Page 2 of Wild For You

It’s all about reaction, speed, adjustment.

Show no fear.

Using my spurs to hold on to the body is the hardest part. Too far back and I’ll fall. Too far forward and I’m done. Kicking his hind legs, I can tell Dillinger is one angry bull that knows how to throw.

The noise of the crowd becomes a thrumming backdrop in my mind as I cling on to Dillinger. As expected, he lunges forward, then spins wildly with a savage buck. My muscles ache from the effort of cutting with him.

For the first few seconds, I anticipate his every move, every buck, every change in direction.

I control him.

My pulse is racing in a good way.

Cash Boyd—world champ.

The bull beneath me thrashes and rears.

A few more seconds and the world champ title is mine.

But something happens. A moment of poor focus. Just when I think I’ve figured out his next move, the bull spins too wildly, far to the right, and my balance shifts. I lose my grip. My body doesn’t register it until I land hard on my side, all the air knocked out of my lungs. The crowd gasps—or maybe it’s just me.

A sharp pang shoots up my legs, and I grimace, blinded by the white-hot pain surging through me.

My first impulse is to get up, but everything is throbbing and burning.

The buzzer sounds, but it’s too late.

“Cash, get the fuck away!” someone yells. Is that my brother, Kellan?

I almost turn to scan the crowd for my family when the bull lowers his horns. He’s hooking for me.

The motherfucker!

Groaning, I try to clamber to my feet to get out of the way, but my legs won’t carry me.

“Cash!” More people yell, their voices barely penetrating the aching fog inside my mind.

My world’s spinning, and not in a good way. The bull’s dashing for me. Voices shout. I think I see a rodeo clown trying to distract the beast, but I can’t tell for sure because my vision’s blurry and everything’s spinning.

Hands wrap around my arms and shoulders, their grip rough, crushing my bones. I peer around me, realizing those aren’t hands, but horns. I’m being lifted up in the air, and for a brief second, I peer straight into Dillinger’s angry eyes.

The motherfucker got me.

My body’s an aching pulp.

Everything’s distorted.

I was so close to winning.

That’s my last coherent thought before I close my eyes and succumb to the darkness, eager to escape the pain.

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