My mind went to a dark place. “I have a knack for losing things.”
“Listen, son, I don’t have a psychology degree, and even if I did, you’re not paying me to work on your head. You’re paying me to keep you on that bull, but in my professional opinion”—I gave Will a look. Professional opinion . . . no psychology degree, my ass. Will tapped my temple—“you need to fix whatever’s going on up in there before you’ll get back to your eight seconds of glory.”
“If I spend all of my time fixing what’s wrong up here”—I drilled my finger into my temple—“I’ll be dead of old age before I’m on a bull again.”
Will nodded, studying me. “It’s like you’re restless, son. So damn restless you can’t even manage to stay in the same spot for eight seconds. Whatever it is or whoever it is that’s messing with your head, you either need to let it go or grab hold of it. Once you figure that out, you’re going to be unstoppable. You’ve got what it takes. It’s in your blood and you’ve put the sweat and tears into it, so don’t let that God-given and God-taken ability go without a fight. Find that thing or that person that puts you at peace, and you’ll remember how to stay on the bull again.” Will went from straight-up preaching to turning his back and heading out of the arena.
“Thanks for the gentle, not-at-all confusing words of wisdom!” I shouted. “Doctor Will.”
He didn’t reply. He didn’t stop. He’d said what he needed to and kept going. I was ready to pack up my gear and get the hell out of there so I could get back to the Gibsons’—and Josie’s and my bedtime ritual—when a loud rattling from a certain bull that’d worked its way into one of the chutes changed my plans.
After retrieving my hat from across the arena, I marched toward Bluebell with determination and a steely glare that damn bull returned. I didn’t know who hated the other more, me or Bluebell, but the hate feelings were definitely mutual. I hadn’t made it to the underbelly of life by making good choices. However, I hadn’t made it to the underbelly of life alive by making really bad choices either. What I was about to do might have qualified as a really bad choice, though.
But right then, I didn’t care. All I could think about was me, a bull, and eight seconds.
Someone had left the gate from the holding pen to the chutes open, explaining how Bluebell had made his way into one of them. What I couldn’t explain was why he chose to go into one. All of the bulls needed at least some—or a lot of—encouragement to slide into the chutes. But Bluebell . . . hell, the bull had worked its way into one of its own accord, and he practically had a smile on his frothy, ugly mug. Damn bulls. If they weren’t part of the deal, I’d want nothing to do with a single one of them.
Sliding my hat on, I climbed the gate and managed to work the bull strap back into position. God, I was an idiot. Bull riding might be an individual sport, but it required a team of people to actually carry out. Mainly because it took everything the rider had just to stay on. Forget about throwing open the gate, prodding the bull out if it needed it, distracting it when the cowboy flew off, and coaxing it down into the holding pen. I’d been told more than once that I had the ego of ten men and the stupidity of twenty. Let’s hope the ego was riding that night, not the stupidity.
Bluebell snorted as I crawled on. Once I had a good grip, I grabbed the rope that opened the gate and got ready to pull it. Before I did that, I cleared my head. It took a few seconds, long enough for Bluebell to let out another series of snorts, but finally, my head was empty. No dreams, thoughts, or memories of Josie. I was Josie free. Time to ride. I pulled the gate at the same time I opened my eyes. The first thing I saw when they opened? Josie. The second thing I saw? The floor of the arena.
I hit hard. Harder than the times before, and I’d barely made it out of the gates. I’d gone from bad to being an insult to the sport.
“Holy shit! Please tell me you’re not dead!”
I wasn’t sure which was more comforting: knowing I hadn’t conjured up some imaginary Josie or that I still had use of my legs. “Not dead. Not yet.” I spit out more dirt as I sat up.
“Not paralyzed, mortally wounded, or internally bleeding either?” Josie stood across the arena on the other side of the fence with a look of horror on her face. She’d seen me ride plenty, but riding a bull was a hell of a lot different than cartwheeling off of one.
“Now, Joze, why would you be so concerned about me being paralyzed? Is there something of mine you might be interested in keeping in good working order?” Even giving her a tilted grin hurt. Once I finally managed to stay on that bull for eight seconds, I would eat Bluebell steak for a straight year.
“I can tell you what I wouldn’t mind no longer being in such fine working order,” she replied with a tight smile. “That part of you you think is a sense of humor. It’s not funny. Or cute. Or even ironic. So give it a rest.”
Josie and I’d been together for two weeks, or we’d been together trying to figure out if we could make it work “together,” and as much as she was a pain in my ass sometimes and I was a pain in her ass all the time, I was glad that part of us hadn’t changed. Giving each other a hard time was the only constant in our years of knowing each other. Well, I’d had one other constant, but I wasn’t ready to share that with her just yet.
“Whatever you say, Joze.” Gritting my teeth, I got my knees beneath me and struggled to a stand. For a notoriously tough son of a bitch, I was sure taking a beating. I felt like one of my ribs might have been cracked, but that was as frequent an occurrence as anyone else stubbing their big toe. Josie must have seen the pain somewhere in my eyes or expression because in one swift movement, she was climbing the fence and throwing her leg over.
“Hold it for one hot second!” I yelled, rushing toward her. Cracked rib be damned. “Would you please think twice before leaping into an enclosed area where the orneriest, meanest bull this side of Montana is wandering around?” I glanced at Bluebell—who was just standing down a ways, not in a hurry to go into the holding pen—staring at me with those black beady eyes. I hated that bull. “Go on! Get going!” I clapped and took a few steps in Bluebell’s direction, hoping to encourage him to get going. All he did was stare before tilting his head. On top of being mean, bulls were stupid, too. That’s why people ate those critters and didn’t keep them as pets. “Go! Come on, get out of here!” I banged on the side of the fence, but it did a whole lot of nothing.
Josie’s hand grabbed my shoulder, and she gave it a gentle squeeze. I’m not sure if it had been her intention, but it silenced me. Looking at Bluebell, Josie waved her hand. “Shoo.” One sweet word, one soft wave, and that bull did a one-eighty. It jogged down the arena until it ended in the holding pen.
Shaking my head, I headed down to close the holding pen gate. “I didn’t know you were a bull whisperer.”
“You should have,” she replied.
“Why’s that?”
“You haven’t managed to run me off like you have everyone else, have you?”
I double-checked the gate to make sure it was closed before heading back to her. “And you’re saying that’s because of your bull-slash-Garth whispering skills?”
“That’s one of the many reasons, yeah.” She finishing crawling over the top of the fence and jumped down.