Page 1 of Reckless Hearts

Chapter 1

Colt

Two thousand poundsof raging animosity twists and bucks between my thighs. My body’s coiled tight, every muscle locked and straining. I force myself to loosen up, to movewiththe bull instead of fighting him in a brutal ballet of instinct and grit. Each jolt threatens to send me flying, but I hang on.

It feels like flying, falling, and breaking all at once.

For these eight seconds, nothing matters but the connection between us. Every moment is an eternity, stretching and bending under the force of the ride. Sweat stings my eyes, mixing with the grit of the arena, and turns the world into a muted haze.

The best riders know, it’s not a fight. It’s a dance. And the bull leads.

My thighs burn, and the rope scorches my palm as Rampage kicks high, his rear legs reaching for the sky before he dips hard to throw me. I lose everything except the rhythm between us, fierce and unrelenting.

Time stretches, and the world grows quiet as each heartbeat pounds louder in my ears. Pure instinct takes over my body as I let myself go with him.

I pour everything I have into the final seconds. These endless, glorious, impossible seconds.

Then I see him. Maverick, waiting in the chute, tension crackling through the air as his gaze fixes on me with unsettling intensity. My focus, my determination, my bitterness. It all crashes together like a storm. I ride harder, fire burning in my chest, because I know he’s waiting to see if I’ll fail.

The bell goes off, marking my victory, but the milliseconds of distraction give the bull all it needs to throw me like a rag doll. My body’s weightless for a moment before I slam hard into the ground. The air rips from my lungs, pain sparking bright and white. Years of practice kick in and I roll fast, just in time to avoid a hoof to the ribs. The beast would like nothing more than to kill me, and I left myself wide open.

Hands pull me up and away, dust-coated and breathless. Bullfighters work together, taunting the beast into his pen. They save more lives than any of us can count. They’ve earned our respect ten times over.

It’s not until the gate closes that my senses return. The noise is staggering, the cheer of the crowd a wild, victorious thing that wraps around me. I look up to the sky, panting and alive, and let the triumphant, reckless surge carry me.

Cocky now, I turn toward the chutes. It’s chaos, wranglers shouting, riders settling onto their bulls. I don’t bother hiding my smirk as I find Maverick, daring him to do better.

He doesn’t look worried.

He lookssatisfied. Like he’s proud of himself for getting in my head enough to almost get me trampled.

Heat crawls up my neck. My ears burn. Getting distracted like that was humiliating.

Knowinghewas the reason? Fucking mortifying.

They announce my name over the speakers, and the bitter twist in my gut is replaced by electricity. Victory pulses through me, humming under my skin.

Bull riding is taunting death and walking away grinning. It’s the closest thing I’ll ever feel to invincibility.

Dust grits between my teeth as I smile, lifting my wide-brimmed hat high above my head to wave to the crowd.

Half of them cheer. The other half groan. Money changes hands in the stands, some spectators ecstatic, some licking their wounds. The fact that they were hoping I’d get crushed isn’t lost on me.

I dip my head to Rampage, still glaring from his pen. His fury earned us forty-five out of fifty points on top my own. In bull riding, both riderandbull are scored. Without him, my ride wouldn’t have meant shit. Every rider depends on the wildness of the animal beneath him.

I needed these points to rise up in the ranks, now three spots from the top. It’s proof that I’m still in this fight, still here despite it all. Annoyance threatens to take over, and I force myself not to search for Maverick, who’s ranked one spot above me.

Letting myself get hung up on that bullshit will only screw with my head, when I need every ounce of concentration to move me forward. Anything can happen during the circuit.

Nothing matters but the next bull. The next ride. The next win.

I duck under the railing and make my way through the bustling maze behind the arena, still vibrating from the ride, adrenaline sparking in every muscle. Metal gates clang. Voices echo. Sweat and dirt sting my nostrils.

I spot a kid hovering ahead. A gangly teen, wide-eyed, clutching a rodeo program to his chest. Must be working for a rider. No fans allowed back here.

“Mr. Lawson.” He steps forward, his words awkward but hopeful. “Can you sign my hat?”

“Sure thing, kid,” I say, feeling the lingering high from my performance seep into my voice, making it warm and easy as I scrawl my name across the brim.

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