Page 3

T he first time I hit the dirt, I tasted blood and freedom. My old man had thrown me out of the house the night before, his words as sharp as the bottle he smashed against the wall. I’d crawled into the rodeo grounds, a scrawny fifteen-year-old with a split lip and enough rage to burn the whole goddamn world down.

That bull bucked me off in two seconds flat. But when I stood up, spitting dust and blood, I saw something in those leather-faced cowboys looking at me. Respect. A chance. And I grabbed it with both hands.

I’ve been grabbing it ever since.

The rodeo saved my life, pulled me out of the gutter and gave me a name.

Rhett Calloway.

Razor, they call me now, but back then, I was just another angry kid with nothing to lose. Ethan Moore changed that. He was already on his way to becoming a legend—fearless, wild, everything I wanted to be. He didn’t just teach me how to ride; he taught me how to survive.

When Ethan died, the world turned gray. The Savage Eight fell apart, and I lost the only family I’d ever had. I fucked up. Got into fights. Drank too much. Broke every rule until the circuit spit me out, bruised and bloodied.

They told me to take two years, to get my shit together.

So I did. And now I’m back, sharper than ever.

But nothing’s the same. The boys are different—hardened, cautious, and it’s my fault. I know that. I know what I cost them. And then there’s Willow Hayes.

Willow fuckin’ Hayes.

The girl who ruined everything.

She is the reason I was forced to walk away for two years. She is the reason no other woman can get me going.

Willow is the fucking reason why I’m back with the Outlaw Bull Riders Association doing the Iron Horn Tour.

She is… everything to me. And I fucked that up.

Sighing, I bring the beer bottle to my lips. I can still feel her hands on me from earlier, those big doe eyes as she jumped the fence to get to me when I fell…

Jace taps me on the shoulder as he takes a seat next to me. “So. Are we gonna talk about it?”

“Talk about what?”

He chuckles. “You and Hayes.”

I shrug. “It’s nothing. She hates me, I love getting under her skin. Simple as that.”

"Bullshit." Jace leans forward, elbows on the sticky bar top. "I saw your face when she jumped that fence. You looked like someone just handed you back something you lost."

I take another long pull from my beer, letting the bitter taste wash down my throat. The bar around us pulses with the usual post-ride energy—cowboys bragging, buckle bunnies circling, music thumping loud enough to rattle my bones. But all I can think about is the way Willow's hands felt, checking me for injuries with that professional distance she's perfected. Clinical. Cold. Like I was just another rider.

"She was doing her job," I mutter.

"Was she?" Jace raises an eyebrow. "Because I've taken plenty of spills, and the EMT never looks at me like she wants to both save my life and end it."

"Fuck off," I growl, but there's no heat behind it. Jace knows me too well.

"Look, man," he sighs, signaling the bartender for another round. "You've been back one day and you're already fixated on her. Two years away didn't fix shit."

I roll the empty bottle between my palms, feeling the cool glass against my callused skin. "I wasn't trying to fix anything with her."

"Could've fooled me."

The truth sits heavy in my chest, a weight I've carried across state lines and through countless arenas. I didn't just come back for the bulls. I came back for her.

"She won't even look at me," I say, the words tasting like defeat. "Not really."

"Can you blame her? After what happened with—"

"Don't." My voice cuts like a knife. "Don't say his name."

Jace holds up his hands in surrender, but his eyes hold no apology. "You're gonna have to face it sometime, Rhett. You can't keep running."

"I'm not running. I'm here, aren't I?" I slam the empty bottle down harder than I mean to. A few heads turn our way, but I don't give a shit.

"Being physically present isn't the same as facing your demons."

I'm about to tell Jace exactly where he can shove his wisdom when the bar door swings open, and everything inside me goes still. Willow walks in, flanked by two other women from the medical team. Her hair is down now, falling in waves past her shoulders, and she's traded her uniform for jeans that hug her curves and a simple black tank top.

She looks like a fucking dream. Not the sweet kind that lulls you to sleep, but the kind that jolts you awake at three in the morning, heart pounding, sheets damp with sweat.

"Well shit," Jace mutters. "This should be interesting."

I don't respond. Can't. My throat's gone dry as the arena dirt.

Willow hasn't seen me yet. She laughs at something one of her friends says, and the sound hits me like a sucker punch to the gut. When was the last time I heard her laugh? Before everything went to hell, before Ethan, before I—

"You gonna sit there staring or you gonna do something?" Jace interrupts my thoughts.

