“How’re you, old man? I hear you took a Hell of a shot in Orlando.” Coke was the oldest bullfighter on tour. And the best. Like Old Faithful.
“Shee-it. I look like I went forty-two rounds with Mike Tyson. Good thing I got high-necked shirts.” Gramps couldn’t turn his head, his neck’d been broken so many times.
“Yeah. I hear you. My shoulder felt like it was gonna pop right out when I got on a couple practice bulls Tuesday.” ‘Course, he’d slid right past his own appointment with Doc.
“Hell gettin’ old, Andy.” Coke settled down, motioned to the bartender. “Still, it’s better than the alternative. You hear that Houston Rogers is out for the season? He popped his hip.”
“No shit?” Man, the bulls were getting stronger every damned year. And they were getting hammered by the big monsters. “Man, he wasn’t in the money, but he wasn’t fixin’ to get sent down or nothin’.”
Coke nodded, his whole upper body moving as he did. “And his woman’s expecting.”
“Lord.” Well, they’d do some sort of relief auction for him. Hell, he’d bet Beau Lafitte, the current world champ, would donate a vest or something, make Houston a chunk of change.
“Yeah. He’ll be back next year, right as rain. Rookie’s got Bell’s luck, you know?” No shit—Sam Bell couldn’t get a good run for love or money.
“How’d they do last week? Sam and Beau?” Jason and Beau had been tight for a long while but had gone their separate ways for whatever reason. Bax never asked.
“Beau rode for a ninety-three pointer on Greenhorn in the short go. Sam won a little money in round two, so it wasn’t all bad for him.”
They got their beers, both drinking deep.
“Oh, that’s hitting the spot,” Bax said, smiling over. Coke was quiet, easy. Not so chatty that Bax wanted to take his teeth out.
“Yep. You wantin’ food, man? They got bar stuff. I’m wantin’ a burger.”
“I’d kill for a steak. I’ve had beans and cornbread ‘til I cain’t.” Bless Momma’s heart. She must have stock in pork products.
“Missus Scott is known for that, man.” Coke raised a hand. “Honey, I need a menu and another round.”
Bax almost turned down the beer, but he didn’t have to ride until tomorrow at eight, and God knew he could get over anything by then.
They set to talking shop—bullshitting about bulls and riders, about the contractors and the new bonus money coming down the pike. Normal shit. Shit that made it normal and easy. They ordered steaks and salads and potatoes.
Bax sucked down his third beer, leaning his elbows on the table after the little gal took the salad plate away. “You know, this is the best I’ve felt in a couple weeks.”
“I bet. It’s weird, being off the circuit like that.”
“Oh, I’m okay. I mean, for me. It’s Jase I’m missing. He’s got me worried.” Somewhere in the back of his head he knew he wasn’t supposed to talk on this shit, but Coke would find out. He always did.
“What can I do, Andy? You know y’all are dear to me.”
“I don’t know. We’ll just have to see how he heals up.” IfJason healed up. Bax didn’t even want to think what would happen if the man never could see again.
“You just let me know. He’s… His head’s okay, ain’t it? He ain’t…broke-broke.”
“He cain’t see, Coke.” Half whispering, Bax rested his cheek on his palm, shuddering just to think of it. “He’s got some kind of pressure.”
“Oh, shit.” Coke closed his eyes a second, the look pure hurt. “Oh, Jesus, Andy. Is it… I mean, is it all gone?”
“They say his eyes are fine. Like workable.” Sipping his beer, Bax stared at the table. “But he’s got this thing. It could come back tomorrow. It might never.”
“Don’t you tell anybody, Andy. Not a soul until after the season’s over.” Coke’s hand landed on his wrist, gnarled fingers hard as hell. “Those sponsors’ll leave him like rats off a sinking ship, and he just signed that soda pop one.”
“I know that. Hell, I wasn’t even supposed to tell you, and you like him. But you always know.” Bax blinked, looking at his fourth empty. “You’d best walk me to my room.”
“Yeah, okay. You don’t worry ‘bout telling me, Andy. Shit, you can’t shoulder your shit and Jason’s all alone. Man needs friends.”
“I’m glad he’s got you.” He stood, swaying, remembering all the damned Dramamine he’d taken. “Think I might be sick, Coke. Watch your boots.”
