The chute flings open, and on his arm, held high, is a bright blue cast.
His black hat.
Not his helmet.
I can’t breathe.
My grip is crushing Nia’s, but I can’t pry my fingers away.
Hells Bells spins, bucking high and true. Hadley rides through it, spurring every other rotation.
My gaze alternates between my worn and bloodied heart being flung around on a raging animal and the clock ticking over so slow, as if time must have forgotten its place.
The black and tan bull is quick, rough, and snappy.
The crowd is still... silent. Everyone’s attention set on the man on the bull.
Round. And back.
Round again.
Spur.
Lean.
Jerk.
Hells Bells buries his head and unseats Hadley briefly. He folds forward but never touches the bull. Logan and his crew flank the animal from a distance.
Our cowboy spurs the bull forward, snapping his hand back in the air.
The number six flashes on the screen as if in slow motion.
I stand, dragging Nia up with me.
“Come on, Hads,” I whisper.
I feel Nia’s gaze on me. Every short, burning erratic breath puffing through my lips sends my heart faster.
Seven drags across the clock in red.
“Almost there, brother,” Kales growls.
Her words send my stomach on end. Hadley Jones is infamous for his dismount and escape execution. If there is a most-dangerous moment in this ride for him, it will be that. Not on the back of the animal. That, ironically, is a safer place for this man.
Gemma and Kayley rise to their feet as the clock flings over to eight. A subtle cheer bursts from the crowd but dies out when they realize the cowboy is not dismounting.
Something’s wrong.
Eyes widening, I slap a hand over my mouth as Hadley sways and curls forward like he’s falling asleep on the back of the bull.
Hells Bells keeps raging.
Logan closes in, shouting at Hadley.
Who doesn’t respond.
“No . . .” I whimper.
