Fuck.
Right, go right!
He turns sharply, sending me darting over his shoulder. Spittle flies from his muzzle, loaded with dirt and snot, when his head careens upward. The grill of my helmet does nothing to ward it off. Mouth, lips, and tongue coated in dirt and fluids, I blink. The grainy, filthy shit burns my eyes.
Trigger bucks high, his back legs kicking out in a far reach.
I move, but my seat leaves center, popping off the bull’s back as he is airborne.
Hooves hit dirt.
I’m jerked forward. My chest slams into his hump before I roll over the front of him.
A horn catches in my vest, and I release my hand from the rope. Going limp, I’m flung across the arena.
The hard earth bites my hip and shoulder. My helmet bounces a heartbeat later.
Fuck it.
I roll, trying to make my legs move, keeping an eye on Trigger.
He spins with the rodeo clowns, who try their best to distract him.
It doesn’t take.
Barreling toward me, head down, he snorts, kicking up his back legs.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Move, Hadley, you useless motherfucker.
I scramble to my feet, sending dirt flying behind me, heart soaring a song of erratic beats. The railing is mere feet frommy fingertips when a hard head and horn connect with my ribs, tossing me sideways. I crash into the rails before hitting the dirt for the second time in less than ten seconds.
“Hey, hey!” The bullfighters are between me and the bull.
I sag, gripping the rail with one hand, for a moment. When they fail to coax Trigger Warning from my space, I scale the rail and drop down on the audience side. Bent over, hands trembling on my knees, I gasp for a solid, useful breath. I track the bull, willing him back to the holding pens. Where he belongs.
Hell is a ride you can’t get away from.
With a head shake and a snort, he turns back, trotting across the arena for the gate back to the bull pen.
That was way too close.
Anyone would think that bull had it in for me.
“Hadley?” The voice is feminine but all business.
“Yeah?” I turn back to find a lens in my face.
“The bull have a vendetta against you or something?” She huffs a strained laugh, shuffles to my side, and slips a card into my vest before snapping my picture.
I hold a hand up. I don’t want my photo taken. I’m not here to be a celebrity.
“Just one more?” She wiggles the camera.
“No.”
I walk away and she calls out, “Call me.”
