Page 5

I watch her from across the arena, pretending I don't give a damn.

Willow Hayes moves like she's got something to prove and something to hide. All careful grace and measured steps as she checks another injured rider. Her long hair's pulled back in a tight braid, not a strand out of place. Everything about her is controlled. Calculated.

It pisses me off.

Weston, or Ghost as most of us call him, strolls over to me and Knox, his championship belt buckle catching the arena lights. "Razor, you gonna stare at that medic all night or actually ride something?"

I tear my eyes away from Willow. "Fuck off."

Knox snorts, adjusting his gloves. "Touchy tonight."

I am. My temper's been razor-thin since I came back to the circuit. Since I recognized those eyes that used to look at me like I hung the damn moon.

"She pretending she doesn't know you?" Knox asks, following my gaze.

"Worse." I spit on the ground. "Acting like she knows me too well."

The crowd roars as another rider gets thrown, body hitting dirt before scrambling away from two thousand pounds of pissed-off bull. Willow's already moving, that controlled stride carrying her to the fence.

"That's because she does know you too well," Weston says, his voice low enough that only I can hear. "You were different back then."

"We all were," I mutter, watching as Willow kneels beside the fallen rider. Her hands move with practiced efficiency, checking for injuries. The crowd's noise fades to background static as I focus on her—the way her shoulders tense when she glances up and catches me watching.

She looks away first. Always does now.

Two years ago, it would've been different. Two years ago, before Ethan died on the back of Widow Maker, before I left without a goddamn word to her, Willow would've held my gaze until I was the one who had to look away.

"He's fine!" she calls to the officials, helping the rider to his feet. There's a smattering of relieved applause and cheers.

The applause fades as the next rider's name gets called. Not mine. I’m done for the night after my ride with Widow Maker.

"You ever gonna tell her why you left?" Weston asks, leaning against the chute railing.

"What makes you think I owe her shit?" The words come out harsher than I intend, but I don't take them back.

Knox shakes his head. "Because you're still watching her like a starving man at a feast, dipshit."

I roll my shoulders, feeling the familiar ache where I separated my collarbone last season. "Ancient history."

But it's not. Not when I see her every fucking weekend at these events. Not when I remember how her skin felt under my hands, how she'd whisper my real name—Rhett, not Razor—like it was something precious.

Willow's moving again, slipping through the crowd toward the medical station. She doesn't look back at me, which somehow makes it worse.

"Ancient history doesn't make your jaw tick like that," Knox says, clapping me on the shoulder. "But keep lying to yourself, man. It's working great so far."

I shrug him off, irritation climbing my spine. "Don't you have some buckle bunnies to disappoint?"

"After you, Razor. Ladies love a man with unresolved trauma."

"Fuck all the way off," I growl, but there's no real heat behind it. These assholes are the closest thing I've got to family since Ethan died.

The announcer's voice booms through the arena, hyping up the next rider. I push off from the railing, needing to move, to do something besides watch her.

My boots kick up dust as I stride toward the locker rooms, needing space. The corridor is quieter, the roar of the crowd muffled behind me. I splash cold water on my face, staring at my reflection in the grimy mirror. Same hard eyes. Same stubborn jaw. But I can see what Weston meant—I'm not the same guy Willow knew.

That guy didn't have Ethan's blood on his hands.

The door swings open behind me, and for a split second, I think it might be her. It's not. Just some rookie looking starstruck when he sees me.

"Holy shit, you're Razor Calloway," he stammers.

I grunt something noncommittal, grabbing a towel to dry my face.

"That ride on Widow Maker was insane, man. Eight seconds looking death in the face—"

"Get out." The words leave my mouth like bullets.

The kid blinks, confused. "I was just—"

"Now." I don't raise my voice, but something in my eyes must convey the message because he backs up, hands raised.

"Sure, man. Sorry."

The door swings shut, and I'm alone again. Eight seconds looking death in the face. The kid doesn't know how right he is. Widow Maker isn't just another bull. He's the one that took Ethan, and tonight I stayed on his back just to prove I could. Just to spit in death's face.

I punch the wall, feeling the sting across my knuckles. Feels better than the hollow ache in my chest.

When I finally head back out, the crowd's thinning. The main event's over, just the cleanup crew and stragglers left. An empty arena always looks bigger somehow. Sadder. Like a carnival after the lights go down. I scan the dispersing crowd, not sure if I'm looking for Willow or hoping she's already gone.

She's not gone.

She's at the edge of the arena, packing up her medical supplies with that same measured precision. One item at a time, each in its place. Even from here, I can see the tension in her shoulders.

"Just go talk to her," Knox says, appearing beside me like a goddamn ghost.

"Thought you were heading to the after-party."

