"Trouble, right?" I hear a sweet voice ask. I stop, turn, and there she is—the woman in the yellow dress. “Saw you riding the other night. You were impressive.”
"Caught me," I say, leaning against the gate, a matchstick shifting from one corner of my mouth to the other. "Enjoy the show?"
"Private show would've been better," she flirts, before running a finger over my vest.
"Could be arranged," I reply with a wink. The matchstick in my mouth teases the edge of a smirk.
"Stick around," she whispers, her lips barely grazing my ear as she leans in. "After this wraps up, I'll be waiting." She points to a line of trailers parked right outside the arena. "Trailer number three, just over there."
“Trailer three, huh?” I flash a slow, crooked grin. “Better leave the light on for me, sugar.”
“Go get 'em’, cowboy.” She calls after me. “I’ll be waiting for you.”
Once we’re up, the world shrinks to the dirt in the arena and the steel gates at our backs. Every clang of metal pumps more adrenaline through my veins, every snort from the bullis a warning. We ain’t just riders—we’re a crew, holdin’ the line, watchin’ each other’s backs ’til it’s our turn to face whatever’s waitin’ behind that chute.
As the gates fly open, one by one, unleashing both the beast and rider into the spotlight, a rush barrels through me, raw and electric. It's all about holding on just a second longer than what seems possible. Do everything you can to push the limit.
Then it's Charming’s turn.
“Cole “Charming” Stetson” the announcer booms, and he strides up to the gate, his signature wide grin on full display.
"Watch and learn," he winks at us before swinging onto the bull's back. The buzzer sounds, and they're off. Charming rides through every violent jerk and twist. Granddaddy always said that boy could charm his way out of a thunderhead—hence his nickname.
He holds on for a while, until the bull with a particularly vicious buck sends him flying. Charming hits the dirt with a roll, still grinning even as he dusts himself off. Eight seconds in the spotlight, the crowd roars its approval.
They announce, “Ryder “Rogue” Stetson,” next, our granddaddy nicknamed him well, too. He’s the youngest. He’s Rogue because he doesn't just break the rules, he rewrites them with every unpredictable move he makes. He's got that look tonight, the one that says he'll either make history or become a cautionary tale.
"Time to shake things up," he yells, gripping on tight. The moment the gate swings open, hell unleashes. Rogue's style is fierce, his body twisting and turning in a wild, reckless way that always has the audience holding their breath.
But as quick as it starts, it's over. Three seconds and some change before the bull claims its triumph, hurlingRogue into the unforgiving ground. He rolls to his feet, his pride untouched by the fall. "All part of the show," he drawls, brushing off the dirt.
Next they call, “Dutton ‘Danger’ Stetson,” and the crowd perks up.
Granddaddy gave him that nickname for a reason. Said Danger never needed to raise his voice—just his fist. The kind of kid folks knew better than to mess with. He didn’t give warnings. He gave black eyes. Maybe it’s ‘cause he got the worst of our daddy, or maybe it’s just the weight of being the oldest. Had to protect us all—first one old enough to throw a punch back when Mama couldn’t. Now that he’s got Fisher, he’s lightened up, but he’s a whole new level of protective.
He doesn’t swagger like Rogue or flash a grin like Charming. He just walks to the gate like he’s been walking through fire his whole damn life. He climbs the gate calmly. No grin. No stress. Just a slow roll of his shoulders and that quiet intensity that makes even the bull look uneasy.
And when the gate flies open, Danger doesn’t flinch—he meets the chaos head-on, every move tight, controlled, like he’s got the devil on a leash.
He doesn’t ride the bull. He dares it to outlast him.
He lasts the longest so far outta all of ‘em. But I haven’t gone up yet.
"Your go, Trouble," someone calls out, and time slows. My heartbeat’s a drumroll against the leather of my vest. This is it. My favorite moment. The point where recklessness meets purpose, where I get to feel closer to my granddaddy for a second, where life blurs and I get to fly.
I settle onto the back of the bull they call bone crusher, feeling it trying to thrash inside the gate already. I square myshoulders, tipping my hat ever so slightly then point a finger up to the man watching me from above.
“Let’s ride, boys.”
The gate’s all that stands between me and chaos. One breath. One heartbeat.
The world explodes into motion.
four
Sawyer
It's a standstill. We’re deadlocked in a silent negotiation, neither of us making the decision to make a first move. Finally, the deer prances across the road. I exhale, the tension leaving my body as I press my foot to the accelerator.
