I smile to myself. ‘You seemed pretty out of it to me.’
‘Fine, I was passed out.’ She laughs. ‘But what can I say? The sound of a coffee machine will always, and I meanalways,have power over me.’
I move back to the machine but think better of it. For Bailey, only the best will do, and that’s not hotel room coffee. ‘I’ll go get you a latte,’ I say, changing course and unhooking my jeans from the back of the door.
‘You don’t have to do that.’
‘It’s fine,’ I demur. ‘This is, what? Our second last morning together? Can’t have you going back to Houston thinking I didn’t treat you right. Not when you’re writing an article about me anyway.’
Her smile slips for a moment and her eyes zip to the door. I feel like my gut’s been squeezed by two giant hands, because I’m pretty sure she’s feeling just as conflicted about this as I am, but we’re both pretending. Pretending nothing’s changed between us, that our original deal still stands.
‘So this coffee would be in the name of bribery?’
‘Just don’t tell your editor,’ I say with a wink, scooping up my phone, shoving it in my back pocket before leaning down and kissing her. Kissing her in a way that makes a mockery of the joking conversation we’re having, because this kiss has the power to break me into pieces if I let it.
‘I’ll be right back, Bay Jay.’ And I walk away, spine ramrod straight, knowing that this is the right call. Walking away, getting over her, moving on with my life. Bailey scares the shit out of me—what she makes me feel is everything I’ve run from my whole life—and I’m sure of one thing only: I’m gonna keep running, even when that feels a thousand kinds of wrong.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Bailey
Itell myself that, if nothing else, this is the second last time I have to watch him ride. It’s the silver lining I cling to when I feel as though my body is barely being held together by my skin anymore. When I feel like every single atom that makes up my person is vibrating at a frequency unfamiliar to me.
Beau’s drawn a famously mean bull. Great for his score, potentially, but I don’t really care about his score right now. I watch the first half of the event, expression relaxed, but with tension mounting inside of me the closer and closer we build to his turn. Two riders are thrown, badly. One of the journalists covering tonight calls it a ‘blood bath’ and I don’t disagree. I can’t wait for it to be over. Beau’s suggested we go straight back to the hotel, says he’ll give his family the slip as soon as he can and meet me in my room. Time is not our friend, so the chance of getting back to our little world as soon as possible is a mirage I am racing toward.
In the break, I slip out to get a soda, taking it back to my seat and clutching it like a lifeline as the lights dim and the announcer’s deep voice booms around the arena. There are four riders ahead of Beau. I watch without seeing. My focus is split. The second he climbs up on the chute rail, my heart slams against my ribs. I stare at him, my blood pounding at the familiar sight, the way his face is held in a line of focus and concentration.
I close my eyes and mutter a prayer.Please, let him be okay. Please, let him be okay.
I hate that I care so much, but how can I not? How can I watch him get onto a bull’s back and not feel as though my whole world is being held in a tenuous grip?
I have seen him do this a number of times, but even if it was only once or twice, the visual would be imprinted in my brain. One leg first, then the other, so he’s on the bull’s back, stretching the rope back and forth, in a silent communication with the animal.
Time stretches. The crowd goes silent—or as silent as a stadium filled with thousands of people can go. He shifts his head in an understated nod; the chute opens, and the bull bucks the second he’s out, twisting in the air, left then right, throwing his head down before launching up, every movement a stab of panic, an act of malice. The bull turns and seems to be looking right at me.One second.I dig my fingernails into my palm as the bull bucks forward and Beau seems to roll toward the thing’s head, almost like he’s going to come off over the top. I make a sound of panic, but otherwise don’t move. I can’t. It’s as though by sitting as still as stone, I can somehow save him. Help him. Dosomethingfor him.
Two seconds.The bull twists in the air again, landing with so much heft I practically feel the vibrations. Another twist, a dive.Three seconds. Four.My pulse is hectic, my hands trembling. I stare at Beau, silently muttering a plea in my mind, over and over.Five seconds.
There’s a sound, loud and high pitched. A horn. It’s instantly audible above the din of the stadium. I’m briefly aware of a commotion in the stands, but I can’t look away. The sound is like a red rag to this bull; it infuriates him. He runs hard across the arena, then jumps up, bucking before twisting. The bullfighters are moving in, even though there’s only seven secondsgone. Everyone’s holding their breath, I swear. I’ve never seen a bull quite this big and quite this bad.
‘Come on, baby,’ I whisper, not caring who hears, not caring about the tears that spring to my eyes. Not caring about anything except the next second, and the moment he jumps off.
Eight seconds.
The buzzer sounds. The bull bucks. The bullfighters run in, but right as Beau goes to jump off, the bull bucks again and he loses his balance, falling to the side, hard. I lift my hand to my mouth, catching the strangled cry as it forms, staring at his body in the dust.
Get up. Oh, god, please, get up.All I can see is the footage I’ve watched on the internet, of him after that first godawful accident.
The bullfighters get between Beau and the bull, drawing him away to the exit pens—but not easily. The bull fights it to the very end, stomping and dragging his feet on the ground. Medics run toward Beau and another cry forms in my mouth; this time I can’t hold it back.
Only now do my eyes flit to the stands. I’m already moving to the edge of the rails, right on the floor of the arena, but Beau’s family has beaten me to it. They’re a few rows of seats over, but I can clearly make them out. Austin, Mackenzie, Nash, Caleb, Cole, Beth, Cassidy and someone else. A striking woman with flawless skin and cherry red hair. She’s poured her stunning curves into a pair of jeans and a halter-neck top, but I barely notice any of those details. All I can see is the angst on her face. The pain. Thelove.
I know it’s Ash straight away, even before Cassidy puts an arm around the redhead’s shoulders and draws her close. Ash is moving though, jumping the barrier and running over the dusty arena floor toward Beau. My Beau. Her Beau.
Tears stream down my cheeks but I’m panicking now, history repeating itself, reminding me of Kirk and that damned party, of how mortifying it was to realise I’d fallen in love with someone else’s husband.
Realising I’ve done exactly the same thing now.
They’re not married, and I know Beau was telling me the truth about their relationship. At least, about whether or not they’re still together. But he clearly left out one very important detail: Ash Callahan is obviously and completely in love with Beau, and yet again I’m the other woman.