"What exactly am I supposed to do?" I growl.

"I don't know. Talk to her? Apologize? Buy her a drink?"

"She'd probably throw in my face.”

"Probably," Jace agrees with a smirk. "But at least you'd get her attention."

I consider it for half a second before shaking my head. "Not like this. Not here."

Truth is, I don't know how to approach her anymore. Two years ago, I knew every curve of her body, every expression that crossed her face. I knew how to make her laugh, make her moan, make her whisper my name like a prayer. Now she looks at me like I'm a stranger she'd rather forget.

"Suit yourself," Jace says, standing. "But while you're sitting here overthinking, someone else might not be."

He nods toward the bar where some clean-cut jackass in a pressed shirt is already making his move. I watch the guy lean in close to Willow, watch her smile politely but shift her weight away. She's not interested…

I watch as the clean-cut asshole leans in even closer to Willow, his hand coming to rest on the small of her back. Something inside me snaps. Before I know it, I'm on my feet, shoving my way through the crowd.

I feel my jaw clench as I watch the guy lean in closer to Willow, invading her space. She takes a subtle step back, but he doesn't seem to get the hint. Or maybe he just doesn't care.

"Fuck this," I mutter, pushing away from the bar.

Jace grabs my arm. "Easy, cowboy. You sure that's a good idea?"

I shrug him off. "Nope."

My boots scuff against the worn wooden floor as I make my way over. The guy's got his hand on Willow's arm now, and I can see the tension in her shoulders even from here. She could handle this asshole herself, no question. But right now, I need her to look at me. To see me.

"Hey darlin'," I drawl as I slide up, throwing an arm around Willow's shoulders.

Willow stiffens under my touch, and for a split second, I feel her heat against me before she pulls away. Her eyes find mine, flashing with something dangerous.

"I'm not your darling," she says, voice sharp enough to draw blood.

The clean-cut guy looks between us, confusion written across his perfectly symmetrical face. "You know this guy?" he asks Willow.

"Unfortunately," she mutters.

I give him my best shit-eating grin, the one that's gotten me into more fights than I can count. "Rhett Calloway. And you are?"

"Dr. Marcus Reid," he says, extending a hand that I deliberately ignore. "I'm the new orthopedic specialist on the circuit."

Of fucking course he is. Not just some random bar guy, but a goddamn doctor. The universe really loves to kick me when I'm down.

"Well, Doc," I say, letting my eyes flick over him with barely disguised contempt, "appreciate you keeping an eye on our medical staff, but I need to borrow Willow for a minute."

Before either of them can respond, I slide my hand down to Willow's elbow—not gripping, just touching. Enough to make my intention clear.

"I don't remember agreeing to go anywhere with you," Willow says, but she doesn't pull away. There's a challenge in her eyes that makes my blood heat.

Dr. Perfect clears his throat. "Willow, is everything okay?"

She glances between us, and I see something flicker across her face—annoyance, maybe, or resignation. "It's fine, Marcus. I'll be right back."

I guide her through the crowd before she can change her mind, feeling her reluctance in every step. We end up in a dimly lit corner near the back exit, away from prying eyes. I drop my hand from her arm, suddenly unsure what to do with it.

Willow crosses her arms, her jaw set in a hard line. "What do you want, Rhett?"

The way she says my name—like it's something bitter on her tongue—makes me want to flinch. Instead, I lean against the wall, aiming for casual. "Just thought I'd save you from Dr. McDreamy over there."

"I didn't need saving," she snaps. "I was handling it."

"Yeah, I could see that," I drawl, unable to keep the sarcasm from my voice. "You looked real comfortable with his hands all over you."

Her eyes narrow dangerously. "What I do and who I talk to is none of your damn business anymore.”

"Maybe not," I say, leaning in closer. "But I don't like seeing other men touch what's mine."

The words slip out before I can stop them, and I see Willow's eyes flash with anger.

"I am not yours," she hisses, jabbing a finger into my chest. "You lost any right to claim me when you walked away two years ago."

Her words hit me like a punch to the gut, but I don't back down. Instead, I grab her wrist, gently but firmly, pulling her hand away from my chest but not letting go.

"I didn't walk away," I growl. "I was suspended. And you know why."

Willow tries to yank her arm free, but I hold on. "Let go of me, Rhett."

"Not until you hear me out."

"I don't want to hear anything you have to say," she cuts me off, voice low but sharp enough to slice through steel. "You had two years to call. To write. To do anything besides disappear."

