Page 14 of Bad Cowboy, Tennessee

He kept his gaze on me. “You ride?”

“I do.”

Sometimes, riding is the only place I am myself.

On Veil’s saddle, her black coat shining under the blue sky, I’m calm.

I’m not calm anywhere else.

In a fight, I use rage like a dirty burning fuel, an animal uncaged and desperate to win.

In bed, desire coils around me like a snake.

It’s a steady tightening grip. A chokehold.

A need for release, a need for lust, a need for power. I want to see that look in another person’s eyes when they realize there is nowhere in the world they’d rather be than withme. Under me. Above me. Inside me, or letting me push inside them.

For my whole life, I’d always felt…charged.

Like I was the human embodiment of a stormcloud, ready to crack into lightning at any instant. At any touch, whether it was violent or sexual.

But on the back of a horse? I was nothing like that.

It was the truest peace I’d known.

And I’d needed that peace, growing up with parents like mine.

When you can’t escape your cage, you’re forced to find the only ways toward peace that are available.

Mr. Marsden sighed loudly, cutting through my thoughts. “Well, if you want,” he said, looking over at the stables, “I can refer you to my friend Rick Denton, over past the highway. He has a riding mare available for sale as we speak. Not all that young, but she’s a good one. Rick can’t ride anymore. I’ll put in a good word for you, especially if you’re payin’ cash.”

The storm inside me seemed to quiet, just for a moment, like brief sun passing through clouds.

“I’d like that,” I told him.

“Well, any other questions?”

The air suddenly smelled sweet and fresh. Not just honeysuckle. Over by the edge of the porch, I spotted a row of rose bushes along the front edge of the patio, in full bloom. The same crimson red as the tattoo on my wrist.

Something close to a smile tugged at one corner of my lips.

The spot on my wrist where the frat boy got feral last night and sank his teeth into my skin.

I met Mr. Marsden’s gaze. “Do you know where the Hard Spot Saloon is?”

“Hard Spot’s at the center of town. Laurel Ave. Across from the diner. If you head on down there, tell Kane he owes me a bag of mulch, though.”

“Right. I can meet up with you tomorrow. I’ll have the cash in my account.”

“Cash,” he said. “Well, hell. I hope to hear from you then, Mr. Lyons.”

I hopped into my truck and headed down toward the center of town.

I’d been keeping an eye on Max’s little barn house last night and this morning. When he mentioned having a stalker, I’d also found his online videos. He called himselfThe Cocktail Bro, andwas catching quite a lot of attention lately due to some shirtless videos.

I scanned the comments all morning. People wanted to fuck him, of course, for the same reason I did. He was 22, blue-eyed, and an unbelievably hot piece of gym-bunny ass.

At the end of each of his videos, he said in his slight southern accent: “That’s how we do it in Tennessee, baby.” Always with a gorgeous golden-boy smile on his face.

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