Seemed like the only one who didn’t want a piece was Sam.
Beau sighed, sipping his beer and rolling his head on his neck. That wasn’t really fair. Sam had always wanted Beau. Sam just didn’t seem to want the game anymore.
“Hey, Lafitte! When is Sam coming back on tour?” Balta Silva came and sat across from him at the little table he’d staked out at the hotel bar. “I miss his face, huh?”
“Yeah. Me, too.” Beau muttered it, then gave Balta a weak smile. “He’s home, you know? Recovering.”
“Sure, sure. He needs to be here, though. He needs to ride or he’ll never get his confidence back.”
“You think he ever will?” Beau wasn’t so sure, and he wanted to be. He wanted to have faith, because Sam was the most important thing in his life, but Beau was losing the faith these days. It sucked being on the road alone.
And it was his own fucking fault.
Balta smiled at him, reminding him that the man was Sam’s friend, really. “He will. He needs you to have confidence, too.”
“I get it.” He did.
He just wasn’t sure it was possible anymore.
Beau hated that worst of all.
He drank‘til he couldn’t see, then he threw up his toenails and drank a little more.
Sam was so fucking pissed he couldn’t fucking bear it. He’d gone home and started working, calling Beau at night, feeling sorry for himself. The excuses for not coming home hadn’t taken near as long as he’d thought—not even a whole week.
“We’re doing a promo deal at the Boot City.”
“Ace wants me to talk to the reporters.”
“I can’t get flights worth a shit, Poot.”
Right. Right, sure. Then tonight he fucking called and Goddamn motherfucking Adam Taggart had answered the fucking phone, the smug bastard telling him that Beau was in the tub soaking.
‘Call back, Bell. You ever coming back to work, Bell?’
Smug fucker. Smug motherfucker and Beau was nekkid, right there with Adam.
Sam knew that Beau’d loved the man but good. Knew that, if Adam hadn’t been a tomcat, he’d never have had a single chance. The Taggarts had money, and even if he wanted to kill the man, Sam would admit that the roper was fucking pretty enough to make someone’s mouth dry as dust.
Asshole.
Asshole, being right there while he was…
Well, while he was being a broke-dick asshole worthless piece of shit cowboy. He stood up, walked about three steps before he went down, crashing over a coffee table and slamming his head on the floor.
Shit.
He couldn’t even fall off the couch without hitting his fucking head.
He wonthe all-around buckle in Tyler, Greenville, and Canton, and he was looking good to take Magnolia, too. Felt pretty good, really.
Sammy headed to grab him a beer with Landon Gaudet, who’d come out to do the team roping with him, make a couple of bucks. The kid was a decent header, worked the rope good, and they’d taken the team roping.
“Bell? You already off the big show?” That Bywater son of a bitch knocked him in the shoulder and Sam spun around, telling himself to calm the fuck down.
“Nope. Just ropin’.” Fucker.
“Really? Get tired of living off the champ?”