Her pulse hammers against my fingers, and I loosen my grip but don't let go completely. I can't. Not when she's this close.

"You think I didn't try?" I ask, my voice dropping to match hers. "You changed your number, Willow. Blocked me everywhere. What was I supposed to do?"

"Accept that it was over," she says, finally pulling her wrist free. "Like I had to."

The hurt in her eyes cuts deeper than any bull's horn ever could. I want to tell her everything—how I spent those two years rebuilding myself from the ground up, how every night I dreamed of her face, how I wanted to come back to this circuit.

Willow shakes her head. “I waited. I waited for you to call, text, write, fucking anything. And I got nothing. I accepted that whatever we had was clearly over. Grow the fuck up, Rhett and move on.”

I watch her walk away, those hips swaying like they're keeping time with my heartbeat. Every step she takes feels like she's digging her boot heel deeper into my chest. This isn't how I planned our first real conversation to go. But then again, nothing with Willow ever goes according to plan.

"Fuck," I mutter, running a hand through my hair.

Jace appears next to me, a sad smile on his face. “Let’s get you outta here, bud.”

I nod and follow him out, heading back to our hotel for the night. Girls giggle to each other as we pass, others are more bold and try to talk to us.

But Jace keeps them at bay as we make our way up to our rooms. He nods as we both head into our separate rooms.

I close the door behind me, leaning against it as I exhale long and hard. The room spins a little—too many beers, too much Willow. I kick off my boots and collapse onto the bed, staring at the water-stained ceiling of the cheap hotel room.

The memory of her pulse against my fingers lingers like a ghost. Every heartbeat is a reminder of what I lost.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. Probably Jace checking to make sure I'm not trashing the place or hunting down more whiskey. Instead, it's a text from an unknown number.

*Stay away from my medical staff. That includes Willow.*

Must be that doctor prick. I bark out a laugh that sounds hollow even to my own ears and toss the phone onto the nightstand without replying. Let him think I'm intimidated. Let him think whatever the fuck he wants.

I lay down on the bed and close my eyes.

Doctor perfect can think he won, but I’ve never been one to back down from a fight.

T he alarm blares, jarring me awake. My head throbs, a dull reminder of last night's mistakes. I groan and roll over, squinting at the red numbers on the cheap digital clock. 5:30 AM. Fuck me.

I drag myself out of bed, muscles protesting every movement. The shower helps, hot water pounding away some of the ache. As I soap up, my hands linger over fresh bruises from yesterday's ride. Purple and angry against my skin. Battle scars.

Dressed and somewhat human, I make my way down to the hotel's sad excuse for a breakfast buffet. Most of the other riders are already there, loading up on rubbery eggs and greasy sausage. Fuel for the day ahead.

I grab coffee, black as sin, and scan the room. No sign of Willow. Of course not. She's probably already at arena prepping.

I grab a plate and load it up with protein—need something in my stomach for today's ride. My draw is Widowmaker, a mean son of a bitch with a reputation for crushing cowboys. I've watched the footage. He likes to spin left before cutting hard right, trying to snap your neck with the whiplash. Just my kind of challenge.

Jace drops into the seat across from me, looking fresh as a fucking daisy. "You look like death warmed over."

"Good morning to you too," I grunt, shoveling eggs into my mouth.

"So," he says, leaning forward with that shit-eating grin of his. "You planning on another spectacular crash and burn with Willow today, or you gonna try a different approach?"

I flip him off, mouth full of food.

"Real mature," he chuckles.

I swallow the last of my eggs and wash it down with bitter coffee. "I've got a bull to ride. That's all I'm focused on today."

Jace snorts. "Sure, keep telling yourself that."

We finish breakfast in silence and head out to the arena. The morning air is crisp, carrying the scent of dust and livestock. My boots crunch on gravel as we make our way to the warm-up area.

I'm stretching out my shoulders when I spot her. Willow's setting up the medical station, her hair pulled back in a tight ponytail. She moves with purpose, checking supplies and equipment. All business.

Our eyes meet for a split second. She looks away first, but not before I catch the flicker of... something. Worry? Anger? Fuck if I know anymore.

"Calloway!" A gruff voice snaps me back to reality. I turn to see Knox, another one of the Savage Eight Riders, walking toward me.

He smiles as he gets closer.

Knox claps me on the shoulder, his grip strong enough to rock me back on my heels. "Thought I'd missed you yesterday. Good to see you back, brother."

"Good to be back," I say, meaning it more than he knows.

