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 energyspreading 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 theloudspeaker 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 averyattractive 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.
