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He also felt a little guilty. Dalton was… well, okay, Dalton wasn’t that young anymore. So why did he feel weird?

“Well, Mr. Martin! Look at you. What are you doing, slumming with us lowlifes?” Dalton’s face was hidden behind the brim of his gimme cap.

Dalton’s younger—at least by a couple three seconds—brother’s wasn’t, though. Dustin’s expression was pure shock.

Denver must not have mentioned he was coming home. He couldn’t blame the man. Tank hadn’t been sure which night he’d make it to the show. He grinned slow.

“I’m back to work. That working two hours a night was getting to me.”

“Well, look at you. Good deal. How’s the leg? You get through rehab all right?” So, Dalton had been paying attention. Nice to know.

Dalton had always paid close attention when Tank was around, and it was a balm for the ego back then. Right now it was inspiring. “Better all the time. I got to wear the tape and all in the arena, but it feels all right.”

“Excellent,” the boys spoke together, then smiled as one, and as weird as it was, it felt right too, that they didn’t wish him hurt.

“Looks like y’all had some excitement.”

“Just some random asshole that hadn’t been raised right. No worries.”

“Late to the party as always.” Tank shook his head. “What can I do?”

“Come have a sit, if you want. Your team is over there in the parking lot with Ben.”

“Tony and Greg?” Good deal. Surely Denver had told them….

“Yep. At least in theory. They may be burying Ben in cement.”

“Did he fall on his head again?”

Dalton grinned. “How did you guess?”

“That boy has a magnet in his skull or something.” That was a running joke, and Tank relaxed some, back on solid ground. Dalton had put him right off-kilter.

“We’ll see you back at the circle,” Dustin said, giving Tank a wink.

“You got it.” They were throwing him to the bullfighter wolves.

It would be sad if he wasn’t so ready to take his place back.

The big bull riding shows were lucrative. Great exposure.

Exhausting.

And shit if them bulls weren’t so genetically modified that they were like machines. Demons. Something.

Down in the trenches, the bulls to cowboys ratio was more even, less likely to get someone killed. Not only that, but he was tired of the glitz, the cameras, the constant bullshit.

He loved the people, but he loved the Jakoby Company too.

He’d started with Denver Jakoby back when he was a junior guy, and he’d worked his way up the ranks quick as he could.

“Tank! Well, hey, man!” One of the stock guys came over, glad-handing him.

“Les! Man! How goes it?”

“Good. Good. You’re visiting?”

“Coming back to work.”