Knox's eyes drift over my shoulder, and I don't need to turn around to know he's looking at Willow. "Heard about last night," he says, voice dropping. "Word travels fast."

"Of course it fucking does," I mutter.

"You riding Widowmaker today?" Knox asks, mercifully changing the subject.

I nod, rolling my shoulders to loosen them up. "Drawn the meanest motherfucker in the pen. Must be my lucky day."

"Or the universe trying to finish what it started," Knox says with a dark laugh. "That bull's put three riders in the hospital this season alone.”

I shrug. “I’ll take whatever that damn bull gives me.”

Jace laughs. “Broken bones and everything?”

“Damn right.”

"Good thing the medical team is top-notch," Knox chuckles, his eyes deliberately flicking back to Willow. "Speaking of which, I hear the new doc's already making moves."

Something hot and ugly twists in my gut. "Don't start."

"Just saying." Knox holds up his hands. "Dr. Reid's been real friendly with the staff. Especially Willow."

I clench my jaw so tight I'm surprised my teeth don't crack. "I've got a bull to ride."

Knox nods, knowing he's hit a nerve. "Just watch yourself out there. That bull's looking for blood, and you seem... distracted."

I slap him on the shoulder harder than necessary as I walk past. "I've never been more focused."

It's a lie, and we both know it. But some lies you tell yourself just to get through the next eight seconds.

We have a few hours before the event starts, so I head to the livestock pens. No better way to clear my head than to size up my competition early. The smell hits me first—hay and manure and raw animal power. I spot Widowmaker in the corner pen, a massive black beast with scars running down his flank. He's pacing, restless energy barely contained by steel bars.

"Aren't you a pretty thing," I murmur, keeping a safe distance from those horns.

The bull snorts, pawing at the ground like he understands the challenge in my voice. His eyes are cold, calculating. This isn't just a dumb animal—this is a warrior who's figured out the game. He knows what's coming, and he's already planning how to throw me.

"You and me today," I tell him. "Eight seconds is all I need."

"Talking to bulls now?"

Her voice freezes me in place. I don't turn around right away, needing a second to compose myself. When I do, Willow's standing there, clipboard in hand, professional mask firmly in place.

"Someone's gotta warn the poor bastard what's coming," I say, aiming for casual but landing somewhere near desperate.

She doesn't smile. "I need to check your medical clearance before you ride."

All business. No trace of the woman who once whispered my name against my skin like a prayer.

"Thought that was the doc's job," I say, unable to keep the edge from my voice. "Your new friend."

Her eyes narrow slightly. "Dr. Reid oversees the department. I handle the routine checks."

"Lucky me."

She sighs, the sound weary. "Can we just do this without the attitude?”

I bite back the snarky reply on the tip of my tongue. "Sure, Willow. Let's keep it professional."

She nods curtly and starts going through her checklist. I watch her hands move efficiently, checking my reflexes, testing my range of motion. Her touch is clinical, impersonal. It shouldn't hurt this much.

"Any dizziness or headaches since yesterday's fall?" she asks, not quite meeting my eyes.

"Nope."

"Pain in your neck or back?"

"Nothing out of the ordinary."

She makes a note on her clipboard. "That bull's got a nasty reputation."

There's a hint of something in her voice—concern maybe? Or am I just hearing what I want to hear?

"I can handle him," I say, more confident than I feel.

Willow looks up at me then, really looks at me for the first time since she walked over. Her eyes search mine, and for a moment I see a flicker of the woman I used to know - the one who'd patch me up after every ride, who'd whisper "be careful" before I entered the chute.

"You sure about that?" she asks softly.

The question hangs between us, loaded with more meaning than just today's ride. Am I sure I can handle this bull? Am I sure I can handle being back? Am I sure I can handle seeing her every day?

"No," I admit, my voice low. "But I'm gonna try anyway."

Something shifts in her expression - not quite softening, but maybe understanding. She nods once, jotting down a final note.

"You're cleared to ride," she says, all business again. "Try not to make my job harder than it needs to be."

I can't help the smirk that tugs at my lips. "Now where's the fun in that?"

Willow rolls her eyes, but I catch the ghost of a smile before she turns away. "Good luck, Rhett," she says over her shoulder. "You're gonna need it."

I watch her walk away, clipboard tucked under her arm, ponytail swinging with each step. The familiar ache settles in my chest, but there's something else there too. Hope, maybe. Or at least the possibility of it.

"Alright, you ugly bastard," I mutter, turning back to Widowmaker. "Let's see what you've got."