"I am. But watching you pine is getting pathetic."

I scowl. "I don't pine."

"Right. And bulls don't buck." He shoves a beer into my hand. "Liquid courage. Though God knows you've got enough of the regular kind to kill yourself with. Just… don’t break my sister’s heart again.”

“Back to playing the dotting older brother?”

He glares. “Fuck off. We’re… working on it. Our dad was a piece of shit and I feel guilty. I wasn’t there to protect her. But I’m here now.”

I watch his face harden, that familiar shadow passing over Knox's features whenever their father comes up. It's a wound we don't touch, any of us. Some scars run too deep.

"She doesn't need protecting," I say, taking a long pull from the beer. "Especially from me."

"Bullshit." Knox's voice is low, dangerous. "Everyone saw how she fell apart after you left. Everyone except you, because you were gone."

The words hit like a sucker punch. I'd pictured Willow angry after I disappeared. Furious, even. But falling apart? That doesn't fit with the woman I knew—the one who stitched up her own arm once rather than go to the hospital where they'd ask questions about her home life.

"She's tougher than that," I mutter, but doubt creeps in like smoke.

Knox just shakes his head slowly. "You really don't get it, do you? Being tough doesn't mean you don't break. It just means you know how to hide the cracks."

His words land like a bull's hoof to my chest. I watch him walk away, shoulders squared beneath his jacket, the Savage Eight logo emblazoned across his back—our crew, our brotherhood. The family I chose when my own wasn't worth shit.

I drain the beer, crushing the can in my fist. The metal gives easily, too easily. Just like everything else in my life.

Except her.

Willow's still at her station, methodically wiping down equipment. Even from here, I can see the careful way she moves, like someone who's learned that sudden movements draw attention. I know that dance. Grew up with it.

Fuck it.

I start walking before I can talk myself out of it, my boots kicking up little clouds of arena dust. Each step feels like I'm walking toward something that could either save me or destroy me. Maybe both.

She senses me before she sees me. I watch her spine straighten, her movements becoming even more precise. More controlled. It's like watching someone put on armor in slow motion.

"Need medical attention, Calloway?" Her voice is professional. Cool. Like we're strangers.

"Depends on what hurts." The words come out rougher than I intended.

Willow finally turns to face me, her expression carefully blank. But I know those eyes. I used to drown in them.

"If it's your ego, I can't help you there." She snaps her kit closed with a decisive click.

I almost smile. There she is—the fire beneath all that control. "How about my conscience?"

Willow doesn't miss a beat. "Terminal condition. Beyond medical intervention."

Her hands never stop moving, packing away gauze and tape with mechanical precision.

The arena lights dance across her hair, casting a shimmering glow that transforms the dark strands into a mesmerizing shade of deep blue. Her curves are accentuated under the bright illumination, each contour highlighted with striking clarity.

"You look good, Wills."

The nickname slips out before I can stop it. Her fingers falter for just a second—a microscopic hesitation that most people would miss. I don't miss shit when it comes to her.

"Don't call me that." Her voice drops low enough that I have to lean in to hear her. "You lost that right."

"Yeah." I run a hand through my hair, feeling the grit of arena dust. "I lost a lot of rights.”

"You didn't lose them," Willow says, her voice suddenly sharp as barbed wire. "You threw them away. There's a difference."

The truth of it hits harder than any bull I've ridden. I watch her hands resume their work, steady and sure, while mine hang useless at my sides.

"I had reasons," I say, the words sounding hollow even to me.

She laughs, a short, bitter sound that doesn't reach her eyes. "I'm sure you did. You always do."

The arena's nearly empty now, just a few workers dragging equipment across the dirt. The overhead lights cast long shadows between us, making the distance feel wider than the few feet separating our bodies.

"Ethan died," I say finally, like that explains everything. Maybe it does.

Willow's movements slow, but she doesn't look up. "I know. I was there. I was the one with his literal blood on my hands while I tried to help save him.”

“Willow-”

She puts her hand up. “No. You act like you’re the only one affected by Ethan’s death. Look around, Calloway! We’re all fucked up over it. But the rest of those dumb cowboys stuck around. They didn’t walk away when things got tough.”

"That's not why I left," I say, the words scraping my throat.

Willow finally meets my eyes, and the raw hurt there nearly buckles my knees. "Then why? Because one minute we were... whatever we were, and the next you disappeared. No goodbye, no explanation. Just gone."

The arena lights flicker overhead, casting her face in shifting shadows. I take a step closer, drawn to her like always, even when I know I shouldn't be.

"It wasn't about you." My voice comes out rough. "It was never about you."

"Bullshit." She slams her med kit closed with enough force to make me flinch. "That's the coward's answer. 'It's not you, it's me.' At least have the decency to be honest now."

