The air was thick as a promise you didn't want kept — dust and manure curling in the lungs, sticking to the back of the throat. It was the smell of risk, sweat, and something you couldn't buy your way out of, no matter how fat your bank account. The arena thrummed like a living thing, metal beams rattling with the crowd's hollers, the noise folding over itself until it felt like the whole place might shake apart. Overhead, the lights blazed down, mean as July sun on blacktop, painting the churned-up dirt in gold and fire.
The cowboys at the chutes stood tense as bowstrings, hands wrapped around bull ropes, boots set for the dance that could send them home rich or broken — or not home at all. Some scanned the stands for their people, for the girl they hoped would be there if they made eight seconds. Others hunted for a new face, the kind of trouble you could drink with later.
But Ryder wasn't looking for any of that. He stood apart, still as coiled wire, eyes locked on the pen. That hazel stare of his could cut clean through noise and chaos, straight to the thing that mattered — the gate swinging open, the bull exploding out. It wasn't just adrenaline that hummed through him; it was something older, harder. The same heat that had chased him from this dirt all the way to New York skyscrapers, and then dragged him back again. The Rolex tucked under his shirtsleeve caught the light when he adjusted his grip, but out here it was just another piece of grit in the dust.
The rodeo clown in a rainbow tutu pranced along the fence line, firing t-shirts into the stands like a carnival gone sideways. Folks laughed, tension loosening for a heartbeat, but the bulls didn't care. Behind the chutes, they shifted, snorted, their eyes lit with a wild knowing. One wrong move and they'd remind you exactly what you were to them — a brief inconvenience before the dirt hit your teeth.
Men leaned on the rails, offering a low word here, a nod there. They knew. Every ride could be your last, and when the gate slammed open, it was all blood, muscle, and seconds. Cowboy after cowboy hit the ground, dust pluming up around them, the crowd gasping, roaring, hungry for the next one to try.
And Ryder? He was ready to oblige.
Jimmy, the chute boss, had a voice that could split through a stampede — low, raw, carrying years of arena dust in its grain. "You're up!" he barked, the words ricocheting off the steel rails like the crack of a whip.
The next four riders moved with the quiet gravity of men who knew exactly what they were walking toward. They pulled on their gloves — leather soft from years of sweat and dirt — brushing off the arena grit as if it might change their fate. Each stepped toward his assigned chute, the metal clanging under their boots.
One unlucky son of a gun had drawn Tornado. Even in the world of rank bulls, Tornado was the kind folks spoke of in a lower register — a mean, unpredictable bastard with more notches on his horns than any man cared to count.
From the platform, Ryder watched the beast coil like a spring wound too tight. Tornado's eyes found him — not just looking, but locking — a hot, feral glare that felt personal. The bull lunged, horns cutting the air so close Ryder felt the ghost of their passing against his thigh.
The chute crew didn't flinch. Faces carved from concentration, they worked in practiced unison, leaning into the steel to hold the bull steady. Long-handled hooks slid the rope under Tornado's belly, the hemp rasping over hide and muscle. The loop was eased off the hook and passed down to the waiting rider — a quiet, solemn handoff, like passing a loaded gun.
No one said it out loud, but they all knew: this wasn't a ride. It was a reckoning.
Ryder zipped his protective vest like a man sealing himself into fate, the Velcro biting shut with finality. The mouthguard slid between his teeth; he ground it into place, tasting rubber and the faint tang of rosin dust. His stride toward the gate was slow, deliberate — the gait of someone who'd faced down bulls and boardrooms alike, knowing each could gut you if you got careless.
He wrapped his fingers around the cold steel bars, the scent of manure, dirt, and raw hide settling into his lungs. Sliding down onto Tornado's broad back, he felt the bull's power vibrating up through his thighs — a living engine built for rage. The beast shifted under him, hide hot and slick with sweat, muscle bunching like a coiled spring about to snap.
Tornado jerked his head, snorting hard enough to spray dust and spit into Ryder's face. Ryder didn't flinch. Years in Manhattan had taught him how to keep still when the world was trying to shake you loose; years in Tennessee taught him how to dig in when it did. He glanced over his gear — the braided bull rope, the rigging snug against the beast's midsection, the rosin grit clinging to the fibers. Out here, billions didn't buy you a damn second more than the clock gave.
He took a long breath, centering himself, and handed the tail end of the rope to Wren.
Wren braced it, glove squealing faintly as he burned the rosin in with fierce, practiced strokes. Ryder dipped his chin — a silent go. The rope came free from Wren's grip, the signal that the ride had begun before the gate even cracked.
Every muscle in Ryder's body locked and flowed at once, adrenaline flooding his bloodstream like jet fuel. The first violent surge from Tornado jolted him forward, but he snapped back, heels down, free hand cutting air like a blade.
At the rails, Wren was a coil of readiness — rosin block warming on his knee, the faint jangle of bull bells clutched in his grip. He'd be there when the whistle blew, ready to yank Ryder clear if Tornado decided eight seconds wasn't enough to finish the job.