Page 9

I sit at the kitchen table, the warm glow of the overhead light illuminating six sets of eyes all intently focused on me.

The room is filled with a tense silence, broken only by the faint ticking of the wall clock. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee mingles with the lingering scent of breakfast.

Levi, sitting across from me with an earnest expression, finally breaks the silence. "Sit on the porch with me," he says, his voice a gentle invitation amidst the quiet anticipation hanging in the air.

I could refuse. There's nothing stopping me from getting up and walking straight out the front door, leaving all six of these cowboys staring at my back. But something in Levi's tone catches me off guard. It's not a command—it's a genuine request.

"Fine," I say, pushing back my chair with a scrape that sounds too loud in the quiet kitchen.

The morning air hits my face, cool and clean after the tension of the kitchen. Levi settles into one of the weather-beaten rocking chairs, gesturing to the one beside him. I remain standing, arms crossed.

"You just got back from a two year suspension, Rhett. Most cowboys wouldn’t be welcomed back after that long.”

"I’m well aware.”

Levi looks up at me. “Then don’t fuck it up. Settle your shit with Willow and focus on the bulls. We have a circuit tour happening. Two weeks, Razor. In two weeks we’re on tour.”

I clench my jaw, staring out at the sprawling ranch land that stretches beyond the porch railing. Dawn's breaking over the eastern pasture, painting everything in hues of gold and amber. Pretty as a postcard—unlike my situation.

"My shit with Willow is settled," I say, the words tasting like a lie even as they leave my mouth. "She made herself clear."

Levi snorts, the sound so dismissive it makes my shoulders tense. "Bullshit. You've been watching her like a starved coyote eyes a limping rabbit since you got back."

"Poetic." I grip the porch railing, wood rough beneath my palms. "You writing greeting cards now?"

"I'm serious, Razor." Levi's voice drops, that calm, measured tone that's more dangerous than any shouting. "Settle the shit.”

Levi stands up. “But if we have to fix up a broken Willow again, you won't have to worry about a suspension. We'll put you in the ground ourselves."

The threat hangs in the air, solid as the mountains on the horizon. And the thing that twists my gut isn't the threat itself—it's that I know he means it. That they all mean it.

"You don't know what happened," I say, voice low and tight.

"Don't need to." Levi's eyes meet mine, unflinching. "Saw what she was like after. That tells me enough."

I turn away, jaw working. The sun keeps rising, indifferent to the storm brewing inside me. Two years. Two fucking years of replaying that night in my head, of seeing her face when I walked away. And now I'm back, and she's here, and nothing's fixed.

“So you either man the fuck up, or you walk away and stop your bullshit with her.”

Somebody clears their throat and we both look over to see Jace standing in the doorway.

“The night you ran, she did too. This is the first time she’s stepped foot back home in two years. Keep that in mind. Ghost and Willow are back. Play nice so we can figure out this Doctor Bootlicker bullshit.”

I watch Jace disappear back into the house, his words hanging in the air like smoke.

"Fine," I mutter, more to myself than to Levi. "I'll talk to her."

"Talk," Levi emphasizes, standing up with a creak of the chair. "Not whatever testosterone-fueled bullshit you're planning in that thick skull of yours."

I give him a mirthless smile. "I'm a changed man, Levi."

"Sure you are." He claps me on the shoulder as he passes, the gesture somewhere between friendly and threatening. "And bulls have started flying."

The moment he's gone, I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. We head back inside and take a seat at the table.

I look around the house and can’t help but smile. The general rules of the Savage Eight is pinned to the wall by a knife, Willow’s rules are neatly tapped to the fridge, and the absolute laws are carved into the wall.

We live and die by this rulebook.

Ghost turns his laptop around and everybody hovers around. “Marcus has a taste for the circuit president's nineteen-year-old daughter. And this is just the tip of the iceberg. Willow will not be apologizing.”

I lean forward, squinting at the screen. The images aren't pretty—Marcus with his hand up the girl's skirt, his wedding ring clearly visible. Classic predator move.

"Jesus," I mutter, running a hand through my hair. "How'd you get these?"

Ghost just gives me that look—the one that says 'don't ask questions you don't want answers to.' Fair enough.

"So our good doctor's not just a handsy prick with the female staff," Jace says, voice hard as gravel. "He's targeting barely-legals too."

