddy, who’s the mechanic in town. He can probably come take a look at it this evening.”

This finally gets him to slide out of the car and stand up. “But you don’t even know me,” is all he says.

Is he concerned because I’m a stranger? Like, worried I’m going to chop him into a million pieces or something? It’s literally like a mile down the road, if that.

“I don’t need to know you to give you a lift down the road,” I say slowly. “You’re stuck and I want to help. It’s not a big deal. If it makes you feel better…” I walk over to him, extending my hand. “I’m Cope, and you are?”

Surprisingly, he slips his hand into mine. I notice how warm it is, and how much softer it is than my own. “Xander,” he tells me in response to my question.

“Okay, Xander, nice to meet you. See, not strangers anymore. So, get in.”

“I’ve got a cat,” he announces, pointing his thumb over his shoulder toward the car. “He’s in a carrier.”

“Grab him and come on.”

Xander doesn’t look any more sure, but after he plucks the carrier out of his car, he rounds the front of my truck and pulls open the passenger side door anyway, climbing into the cab, setting the cat on his lap. The opening is faced away from me, so I can’t see the animal, nor is it making any noise. Maybe it’s asleep. I join him, not bothering to put my seatbelt back on since we’re not going very far. I do, however, turn the music down.

“It smells good in here,” Xander mutters, dragging his gaze around everything.

“Thanks. It’s some air freshener I picked up the other day.” Putting the car in drive, I go around the Nissan, and head toward his aunt’s house. “I didn’t know Ms. Dawson had a nephew. Are you visiting?”

“Yeah, I’ve never been here. Any time we’ve seen each other, she’s always come to Washington. But yes, I’m visiting kind of.”

“Kind of?”

Xander’s hands are back in his lap, but this time his fingers are twirling around a bracelet he’s wearing around his wrist. It’s black, and it’s one of those types you can cinch together using the two end pieces. I wonder if he made it himself. “She’s having surgery on her hip soon. So, I’m coming here to help out with her animals while she’s recovering.”

That’s nice of him to do. Ms. Dawson has quite a few animals that I know of. A couple horses, some cows, goats, chickens. I think she’s even got a few ducks running around too. “You’re from Washington?”

“Mmhm.”

“Like, Seattle?”

“No.” He chuckles. “Not like Seattle. I live in a town just outside of Pullman in eastern Washington.”

“That’s cool. Do you have farm animals there that you take care of?”

“No.”

“Have you ever?”

He shakes his head. “Just my cat.”

“So, you have no clue what you’re doing?” I ask, my brow arched questioningly.

“Pretty much.” His lips lift into a small smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. In fact, it looks forced. “But she said she’ll show me what to do. I’m a quick learner, so I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

“Yeah, it’ll be great,” I reply as we pull in front of my house. It looks fairly similar to his aunt’s, except where mine’s more dark, neutral colors, hers is a bright yellow. “Wait here. I’ll grab the stuff and be right back.”

Because I’m so neurotic about how things in my garage are organized, I find what I need right away, bringing it back out to the truck and sticking it in the bed before climbing back inside. Xander is fiddling with that bracelet again, and he looks over at me as I shut the door.

“Thanks for helping me,” he mutters. “I’m not normally this much of a basket case but everything about this trip has been hell. This is just the icing on top of the fucked up cake. So, thank you.”

“Hey, no problem at all, man. We all need a little help every now and again.”

Putting the truck into reverse, I back out of my driveway before heading back to where his car’s at. It’s easy enough getting it hooked up to my truck, and when we get to his aunt’s place and I unload it, I give him the number to my mechanic before also plugging in my number.

“If you need anything, just give me a call or text me. I’m very well acquainted with farm animals and how to take care of them, so just let me know.”

“Uh, thank you. I appreciate it.” He takes his phone back, stuffing it into the pocket of his hoodie before he climbs out of my truck. After he grabs a few things from his car, he heads toward the front door but not before glancing back and giving me a wave.

Well, he’s… different.

Coming March 2024

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Ashley James is an LGBTQIA+ author who enjoys writing (and reading) the toxic, swoony, broody, filthy talking, red flag men. She is originally from Washington State—and no, not Seattle—but now resides in South Carolina with her two daughters and her Sphynx kitties, Goose and Houston.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Well, if you made it this far, thank you for sticking with me through another book in another new series. I’ve been so excited about this book and this series for the better part of the last year. Small town is very different from what I’ve done in the past, but it’s something I’ve wanted to venture into for a while. It felt good writing, and it’s where I’d really like to stay, so thank you for trusting me and for sticking with me.

My daughters. They’re the best little cheerleaders I could ever ask for.

My family. I’m so blessed to have such a supportive family. I’m so completely thankful for your love and support, even when writing seems to take up my entire life.

My bestie. My alpha. My person. Katie… Well, it’s that time again. I have so much to thank you for. Thank you for creating this beautiful, perfect cover—and all the other covers for this series. I couldn’t have asked for a more fitting cover. Thank you for all your help and support while writing this book. Many times I felt very in over my head, worried that nobody would like this new series, but you stuck with me and kept me sane. Thank you for your constant support and for always believing in me even when I don’t believe in myself. I love you so big!

Mads. Thank you for putting up with my control freak self. You’re a PA who deserves an award for patience. Thank you also for beta reading and for loving these two.

Shann. You’re a saint for putting up with my dozens of outrageous, random questions regarding the rodeo. You were so helpful during writing this book, and your excitement for Shooter and Sterling means so much to me.

Jill and Becca. Thank you both so much for all of your invaluable feedback and commentary. You’re both truly amazing hype girls, and I love y’all for it.

Kenzie. You’re the best. Period. LOL.

My Amazing Patrons. Y’all saw every part of this story first, and your constant support means the world to me. Getting to share them with you so early was such an incredible experience. I adore you all so much!

The Author Agency. Becca and Shauna—you ladies are INCREDIBLE. I can’t thank you enough for all that you do for me and my release. You’re so on top of everything and so helpful. Working with you is a breeze every single time.

ARC Readers. Thank you to everybody who early read this book, everyone who reviewed and/or made gorgeous edits, and everyone who simply hyped the book up and shared teasers. I appreciate y’all so much!

Trista Boggs. Thank you for coming up with the name for Conrad’s ranch—Grazing Acres. I loved getting to get suggestions from my patrons for a ranch name.

All my Readers. Without y’all, I wouldn’t even be here. I love and appreciate each of you more than you’ll ever know. You’re helping make my dreams come true, and that’s still so surreal to me. So, whether this is your first book by me or you’ve been here since the beginning... thank you.

ALSO BY ASHLEY JAMES

The Deepest Desires Series

Barred Desires (Book One)

Forsaken Desires (Book Two)

Illicit Desires (Book Three)

Hidden Affairs Series

Brazen Affairs (Book One)

Storm Clouds and Devastation (Book Two)

Insatiable Hunger (Book Three)

Copper Lake Series

Eight Seconds to Ride (Book One)

Dirt Road Secrets (Book Two, Pre-Order Here)

Standalones

Kismet

Wounded

Say My Name

Whiskey Nights and Neon Dreams