Chapter Twelve
Joaquim slammed out of the truck, heading for the hotel bar where tequila waited for him.
Damn it. Fucking shit. He wascagado. Worthless today. Fell from the fucking bull before he even left the chute. He was better than this. He was.
Joa threw himself into a booth, snarling at the waiter. “Two shots of Cuervo and a Dos Equis.”
“You ordered one for me,namorado! Thank you, huh?” Balta sat down next to him, hand glancing off his shoulder. He bit back his growl, just nodded. He’d order another one when the waiter came back. Grinning, Balta started babbling, just noise, really. About how well Gilberto had done, how good Raul looked. Joa considered just killing him.
It could be quick, really.
Joa took the shot, nodded to the waiter. “I want two more.”
He got a sideways glance, Balta’s dark eyes worried. “What is it,doce? You had an off night. You’ll bounce back.”
He slammed the shot down. “I know.” If he didn’t, he’d be off the tour. Maybe he should do some minor league events.
“Joaquim…” Balta patted his thigh, doing that sports psychologist thing. “It’s fine, huh?”
“It’s not fine. I sucked.” He pulled down his beer, then took one of the new shots. Better.
“It’s not going to help if you get drunk,doce.” Oh, God. Sometimes Balta was so fucking righteous.
“It’s not going to hurt anything.” Sometimes he just needed to be mad.
“Well, it’s not good for you.”
There were a lot of things not good for him. Like falling on his ass in the dirt. Whacking his shoulder on a horn. Knowing that he was on bull number fucking nine of a slump. Goddamnit.
The shot the bartender had set in front of Balta just…sat there. Until he reached for it.
He arched an eyebrow. “You going to drink it?”
“Sim. You leave that alone.” Still, Balta made no move to reach for it. Just…taunting him.
“I’m going to order another one.” He was vibrating, hands opening and closing on the table.
“No, you are not. You’re coming with me.” Tugging, Balta stood, trying to get him to come along.
“God damn it.” He was just fixin’ to…bust. “Don’t, Baltazar. I’m real mad. Just don’t.”
“Don’t what? Don’t worry about you?” That booming voice floated right up over all the bar noise.
“Balta!” He pushed out of the booth, throwing some money down before storming out.
Goddamn it.
He just wanted to.
To.
Shit.
Hit something. Hard.
He headed for the elevators. He’d change and then he’d go find a fight.
When he turned the corner to the elevator hallway, he did hit something, his shoulder smashing right into a solid chest.