"Which is why," Ghost continues, closing the laptop with a snap, "Willow isn't going to apologize for breaking his nose in the bar with you idiots last night.”

Colt and Knox chuckle, but Jace shoots them a glare.

“And how is this gonna go for Willow?”

Ghost shrugs. “Simple. We drop the folder with this shit, he moves along and finds a new job for next year.”

Willow nods. “And he stays away from the crew.”

Knox looks at his sister. “But what about you, Wills? You have to work with this bastard every day on the tour. Can you be a medic without Doctor Dickface?”

"I'll be fine." Willow's voice is steel wrapped in silk, and I catch myself watching her profile, the way her jaw tightens when she's determined. "I've dealt with worse."

Her eyes flick to mine for a split second, and I feel that look like a bull's hoof to the chest. Yeah, she has dealt with worse. Me, for starters.

"You shouldn't have to," I say before I can stop myself.

The room goes quiet. Seven sets of eyes swing between us like spectators at a high-stakes match. Willow's gaze hardens.

"Thanks for the input, Razor," she says, my nickname dripping with acid. "I'll file it where it belongs."

Ghost clears his throat. "There's another option. We could request a different medic team for our crew."

"No." Willow shakes her head again, more forcefully this time. "I'm not running. Not from him, not from this job."

Her fingers drum against the tabletop, a nervous habit I remember all too well. Two years gone, and I still know every tell, every micro-expression that crosses her face.

"Besides," she continues, "the circuit needs qualified medics who actually give a shit about the riders. You think I'm gonna leave you idiots in the hands of some fresh-faced EMT who faints at the sight of blood?"

Knox snorts. "Last time I got trampled, the new guy turned greener than summer grass."

"Exactly." Willow's eyes scan the room, deliberately skipping over me. "I stay. Marcus stays. End of discussion."

Ghost closes his laptop with a decisive click. "I'll handle the photos and note.”

Jace nods his head. “Great. Everybody get your shit on so we can head to the arena. We got some rides tonight. No bars after, straight back here.” He points at Willow. “You included. This is your home. Your damn rules are on the fridge. Ethan put your name on the house with all of us.”

I catch the flash of emotion across Willow's face at the mention of Ethan—grief mixed with something harder—before her expression shutters closed again. Two years, and the loss of our founder still cuts deep.

"Fine," she says, pushing back from the table. "I'll be ready in ten."

The kitchen empties quickly, everyone heading to their rooms to gear up for tonight's event. I linger, pretending to check my phone while watching Willow from the corner of my eye. She's at the fridge, staring at those rules she wrote years ago. Her fingers trace over the paper, and for a split second, I see the girl I knew before everything went to shit.

Then she feels my gaze and stiffens.

"Take a picture, Rhett. It'll last longer."

"Already got plenty," I say before I can stop myself.

Wrong thing to say.

Her face goes blank, that perfect emptiness I've come to recognize as pure rage. "Delete them," she says, voice flat as the Oklahoma horizon.

"Willow—"

"I said delete them." She advances on me, and I instinctively step back. Not out of fear—never that—but because the look in her eyes is something I've only seen once before. The night everything fell apart.

"They're just pictures from before," I say, trying to sound reasonable. "The whole crew together. Cookouts. Training sessions."

"And the others?" Her voice is dangerous now. "The ones no one else saw?"

Heat crawls up my neck. Those photos—stolen moments in the barn loft, her smile soft and private, meant just for me. Her body tangled in my sheets at dawn.

"I wouldn't show those to anyone," I say, voice dropping low.

"I don't give a shit what you'd do with them," she hisses, stepping closer until I can smell the faint vanilla scent of her shampoo. "They shouldn't exist anymore. Just like us."

The words hit harder than any bull I've ever ridden. I swallow, my throat suddenly dry.

"Is that what you want?" I ask, voice rougher than I intend. "To erase everything?"

"You did that already," she snaps, eyes flashing. "Two years ago when you walked out that door."

I grab her wrist as she tries to brush past me, gentle but firm. The contact sends electricity up my arm. "And I fucked up. I should have never run out after the funeral like that.”

She pulls away. “Two years too late. I need to change.”

