Page 95 of Untamed
Britany takes a drink of the water in her hand. When she’s finished, she puts the cap back on. Wyatt takes it from her, tries to remove the cap. He succeeds and dumps the water on the floor. “They’re judged on how high they kick, how hard they spin, drop to the buck, power on the rider’s arm, belly-rolls, and how many times they change direction.”
It was all a lot of information but helpful. “Do they ever get a perfect score?” I ask, kissing Wyatt’s head. He smells so good, like syrup and graham crackers, that I can’t help it.
“I’ve never seen one. I’ve only heard of a hundred once. Although when Grayer stayed on Asteroid in the world finals to win last year, he was given a ninety-six and that was the best ride I’d ever seen. I haven’t personally seen higher yet.”
I can see his familiar hat by the chute and I smile, his memory once again moving over me when he smiles at me. Our eyes catch, lock, provoking the deepest desires within me.
Wyatt squirms in my arms. “Daddy.” He points his little chubby finger in his direction. “Dat’s my daddy.” I’m learning he sounds a lot like a broken record when he finds something he wants. “Daddy. Daddy.”
See? Broken record.
Grayer stands and throws a leg over the gate. The chute clock counts down sixty seconds as he mounts the bull and grips the flat braided rope, adjusting his bull rope and then rubbing his riding hand with rosin. Three other guys assist him hanging over the side. Sniper rears back, already trying to toss Grayer off him. Grayer grabs the bars, hands struggling to keep from falling.
After the bull settles down, Grayer starts the process of tying the rope all over again. When he has his rope secured, he gives the nod and the chute opens. That’s when I know what’s about to happen. There’s no control in Grayer’s movements and it’s clear he didn’t have a good grip on his rope.
The bull storms out of the chute and twists sideways, kicking up his back legs. Grayer keeps his balance, but I can immediately tell there’s something wrong. He doesn’t have that same confidence in him.
He’s rattled.
Britany tenses beside me, her hands fly to her mouth when she realizes what’s about to happen and hides Wyatt’s face from what’s going on. I hand him back to her, and he twists and turns trying to get a good look at his daddy again.
The bull turns back into Grayer’s hand and that’s when I see it happening in slow motion.
Grayer’s thrown hard into the dirt and lands on his stomach only to have the bull turn on him and come down on his back with his front legs. Grayer screams in pain, and I can hear it from here. He curls into himself, holding his hat with both hands, a two-thousand-pound bull inches from him, bucking wildly.
All three of us jump to our feet as the bullfighters distract Sniper and two more guys help Grayer to safety. He stumbles around, holding his back, but appears alert.
Britany grabs my hand. “Let’s go down there.”
Being their manager is handy because they don’t even bat an eye when she pushes her way into the room where Grayer’s sitting, shirtless, his head in his hands as a doctor looks at his back. I hadn’t seen it from our view, but the bull’s horns had got him in the ribs. Even with wearing his protective vest, his ribs are already purple, swollen, maybe even broken.
“Are you okay?” I ask, wanting to go over there, but he holds up his hand, as if to stop me.
“I’m fine.” His voice is different, tense, cold, detached. His eyes find Britany’s and he glares that she has Wyatt in here. “Get him out of here.”
Wyatt tries to reach for him, crying, “Daddy?”
Britany looks at Grayer and then me, shifting Wyatt on her hip so Grayer’s out of his view. “I’ll give you two a minute,” she tells me, and walks out with her son.
I step toward Grayer. “Are you sure you’re okay? That looked crazy bad.”
“I’m fine, Maesyn,” Grayer says, waving me off. “Just go back and watch the show.” I don’t want to and I think he knows it. “Go.”
He gives me this look that I can’t describe. It’s an emotion more than a look. I want to cry when I see it. It reminds me of when he found out I was only seventeen. He’s mad, maybe at himself, but I can’t help but think maybe it has a little more to do with me being here with him.
