“Don’t act like you’re not keen for a bit of bulldoggin’ like back in the day.” I hook my arm around his neck and tug him into a headlock and scrub my knuckles over his hair. The oaf is bigger than me, his body pure muscle built from hard labour on his cattle station. Mine, on the other hand, is toned and wiry, the perfect body-type for bull-riding.
“Get the fuck off, you dipshit,” Ben says, swatting at me with feigned annoyance and the hint of a wry smile.
I let him go, laughing at his deep furrowed brows. He acts like I’m the bane of his existence, and we fight like cats and dogs, but he’s always there when I need him. We’re opposites in every respect, yet somehow linked for life.
Every year, I drive back out to Bodella to take part in the local rodeo. It’s nothing like the bright lights and booming crowds on the PBR tour, but it’s home. It always will be. There’s nothing better than coming back here and doing what I love in the town that has my heart.
My contract states I can’t ride bulls outside of the circuit but it says nothing about other events. I’ve signed up for the steer wrestling competition. The event needs two mounted cowboys, one to ‘haze’ the steer and keep it running straight, while the ‘wrestler’ leans off their horse, grabs the steer by the horns and wrestles it to the dirt.
When I signed up, I didn’t hesitate to add Ben Cunningham as my partner - much to his annoyance. It’s been a while since we roped steers together, but Ben and I are a well-honed team. Skills gained through a combination of working on his family’s cattle station during school holidays and entering junior events as teenagers. He only protested a little. Okay, a lot. But he’s here.
My horse, Muddy, is a little out of practice ’cause he doesn’t get much action while I’m on tour, but he’s an absolute pro and I’m proud I trained him myself. That’s my dream. Other than winning every PBR event ever. I want to train horses to compete in rodeos. Hell, I’d love to try my hand at organising a whole rodeo event!
It’s a pipedream. With how impulsive my aura is, I’d never sit still long enough to make it a viable business. I’m rash and rarely think through my decisions.
Even before my aura sickness progressed, I was always a loose cannon. Now, I’m considered a liability. Every aspect of my life has been infected by my wild aura.
I’m not even trusted with simple tasks like ordering a round of beer at the pub with my mates. Apparently, using the money to bet on a horse race happening on the other side of the globe is irresponsible – even if the racehorse Mischief Managed won and I shouted the whole pub a round of beer with the winnings.
After a particularly bad spur-of-the-moment spending spree which ended with me owning two inflatable bounce-castles, I enlisted a financial advisor to invest most of my rodeo winnings somewhere I can’t easily access. It’s demeaning to have an allowance at my age, but I’m my own worst enemy.
My dating life is non-existent and I haven’t had anything more than a passing fling with a Beta for years. I can barely keep track of my schedule, let alone remember to make time for another person. And, yet, my heart aches for a missing piece in the shape of pretty little Omega.
The truth is, I’m too much. Too wild, too reckless, too mouthy, too brash, too hardheaded. Bull riding is the only thing left for someone like me.
“Murphy,” a gruff voice comes from behind me. “You shouldn’t be here. You know that.”
I throw my head back and groan dramatically, spinning on the heels of my lucky, worn leather cowboy boots and face Doctor Luke Nichols. Another Bodella Alpha made good. Not as good as me. Okay, sure, he’s a doctor. And, sure, he’s so good looking he makes straight fellas question just how straight their arrow flies, but he’s a stick in the mud andold. No one is chanting his name as he wins a championship.
“What I know is that you’re a pain in my ass,” I say.
Ben snorts and adds, “I’ve tried to tell him, Luke, but he’s got rocks in his head.”
“Oi!” I glare at him. Traitor.
Doc raises a brow, staring me down in that silent, stoic way which always makes me feel like a teenager again. Luke Nichols left for university in the city when Ben and I were still in primary school. When he returned as a fully qualified doctor and set up practice in town, I thought he was a fucking idiot. Who spends all that time and money becoming a respected doctor only to use it working in a place like Bodella? Can’t fault the guy for caring, though. He takes his duty of care seriously.
“You’ve got a broken rib,” Doc says, like it should mean something to me.
“So?”
“And a concussion.”
“And?”
He huffs out an exasperated sigh. “You can’t take another fall, Murphy.”
“Says who?”
“Says me. Your doctor.”
“Mate, I’ll be right. The PBR doc said so.”
Ben chimes in, standing next to Doc with his arms crossed, creating a wall of solid Alpha muscle. “‘Cause they want the money you bring in, you idiot.”
“And what do you want from me, Dr. Nichols?”
“For you not to die on my watch.”