I watch as she walks down the hall to her room. I'm left alone in the kitchen, the ghost of her touch still burning on my skin. For a moment, I just stand there, listening to the sound of her bedroom door closing, the click of the lock like a period at the end of a sentence.

Two years. Two fucking years of replaying that night, of seeing her face when I walked away. And now I'm back, and she's here, and everything's worse than I imagined.

T he ride to the arena is quiet. Levi, Knox, Colt, Jace and I all ride together. We make small talk about tonight’s rides, but my mind is elsewhere.

Willow rode with the rest of the guys to avoid me, not that I blame her at all.

The arena parking lot is already packed when we pull in. Trucks with custom bull riding stickers line the rows, and the air vibrates with country music pumping from the sound system inside. I step out of Levi's truck, the gravel crunching under my boots, and inhale the familiar scent of dust, livestock, and adrenaline.

Home.

A group of riders from the Dakota circuit spot us and nod in recognition. Their eyes linger a beat too long on us. But that’s anywhere we go.

And after last night?

They’re gonna talk.

The rest of the Savage Eight pull up next to us and we make our way into the stadium, Willow in the middle of our group.

Right away, four cops step up and stop us in our tracks.

“We’re looking for Willow and Knox Hayes.”

Willow goes to step up, but Jace gently puts her behind him. “Not so fast.”

Marcus walks toward our group, a smirk on his face like he’s fuckin’ won a prize. “Step aside. I just want to talk to Willow.”

"That's not happening." Ghost's voice cuts through the tension like a knife, calm and cold.

Marcus's nose is swollen, a purple-blue mess courtesy of Willow's fist. He's flanked by the cops like he's royalty with a security detail, and the sight of it makes my blood simmer.

"Assault charges," Marcus says, tapping the splint on his nose with a theatrical wince. "Both of them. The video from the bar is quite clear."

I feel Willow stiffen behind me. Knox steps forward, jaw tight, but Levi catches his arm.

"We’re aware," Jace says, voice level but eyes hard as granite. "You want to have this conversation, we do it away from the crowd."

The lead cop—a barrel-chested man with a mustache that belongs in a 70s cop show—looks at us then back to Marcus.

Doctor Dickface sighs. “Fine. I’ll meet you all in the medical room with my lawyer.”

Jace nods. “No cops unless we can’t come to an agreement.”

The lead cops shrug and they walk off.

Marcus's smug expression falters slightly, but he recovers quickly. "Ten minutes. Then I'm pressing charges."

The moment he turns his back, I step closer to Willow, my voice low. "You okay?"

She doesn't answer, just pushes past me to fall in step with Ghost. I watch her walk away, her shoulders set in that stubborn line I know too well.

"Smooth," Knox mutters, clapping my shoulder as he passes. "Real smooth, Romeo."

We follow the others through the arena's back corridors, the concrete floor echoing with our boot steps. The smell changes as we move deeper—sweat and antiseptic replacing the arena dust. A few staff members scatter out of our way, eyes wide. News travels fast in this world.

The medical room feels too small for this many people—all of us, plus Marcus and his lawyer, a pinch-faced woman in a suit that costs more than most riders make in a month. I position myself near the door, partly to block any quick exits, partly to keep myself from lunging across the room and finishing what Willow started with Marcus's face.

"Let's cut the bullshit," Ghost says, opening his laptop. "You drop the charges, we keep these to ourselves." He turns the screen to face Marcus and his lawyer.

I watch the color drain from Marcus's face as he scrolls through the photos. His lawyer maintains her professional mask, but her eyes widen slightly.

"This is blackmail," she says, voice clipped.

"This is negotiation," Ghost corrects, calm as still water. "Your client assaults women. Our friend defended herself. Simple math."

Marcus's face twists into something ugly. "Those photos are taken out of context. I can explain—"

"Save it," Ghost interrupts, voice flat. "We've got a video too. Want to see the timestamp that proves she was barely eighteen? Or the audio where she asks you to stop?"

The lawyer puts a restraining hand on Marcus's arm. They exchange a look, having one of those silent conversations that doesn't need words. I've seen enough negotiations to know we've got them cornered.

"What exactly are you proposing?" the lawyer asks, her voice carefully neutral.

Ghost closes the laptop with a snap. "Simple. Charges disappear. You stay professional with Willow during the tour. No retaliation, no harassment. When the season ends, you find a new circuit."