I rub my hand across my jaw, feeling the stubble there, trying to find words that won't make this worse. But there's no gentle way to tear open old wounds.

"I couldn't stay here after what happened." The words feel ripped from somewhere deep inside me. "Every time I closed my eyes, I saw him go down. Every fucking night."

"We all did," she says, but her voice has lost some of its edge. "That's why we needed each other."

"I was the one who told him to ride Widowmaker." The confession hangs between us, heavy as a noose. "I dared him. Said he'd never make the finals if he kept playing it safe."

Willow's eyes widened slightly. This part she didn't know.

"So you ran." It's not a question.

"Couldn't face any of you. Especially not you. I know what Ethan meant to you. How he was like that older brother you always dreamed about.”

She stares at me, those dark eyes searching my face like she's trying to solve a puzzle with missing pieces. The silence stretches between us, taut as a rope about to snap.

"You don't get to decide what I can handle," she finally says, her voice soft but steel-edged. "That wasn't your choice to make."

I step closer, drawn into her orbit like I always am. "I wasn't thinking straight."

"Clearly." She lifts her medical kit, creating a barrier between us. "But that's your specialty, isn't it? Acting first, thinking never."

The truth stings more coming from her. Always has.

"I'm back now," I say, like that fixes anything.

Willow's laugh is sharp enough to cut. "Congratulations. Want a parade?"

"I want..." The words stick in my throat. What do I want? Her. I want Willow. Need her like I need air to fucking breath.

Willow's face goes still, that careful mask slipping back into place. But her eyes give her away—always have. They're shining too bright under the arena lights.

"You think I didn't know you blamed yourself?" she continues, stepping closer. "Ethan told me about the dare before he climbed on that bull. He told me everything."

That hits me like a sucker punch. "What?"

"He said you were right. That he needed to stop playing it safe if he wanted to make it to the top." Willow's voice catches slightly. "His last words to me were 'Watch this, Wills. Razor thinks I've got what it takes.'"

The air leaves my lungs like I've been thrown from a bull. My vision tunnels, the arena lights blurring around the edges.

"You knew?" The words scrape out of my throat. "All this time?"

"Yeah." She shifts the weight of her med kit. "And I watched you swagger around before your ride tonight, climbing on the same bull that killed him. What was that about, Rhett? Some kind of fucked-up redemption?"

I can't answer. Can't find words for the storm inside me.

Willow steps closer, close enough that I can smell the antiseptic on her hands mixing with that hint of vanilla that's always been hers. The scent hits me like a physical blow, dragging me back to nights in cheap motel rooms, her hair spread across my chest, that same vanilla clinging to my skin for days after.

"You riding Widow Maker wasn't about honoring Ethan," she says, her voice dropping. "It was about punishing yourself. And I won't watch you die trying to make things right with a ghost."

"You don't know what it's like," I growl, the anger easier than the guilt. "Having his blood on my hands."

"Don't I?" Her eyes flash. "I was the one doing chest compressions while we waited for the ambulance. I felt his ribs crack under my hands, Rhett. I watched the life leave his eyes! You don't get to play martyr," she says, her voice low and dangerous. "Not when you left everyone else to pick up the pieces."

"I wasn't playing anything." My hands curl into fists at my sides, not from anger but to keep from reaching for her. "I couldn't breathe here, Wills. Every face, every corner of this fucking circuit—it all reminded me of him."

"And what about me?" The question hangs between us, sharp as barbed wire. "What was I? Just collateral damage in your quest for self-destruction?"

The truth burns in my throat. "You were the hardest part."

Willow's eyes narrow, the hazel darkening to near-black under the harsh arena lights. For a moment, she looks like she might actually hit me. Part of me wishes she would—physical pain would be easier than this.

"The hardest part," she repeats, the words dripping with venom. "How incredibly difficult for you, having someone who loved you."

The word 'loved' slices through me. Past tense. Like it's already dead and buried.

"It wasn't like that," I say, stepping closer despite knowing better. "You were the one thing I couldn't bear to destroy."

"Oh, spare me the noble cowboy bullshit." Her laugh is sharp enough to draw blood. "You didn't protect me by leaving. You protected yourself from having to face what you'd done."

The arena feels suddenly smaller, the air between us charged with electricity.

She's right, and we both know it. The truth of it sits between us like a living thing, breathing and growing with each second of silence.

"I should've been there," I finally admit, the words coming out rough. "After. For the funeral. For you."

Willow's face doesn't soften, but something in her eyes shifts. "Yeah. You should have."

The massive arena lights buzz overhead, casting harsh shadows across her face. In this light, I can see the faint lines at the corners of her eyes that weren't there two years ago. Little marks of grief I wasn't around to witness forming.

