He trotted on over toward the chutes, looking to see who might be over there doing cowboy calesthenics.
Sam Bell was there, his very favorite Cajun on earth stretching. It was mostly for Beau’s edification, he knew, but he bounced over, waving.
“Sammy! How goes, man?”
“It does go. Beau’s riding good; I got happy dogs. I cannot complain.”
“Good deal.” He bumped fists with the man when he leaned down from the chutes.
“You having a fit? I saw you storming up the stairs.”
“They were fucking with my new sound guy, Ricky.” He shrugged. “You know I don’t share well.”
“Oh, man. He old enough to shave yet?” Sammy grinned at him, that roper scar splitting the man’s bottom lip in half.
“Nope. And he’s been here like, a day. I swear, I miss Jasper.”
“Jasper’s been gone two years.”
“So?” He winked. “Ace is letting me have the TV spot.”
“Oo-eee! Beau, you hear that? They’re giving the clown TV time!”
Beau leaned over the chutes, stocky little fucker grinning like a monkey. “No shit?”
Sam nodded. “I shit you not.”
“Well, damn. They’ll regret it, I’m thinking.”
“So much for you two being my friends,” Dillon teased, bouncing on his toes to stay limber.
“Anytime. Make sure you say I’m the sexiest.” Sammy winked at him. “Come on, say Sam Bell is the hottest bullrider in history.”
“Oh, yeah. I’m so in.” Dillon snorted and shook his head. “You fucker.”
Sammy blew him a kiss.
He laughed, then checked to make sure no cameras were on before flipping Sam off. “I gotta go do my mic check. You lot begood, eh?”
“If he’s not, he’ll be careful.” Beau waved at him. “Good show, buddy.”
“Good ride, cowboy. Both of you.” Dillon jogged past Coke, wolf whistling just loud enough for Coke to hear. The man was hot as fire, twice as solid, and dependable as the sun.
What was not to whistle at?
Man, he had a TV slot, a fine lover, and a new sound guy that he was going to be able to grump at.
Life was good.
Chapter Fifteen
Coke leaned back and floated, eyes closed, the water holding his sore-as-fuck back up. He’d tied it up with Ringo and ended up on the wrong end of a hoof. That had been on the second ride of the night and he’d muscled through another forty-three.
And four re-rides.
Afterletting Nate take the stitches out of his goddamn face then getting shit from Doc, Shaun, and Jonesy about it.
Lord, you’d think he was a friggin’ underpants model or something, the way they carried on. Squawking cusses.