"And if I refuse?" Marcus's voice has an edge of desperation now.

"Then these go to the press.”

Him and his lawyer whisper to each other before he finally looks up with a scowl. “Fine. But this is far from over.”

The lawyer leads Marcus away, his shoulders hunched like a scolded dog. The moment the door closes behind them, the tension in the room drops by half. I catch Willow's eye for a split second before she looks away, her face unreadable.

"That went well," Jace says, rubbing his beard. "Ghost, make sure those photos stay accessible. I don't trust that snake further than I could throw him."

Ghost nods, tucking his laptop away. "Already backed up in three places."

Knox drapes an arm around his sister's shoulders. "Looks like you get to keep your job and avoid jail. Not bad for a Tuesday morning."

Willow's mouth twitches in what might almost be a smile. "The day's young. Plenty of time for things to go to shit."

"Speaking of which," Levi checks his watch, "rider meeting in five. Let’s go, boys.”

The crew files out, but I hang back, watching Willow as she methodically sorts through her medical supplies. Her hands move with practiced precision, checking bandages and braces, organizing everything just so. Some things never change.

"You need something, Rhett?" she asks without looking up, somehow sensing I'm still here.

"Just wanted to say thanks," I say, leaning against the doorframe. "For not breaking my nose too."

That gets me the ghost of a smile, there and gone so fast I almost miss it. Progress.

"Don't tempt me," she says, snapping her medical case shut with more force than necessary. "The night's young."

I push off from the doorframe and step further into her space. Not crowding her, but close enough that she can't ignore me. "Let’s make a bet, Wills.”

She stills, finally looking at me with those eyes that see right through every bullshit layer I've built up. "I don't gamble with you anymore, Rhett. I learned my lesson."

"Hear me out," I say, taking another step closer. The medical room suddenly feels smaller, the air between us charged like the moment before lightning strikes. "If I stay on tonight longer than anyone else, you give me ten minutes."

Her eyebrow arches. "Ten minutes for what?"

"To talk. Just talk." I hold up my hands, palms out. "No touching, no games. Ten minutes of your time where you actually listen."

Willow returns to organizing her supplies, but I can see her mind working behind that careful mask. "And if you get thrown?"

"Then I leave you alone for good.”

The words hang in the air between us, heavy with everything unsaid. Willow's hands pause, her fingers gripping the edge of her medical case until her knuckles turn white.

"You'll leave me alone?" She looks up, eyes narrowed. "For good?"

"Scout's honor." I hold up three fingers in a mock salute.

"You were never a scout."

"Details." I shrug, trying to keep my tone light despite the way my heart hammers against my ribs. This is a stupid bet—the kind of impulsive gamble that's gotten me in trouble more times than I can count. But I'm desperate, and desperation makes fools of even the smartest men.

Willow studies me, her gaze calculating. "Fine," she says finally. "But when you lose—and you will lose—I want your word that you'll respect the boundaries. No more puppy dog eyes, no more trying to corner me for 'just a minute,' no more anything."

I swallow hard, the stakes suddenly feeling much higher than I anticipated. "Deal."

She nods once, curt and professional. "Now get out. I have work to do before you idiots start breaking yourselves."

I back toward the door, unable to stop the smile spreading across my face. "See you ringside, Wills."

"I hope not," she calls after me. "My job's easier when you all stay on."

I laugh, the sound echoing in the corridor as I jog to catch up with the others. My chest feels lighter than it has in two years. It's a stupid bet, one I might very well lose, but it's something. A chance.

And I've never been one to waste a chance.

I step out and the roar of the crowd vibrates through my body. I make my way to the meeting with a smile on my face. Rhett fucking Calloway doesn’t lose.

Jace cocks his eyebrow at me as I slide up next to him. “All good?”

“Better than good.”

He nods as we listen to them go over the rules and schedule. I'm riding third on a nasty bull named Suicide Note. The irony isn't lost on me.

"You're seriously smiling right now?" Knox asks, eyeing me like I've grown a second head. "Did you miss the part where they said Suicide Note has put three riders in the ICU this season?"

I keep my eyes on the lineup board, scanning the competition. "I heard."

"And?"

"And I'm not those three riders." I roll my shoulders, feeling the familiar pre-ride tension coiling in my muscles. "I've got extra motivation tonight."

