Page 167 of Ride the Sky

“I got a rep to uphold.” Weston’s stare burns. “How’d it look fraternizing with my competitor? Besides, except for some rumbling in the circuit, I had no concrete proof.” Guilt creases his rugged face. “Until it happened.”

I bare my teeth. “Tell me what you know.”

“Pappy rigged your ride,” Weston says grimly. “He struck a deal with the owner of Goliath Jim that if you rode his bull, he’d make fifty grand. Whether or not you stayed on.”

The newsflash hits like an 800-pound bull. Breath whooshing out of me, I bang the table with a closed fist. “I fucking knew it.”

Knew there was something wrong with my ride. The gift of fear. The gift of the niggling voice in the back of my mind telling me something was off. Maybe it was a migraine. Regardless, Pappy rigged my ride. That and the bull created the perfect storm to fuck up my ride.

“That rat-faced fuck,” Wyatt swears. “I’m gonna kill him.”

“I go first,” I tell Wyatt. Rage flashes through me like a lightning bolt. “That piece of shit Benedict Arnold.”

Weston flexes a big hand. “I tried to tell you that night in Arizona, but I couldn’t get you alone.”

I chuckle. “I wouldn’t have believed you anyway.”

“Stubborn.”

“You have no idea,” Wyatt says.

I frown at Weston’s scowl. “I didn’t fall because of the bull. I got dizzy…a migraine…”

Weston makes a noise in the back of his throat. “You drink anything he gave you? Before your ride?”

My eyes widen at the memory. Beside me, Wyatt sucks in a breath.

“How do you know?” I shake my head, not wanting to believe it. “Why should I believe you?”

“I never lie,” Weston rasps. “I may kill, but I don’t lie.”

A chill dances across my skin. I glance at Wyatt, unsure if it’s a joke or not.

“Here.” Weston reaches in his back pocket and pulls out some rumpled papers. “Receipts,” he explains, sliding them my way. “These transcripts from the audio recorded that day. All those fuckin’ cameras on the circuit were a goddamn goldmine. I had a hunch, and I followed it. Paid off some pimple-faced mic operators for the recordings then sent these to the PBRA. They got wise and opened an investigation into Pappy. They’re fixin’ to release their report next month. But I wanted to tell you before the news got out.”

I stare at the transcripts. The reveal brings hot tears—relief, rage—to my eyes. Pappy planned this, maybe from the beginning, or maybe simply weeks before the ride.

Fuck. How could I have been so stupid to not see it?

“Don’t blame yourself. You trusted him,” Weston says, as if reading my thoughts.

I scrutinize Weston. “Why are you helping me?”

“My older brother died because of Pappy’s bullshit.” A soft expression crosses Weston’s rugged face. He stares into his glass. “The worst thing about that man is he doesn’t care. He’d sell anyone out to get ahead.”

I swallow the fire in my throat. “I’m sorry.”

“After I learned what happened, I waited. Ten damn years I played the long game. I knew he’d fuck up again. And I vowed when he did, I’d be there.”

I arch a brow. “Impressive grudge.”

Weston raises his gaze. A black cloud shifts across his face. “You know what happens to people who hurt your family.”

Wyatt sobers. “Foot on neck.”

“Until they stop breathing.” Looking at Wyatt, Weston says, “It’s the most important thing in the world. Protecting the ones you love.”

Protective gaze cresting over me, Wyatt rests a hand on my thigh. My hand moves over it.

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