The heavy thud of boots against packed dirt interrupts us. I don't need to turn to know who it is; Jace - our fearless leader who stepped up in Ethan’s place.

“All good here?”

Willow nods. “All good. Watch his shoulder tonight or he can kiss his career goodbye.”

She shoves past me as Jace whistles slowly. “I need a fuckin’ drink after that. Wanna hit the bar?”

"She always did have your number," Jace says, watching Willow stride away, her spine straight as a steel rod. "You gonna stand there looking like a kicked dog or come get that drink?"

I rub my hand over my face, feeling the grit of arena dust against my skin. "I'm not good company right now."

"When are you ever?" He laughs, but there's an edge to it. "C'mon. First round's on me. Consider it payment for staying on that devil bull tonight."

I watch Willow's retreating figure until she disappears through the exit, taking whatever oxygen was left in this place with her. My chest feels hollow, like something vital got ripped out and I'm just now noticing the wound.

"Fine," I mutter, falling into step beside him. "But I'm not talking about it."

T he bar is loud and crowded, exactly how I like it. Noise drowns out thinking. Jace shoves a whiskey into my hand before I even slide onto the barstool, and I down it in one burning gulp.

"Easy, tiger," he says, signaling the bartender for another round. "Night's young."

"Not young enough." I scan the room out of habit, telling myself I'm not looking for her. Lying to myself is becoming a full-time fucking job.

The Buckhorn's packed with the usual post-rodeo crowd—riders nursing bruises and egos, buckle bunnies hunting for their cowboys of the night, old-timers reliving glory days in corner booths. Country music throbs from speakers overhead, some song about regrets and second chances that hits too close to home.

Knox appears at my elbow, already three beers in. Willow's at the far end of the bar, nursing something clear with lime. She's changed out of her medic uniform into jeans that hug her curves and a simple black tank top. Her hair's down now, falling in dark waves past her shoulders. She looks softer somehow, more like the girl I used to know.

Jace snorts and Knox nearly growls. I look over to see Doctor McDickhead leaning on the bar right next to Willow.

Dr. McDickhead—or Dr. Marcus Reid as he's actually called—leans in too close to Willow, his hand casually brushing her arm as he talks. He's the new orthopedic specialist on the circuit this season. Tall, polished, with perfect teeth and a Stanford degree he manages to mention in every goddamn conversation.

"That should be illegal," I mutter, watching as he laughs at something she says.

"What? Doctors hitting on medics?" Knox raises an eyebrow.

"No. Whatever the fuck he's wearing. Who shows up to a rodeo bar in pressed chinos?"

Jace snorts into his beer. "Yeah, that's what's bothering you."

I drain my second whiskey, the burn doing nothing to ease the tightness in my chest. Willow's smiling now—not the full smile we all know and love. The same fake ass one she gave him the other night.

Knox sighs. “I don’t like him. Something is off.”

Jace nods. “So go all big brother on him. Scare his perfect chinos right off his ass.”

I chuckle as Knox smiles, taking a sip of his beer.

“Willow can handle herself. She’ll let me know if she needs help.”

"Like she'd ask for help," I mutter, signaling the bartender for another round. "Woman would rather bleed out than admit she's hurting."

Knox shoots me a sharp look. "Wonder where she learned that."

The jab hits its mark, but I don't give him the satisfaction of a reaction. Instead, I watch Dr. McDickhead lean closer, his hand now resting on the small of Willow's back. Something primal and ugly twists in my gut.

"If his hand goes any lower, I'm breaking it," Knox says, his voice casual enough that only me and Jace can hear the threat underneath.

Jace chuckles as he waves over another one of our teammates, Colt "Wildcard" Walker. The man who doesn’t give a fuck, not a single thought of self preservation, the wildcard of the group.

Colt saunters over, already looking halfway to wasted with that devil-may-care grin plastered across his face. His championship belt buckle catches the light as he moves, a reminder that despite his reckless reputation, he's one of the best on the circuit.

"Well, if it isn't the man who rode Satan himself tonight," he says, clapping me on the shoulder hard enough to make me wince. "What are we drinking? And why do you three look like someone pissed in your boots?"

Knox tilts his chin toward the far end of the bar. Colt follows his gaze, whistles low.

"Ah. The good doctor is making his house call." He flags down the bartender. "Four shots of Patron. Make it double."

"Not helping," I growl.

Colt shrugs. "Wasn't trying to help. Just providing anesthesia." He distributes the shots, liquid sloshing over the edges. "If we’re gonna do this, might as well make it hurt a little less until the morning.”

Knox grins. “Let’s give the doctor a good ole welcome to the circuit.”

Colt's eyes light up like it's Christmas morning. "What'd you have in mind?"