Page 20 of Drunk Dialing

“That’d be great. Thanks. One last ride tonight, and we’ll see if I make it in the money.”

Marcello nodded to him, so serious. “I will pray for you.”

“God knows I need it. Thanks.” He glanced over to where Treat was waiting in the stands, drinking a beer, eyes focused on him. Maybe he didn’t need it so bad as he had this morning.

His cowboy had bought him yaks. Fucking yaks. Not just little ones either, although he had six of those coming to the ranch, but big ones. They’d gone in together on yaks. He’d put up two thousand dollars of the money. Treat had covered the rest and was having them loaded and hauled to the ranch where they’d be waiting for him, along with five draft horses, a dozen Highland cows, and some weird-assed chickens with feathery feet that Treat had fallen in love with.

It was weird because they hadn’t talked about him moving in. They hadn’t really talked about anything important, it didn’t feel like. It was more like…well shit, like everything else that he’d ever done, especially with Treat.

Treat had said, “You want to invest? I’m looking for some new projects, something we can both be into.”

He’d sat there for a minute with his teeth in his mouth, and then he’d said, “Sure. I got two grand I can invest with.”

Treat had nodded. “Well then, we’ll get them, and they can be one of your projects up at the ranch.”

He’d agreed, and that had been that.

So he needed one ride to make some money, and make himself proud. And then he could go home.

Home. Jesus. There was something in that thought that he couldn’t quite put words to explain, even in his own brain. There was this sense of wonder combined with a tingling and a little bit of lightheadedness, but also? It made him feel like his feet were actually on the ground. Like he could feel the earth for the first time in years under his feet, and he knew that when he stepped down, it would be solid.

Treat smiled at him, gave him a thumbs-up, and winked. It made that wonder-tingling thing even worse.

He took a deep breath, looking at the bull they’d loaded in the chute for him, his bull rope ready to go. Get the rope up, slide in, let the bull feel his knees. One, two, three… All the steps. He knew this.

All he had to do was get the eight.

He loaded in, tightening his hand around the rope as Marcello tugged it, slamming the resined fingers shut. He wiggled until he was seated, then smiled to the gate-puller and nodded.

The gate opened, and they were off and running. The black bastard underneath him was a little Mexican fighting bull, and he sure as shit knew how to do his job, back feet snapping up in the air as soon as they cleared the chute. Jake rolled his hips, answering the motion, and keeping his balance, keeping himself upright as the bull started to turn.

He was not losing this ride. He was not going out tonight a fucking loser. He had too much to risk for that.

The bull twisted, and it spun away from his riding hand, which tugged at his shoulder, trying to pull him off the back of the bull and onto the dirt. Nope. No way, he was not going down in the well.

Jake gritted his teeth, counting out the eight under his breath, determined he was gonna ride it out.

The bull changed directions again, and Jake knew if he did this right, he could be in the money. So he kept his free arm up and he started spurring, moving his legs, wanting the judges to see every second of it, get every point he could.

There was a moment in every bull ride where a guy knew he’d either made that eight or he hadn’t.

And Jake had done it.

He was stuck like a burr, and no matter how much kicking or how much spinning that bull did, he was right there.

He heard the buzzer, and then he heard the crowd.

Fucking A!

Jake released his hand so the bull rope could pop off and he could get the hell off this ride. It had been fun and all, but he was ready to hear his score.

Problem was when he opened his hand, nothing fucking happened.

He was still on the bull.

He was still riding.

And he couldn’t get off.

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