He leans down and captures my lips in one last kiss. “The feeling is mutual, cowboy.”
Hearing him call me “cowboy”in his raspy, out-of-breath, just-kissed voice makes my cock throb behind the confines of my jeans.
Unlocking the door, he opens it, sliding off my lap and stepping into the night air. I climb out behind him, slipping my hands back around his waist and pulling him into me. Unable to help myself, I kiss him one last time, somehow managing to make it quick.
“I’ve got a shit ton to do before I leave for Vegas in a few days, so I probably won’t get to see you much before you head down there. Want you to know it’s not because I don’t want to see you or because I’m freaking out about this. Pre-finals are always hectic, but I can’t wait to see you there.”
He smiles softly. “Me too.”
After I make sure he gets inside, I make the short walk home, my mind reeling. By the time I make it inside my house, I can still feel the pressure of his lips on mine, and the one thing that keeps blaring inside my mind is how I’ve never had a kiss feel like that. Ever. And how I need it to happen again as soon as possible.
18
XANDER DAWSON
True to his word, Cope was busy up until the morning he left for Vegas. The kiss we shared last week has been in the forefront of my mind ever since, and I can’t help but wonder if it’s been on his too. We’ve texted nearly every day. With everything he’s got going on, it hasn’t been anything in depth, but it’s still something that makes me giddy, because I know that, regardless of how busy he is, I’m still on his mind enough for him to check in.
My plane landed in Las Vegas a few hours ago. After I checked into my hotel room and showered, I took an Uber to the arena the event is being held at. It’smassive.There’re so many people here, nearly every seat filled, and the crowd is rowdy and clearly very excited for the event to begin.
Cope was nice enough to make sure I had familiar faces to sit with in the stands. Prior to arriving, an unknown number texted me, which I quickly found out was Shooter. He told me where to meet him in the front of the arena, and when I got here, he and Whit were waiting for me. Everybody else in their group of friends is competing tonight, so the three of us are sitting together in the first row near the bucking chute—whichI’ve since learned is the pen that the bulls and broncs are held in before it’s their time to do their…thing.
Okay, so I’m not the best with the lingo yet, but I’m trying.
“You excited?” Shooter asks from beside me. He’s practically bouncing in his seat, so it’s safe to assumehe’sexcited.
I nod. “Yeah. I’ve never seen anything like this before. I think it’ll be cool to see Cope, uh, perform.” My cheeks heat. “Is that what it’s called?”
Shooter chuckles, but it doesn’t feel mocking or like he’s making fun of me. “Competing or riding both work,” he corrects. “And Cope’s damn good at what he does. You’re in for a treat.”
“I looked him up,” I reply. “On YouTube, when he first told me what he does for a living, but I have no doubt seeing it in person will be even better.”
“Nothing beats seeing them live,” Whit offers from where he’s sitting on the other side of Shooter.
“Do you travel with them?” I ask. “I mean, probably not with your clinic.”
Whit shakes his head. “No, I don’t. I probably could take the time off, but I generally don’t prefer to do that.” He nudges his glasses up the bridge of his nose before sweeping some hair out of his face. “But I watch them whenever they’re competing at home.”
Bareback is up first. All of this is a foreign language to me, but thankfully, Shooter breaks it down as simply as he can. There’s a huge jumbotron screen that I watch, and every now and then, Shooter will point to the riders on the screen telling me what they’re doing or how they’re being scored. He explains the difference, other than the obvious one, between bareback—which is the way him and Sterling ride—and saddle—the way Cope rides—is that with bareback, the riders hold on to what is called a rigging, which I guess is a leather and rawhide handhold that’s cinched on the horse, whereas, with saddle bronc riding,the riders only have a thick rein attached to the horses halter to hold on to.
Both seem like not a fun time to me, getting thrown around by this wild beast bucking underneath you while you get to hold on to a little bit of rope with only one hand, but at least with one you get to sit on a saddle, which has to be arguably more comfortable than sitting without one.
Truthfully, it seems like a crazy man’s sport, and a concussion waiting to happen, but what the hell do I know?
The announcer booms over the loudspeaker, and the crowd goes wild. I’m assuming the festivities are about to begin. After the opening spiel is finished, and the national anthem is performed, the man behind the mic introduces the first bareback rider of the night. Music plays loudly, the lights flicker a bit, as the crowd stomps against the bleachers and cheers thunderously.
Rider number one busts out of the gate—err, I mean,the bucking chute—and everything happens so damn fast, I have no clue what I’m even looking at. Shooter does his best to explain what he can while we watch the riders come and go. That is, until it’s Sterling’s turn. Then Shooter becomes nothing but a loud and proud boyfriend, cheering him on. The grin on my face is wide and involuntarily as I alternate my gaze between Sterling on the writhing black-and-white beast and Shooter going crazy beside me.
As soon as the buzzer sounds, Shooter claps his massive hands together, shouting at Sterling as he’s pulled off the horse by another man on a different horse. Whether Sterling can even hear Shooter remains unknown, but he walks over to the edge of the arena, in front of where we are anyway, his smile blinding.
After that, Shooter leaves for a while, I’m guessing to go find Sterling in the back, and it’s just me and Whit. We make a littlesmall talk, but for the most part, I’m just observing everything and taking it all in.
Another few riders come and go before the man over the loudspeaker announces saddle bronc is up next. I don’t know which number Cope is, but my stomach swirls with excitement and something else I can’t place… Nerves, maybe? So far, nobody has gotten hurt, but what if he does? Shit, that’s probably bad luck to even think, isn’t it?
Eventually, Shooter finds his seat beside me again, arm bumping against mine as he plops down. “Cope’s up next,” he tells me, practically bouncing in his seat. “You excited?”
“Yeah,” I reply honestly, a grin cracking through the façade I’m trying to put into place. Can’t let his best friend know how into him I am, now can I? “You think he’ll win?”
“Ah-ah.” Shooter’s eyes widen and he brings a finger up in front of his lips. “We don’t talk about that inside the arena. Zip it.”
