Chrissy frowned at him. “Don’t be dumber than you have to be, asshole.”
Adam grunted. “Does that mean I don’t need someone else, or that you’ll do it?”
“I ever left you in the lurch? Once?”
“Nope.” He patted Chrissy’s shoulder. “You’re the baby, though, and I worry.”
“I got your back. So…a bull-rider rode Sugarland?”
“Yep. Little Cajun feller.” He grinned, trying to hide it a little. Chrissy had this thing about his horse.
“Huh. And she didn’t throw him?”
“Nope.” He definitely grinned now. “Jealous?”
“You know it.” Chrissy grinned right back, and it was like staring in a mirror. Shit, Adam’s ear even hurt some in sympathy. “Traitorous bitch.”
“This is why women are a bad idea.” Adam wasn’t a misogynist, really—he just loved men. As many as he could.
“Yeah, there’s all sorts of things I love that are bad ideas, Old Man. Women are just one of ’em.”
They shared a grin before Adam went back to work and Chrissy got Sugarland checked over.
Damn kid.
He shook his head at himself, at how riled up he was. This was asinine. The damned kid hadn’t done a thing to him. He just needed to let it go. He’d have a drink with the fool boy after the show, and that would be that.
He headed to the arena floor as soon as the barrel racing was done, the bullfighters setting themselves up. Pharris was on the dirt, too, in jeans and boots, and Beau was behind the chutes with Andy Baxter and Jason, jabbering like the hot little Cajun he was. Adam shook his head. Maybe that was why the new kid got under his skin. He had a fondness for Cajuns. Beau was the one who got away.
It was his own fucking fault, and Beau didn’t seem to be any worse for it. Hell, the son of a bitch loved Sam Bell with a fiery, burning passion.
Adam settled on Shylock, his heels down, hands up. Ready for anything.
The first six bulls went easy as pie, none of the riders making three seconds or looking like they were even trying. The bulls were lazy, spinning slow, if at all. Then Landon came on.
The wee bitty Cajun was… Well, Adam could see why the kid wasn’t riding worth a shit in the big leagues. Those stubby legs spurred, the man’s free arm waved madly, and the kid hooted and called out for the whole eight seconds.
The entire show made Adam grin, though, and God knew the kid could ride.
Landon hit the ground running, throwing his hat as the crowd cheered.
What the kid lacked in technical skill he made up in pure enthusiasm. Adam’s body surprised him by tightening up some, sexual tension riding him.
There was something delicious about that tight ass, the promise of that flat belly. He could tear himself up some bayou boy, yessir. Maybe that was what he ought to do. Just tear the kid up, give them both what they obviously wanted. Then maybe he could get the little fuck out of his mind.
First, he needed to make sure Jason managed this ride without killing himself or anyone else.
He leaned forward, elbow on the saddle horn, watching. Jason was in the chute, set to ride after David Dugan. Dugan did okay, he guessed. Kid was slumping hard, to be riding down here in the mud. Then Jase was up, and Adam held his breath. Please God, let him be all right.
Pharris was watching—Adam could read the tension in the man’s shoulders, in the clench of those fists. Dillon was going to kill something if he got hurt, so Adam had to watch Coke, too.
Damn fool ought to have his vest on, if the man was fixin’ to work the dirt.
Andy Baxter was there, pulling Jason’s rope instead of Coke doing it, talking away. That man had it bad for Jason, which had surprised Adam some. Andy had always danced hard with the ladies.
It sorta pissed him off, because, damn, all these folks were finding their own, and that was thinning out the fucking pool for him. No one his damned age even wanted to play anymore. Shylock danced underneath him, little fuck. The smart bastard knew the second Adam wasn’t paying attention.
He nudged Shylock in a circle, giving the gelding the illusion of something to do. God, he needed a beer.
