I grab my rope bag and move to the next chute over, putting space between us. She follows.
"I can have you removed," I tell her.
"You could." She keeps shooting. "But then you'd miss the chance to tell me why you're riding Satan's Gambit when everyone knows he's unrideable."
"Because he isn't."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you're getting." I turn to face her full-on, using my height to intimidate. Most people step back when I do this. She doesn't. "Who are you?"
"Rainey Weathers. Freelance photographer. I've been covering the Southwest Circuit for three years."
"Rainey Weathers." I almost smile. "Your parents do that on purpose?"
"My dad was a little tipsy when he filled out the birth certificate. By the time my mom noticed, it was already filed." She shrugs like she's told the story a hundred times. "Could've been worse. He wanted to name me Stormy."
Three years. I've seen her at events, always behind her camera, always shooting from angles nobody else considers. Never paid her much attention until right now, when she's standing in my workspace with a lens aimed at my face like she's building a case file. Three years is long enough to have been here when Tyler died. Long enough to have photographed things she might not realize were important.
"What do you want?" I ask.
"An interview. About Tyler Brennan's death."
My hands stop moving on the rope bag. "Tyler's death was ruled an accident."
"I know what it was ruled." She lowers the camera, and for the first time I see something other than professional detachment in her expression. Something sharp. "I also know you don't believe that."
"You don't know a damn thing about what I believe."
"I know you've been asking questions. Talking to stock contractors. Spending time around the bulls after events when most riders are at the bar or the motel." She tilts her head, studying me. "I know you ride like you've got a death wish, and I know Tyler Brennan was your friend. So, either you're self-destructing out of guilt, or you're looking for something."
Smart. Too smart. And paying too much attention.
"Background for your article?"
"Something like that."
"Here's your quote: Tyler Brennan was one of the best riders on this circuit. His death was a tragedy. We all miss him." I pick up my rope bag. "That cover it?"
"Not even close."
The announcer's voice booms over the speakers, calling my name for the ride. I've got maybe two minutes before I need to be settled on Satan's Gambit.
Rainey Weathers doesn't move out of my way. She stands there looking at me like she's waiting for something, and the irritating thing is I can't tell what game she's playing. Journalist looking for a sensational story? Someone who actually gives a damn about Tyler? Or something else entirely?
"I don't have time for this," I say.
"Make time. After your ride."
"I might be dead after my ride."
"Then I'll photograph your funeral." She steps aside, finally giving me space to get to the chute. "But if you survive, we talk."
I don't answer. Just move past her toward Satan's Gambit, who's already in the chute and looking for something to destroy. The bull's black as midnight, close to two thousand pounds, and meaner than anything else running the circuit this season. Three months, ten attempts, zero successful rides.
I settle onto his back, work my gloved hand into the rope, and feel the familiar rush that comes right before the chute opens. This is the only time I feel clear anymore. The only time the anger and guilt and questions shut up long enough for me to just exist in the moment.
Eight seconds. That's all I need. Eight seconds where nothing matters except staying on and not dying.
