Chapter Two
Balta flexed his arm and bent at the hips before bouncing back and forth, doing what Beau Lafitte would call his twist dance. The rest they all made fun of him, from Dillon to the bullfighters to the other riders, but he had a warm-up routine that he liked. It was also one that Joa liked to watch.
Those dark eyes were on him now like a touch, watching every movement he made. It was heady, fine.
Balta wanted Joa. Desperately, in fact. He wanted the mouth and the sweet ass and those long legs wrapping around him.
Of course, Joa was…shy. It made it all the finer.
Poor Joa. He was so American in some ways. How did they say? Puritan. He believed in women and men and their roles. So, since Balta had an ex-wife and two children back in Brazil, well… That meant Balta liked women,sim?
He twisted again, showing Joa his ass, and he imagined he heard a moan. Imagined because, even if Joa had moaned, Balta couldn’t have heard it in this crowd.
The crowd was pumped, screaming and bouncing. The fan club seats were packed, and Balta posed for a few pictures, giving the fans a good show.
“Você é seguinte, Balta.” Joa’s accent was just a touch odd, lilting.
“Sim,” Balta replied. He loved that touch of Texas in Joa’s voice, which came out far more strongly when he spoke English. It made him smile. He was up next, though, so he needed to concentrate on his ride, not Joa.
“I’ll pull your rope? I have time before my ride.”
“Obrigado.” He clapped Joa on the back to emphasize the thanks before checking his glove and chaps. Then he climbed into the chute. The bull was small, black, and crouching. Eduardo had the four-by-four on him and Joa was bending over the chute, tugging his horns. Balta laughed out loud, putting in his mouthpiece and flapping a hand at the bull’s ear. Come on, you big bastard.
He surged up, Joa’s arm slamming across his vest to catch him before his face smacked against the bars. “Cuidadoso.”
Yeah. Careful.
He’d broken a few teeth that way over the years, the hard metal gates surrounding him the most dangerous part of bull-riding as far as he was concerned. He flexed his hand, pulling the rope tight across it and closing his fingers over the heavy ridge.
Joa crawled over him, already chattering at him in a mix of Portuguese and English. “Ride, Balta. Mind in the middle. Come on.Estada sobre. Passeio. Pressa. Get out of the chute.”
He blocked out Joa, Eduardo, and Leonid, knowing he had to get right in his own mind. The only thing he had to worry about, besides the bull, was the chute judge. He didn’t need a penalty. Balta gritted his teeth and let out a primal shout behind the mouth guard. Then he nodded.
The little bull turned right into his hand, back end rolling hard, head down. The rhythm was odd, unbalanced, and it took forever for him to get his seat.
He kicked out, and he hoped he looked like he was spurring, but he didn’t count on it. Tucking his chin, Balta groaned, his arm screaming as the G-forces pulled.
Cinco. Seis. Sete. Oito. Deus. Sim.
He heard Coke and Nate talking to him. “Come on, Balta. Off.”
Off. Off. The world spun, and he waited until the bull turned back the other way once more, before kicking loose and leaping off.
Strong hands grabbed his shoulders, whirled him around, and shoved him toward the rail. “Go, man.”
Staggering, he headed for the fence, waiting for Nate’s voice to scream out, “Safe!” like a demented baseball umpire.
The crowd went wild and he climbed the fence, knowing that little bull was on his ass, somehow. A pair of strong, brown hands yanked him up and over, the bull almost taking his boot off on the way by. The blow to his ankle stunned him a moment.
“You’re all right. I got you.”
“Let me down easy, huh?” He wasn’t sure who to thank. His eyes were still watering.
“You need Doc?” Those hands set him down, light as a feather.
Nate.
Coke would call him ‘son.’