Jace sidles up beside us, his expression knowing. "Please tell me you didn't do something stupid with Willow."

"Define stupid."

"Jesus Christ," Knox mutters, shaking his head. "What did you bet?"

I keep my voice casual, though my pulse is anything but. "If I stay on longer than anyone else tonight, she gives me ten minutes to talk. Just talk."

"And if you don't?" Jace's eyes narrow.

"I leave her alone. For good."

The silence that follows is deafening despite the arena noise surrounding us. Knox stares at me like I've lost my mind, while Jace's expression hardens into something dangerous.

"You're gambling with my sister's feelings," Knox says, voice low. "Again."

"I'm trying to fix things," I counter, the defensiveness in my tone betraying me. "How else am I supposed to get her to hear me out?"

Jace steps closer, his voice dropping so only I can hear. "Maybe respect that she doesn't want to hear you out? Novel concept."

“She made the bet. She could have said no.”

Levi pats my back. “Rule number twenty-one, bud. ‘ Rhett is banned from making bets before noon.’”

I look up at the clock and grin. “It’s half past noon. Now, I better get ready to win that bet.”

I do my best to ignore the looks the others are throwing my way as I head over to where my gear's stashed. The familiar routine settles my nerves—checking my vest, adjusting my spurs, flexing my riding glove. Two years away from the circuit, but my body remembers every step of this dance.

"You're a fucking idiot," Colt says, materializing beside me with that silent-predator way he has. "You know that, right?"

"Been told a few times." I tighten my bull rope, the leather familiar against my palm.

He watches me for a moment, then sighs. "Suicide Note favors a hard right out of the chute, then switches to counter-clockwise spins. Nasty head fake around the four-second mark."

“Thanks.”

“Just want you to win so you and Wills can kiss and make up.”

I shoot him a look. "It's not about that. It's about getting her to listen."

"Sure." Colt taps his temple with a grin. "Whatever helps you sleep at night."

I'm about to fire back when the announcer's voice booms through the arena: "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Thunder Valley! Are you ready for the meanest, baddest bulls and the craziest sons of bitches willing to ride 'em?"

The crowd roars, the sound washing over me like a wave. This—this is what I missed during those two years of suspension. The electricity in the air, the anticipation coiling in my gut like a spring wound too tight.

"First rider of the night, give it up for Tyler Jenkins on Broken Promise!"

I watch as Jenkins takes his ride, staying on for a respectable 6.8 seconds before getting tossed. Not bad, but not good enough to worry me.

The next rider gets thrown at 4.3 seconds, and then it's my turn. The announcer's voice echoes through the arena, whipping the crowd into a frenzy.

"Next up, our resident bad boy, the man who’s on fire after being gone for two years, a member of the notorious Savage Eight crew. Put your hands together for Rhett 'Razor' Calloway on Suicide Note!"

The crowd noise swells like a tide—some cheering, some booing. I've always been a polarizing figure in this sport. Love me or hate me, but you can't ignore me.

I settle into the chute, the massive bull shifting beneath me, all two thousand pounds of pissed-off muscle and bad attitude. I wrap my rope tight, flex my glove, and tuck my chin to my chest. The world narrows down to this single moment—me, the bull, and the eight seconds stretching between glory and disaster.

My eyes scan the edge of the arena until I find her. Willow, medical kit at her feet, watching with that carefully neutral expression she wears like armor. Our gazes lock for just a second, and I give her a nod. She doesn't return it, but she doesn't look away either.

That's enough.

"Rider ready?" the gate man calls.

I tap my hat in confirmation, take one deep breath, and nod.

The gate swings open.

Suicide Note explodes out of the chute like he's been shot from a cannon. Just as Colt predicted, he cuts hard right immediately, nearly jerking my arm from its socket. I counter with my hips, finding my center as the bull transitions into his first spin.

The world becomes a blur of dirt and lights. Four thousand pounds of raw muscle and fury beneath me, trying every trick to throw me into the dirt. I feel the familiar burn in my thighs, the strain in my arm as I hang onto the rope for dear life.

Three seconds.

Suicide Note changes direction, a whiplash-inducing shift that catches me slightly off-balance. I recover, but barely, my free arm windmilling to keep my weight centered.

Five seconds.

The bull dips his head and then snaps it back—the head fake Colt warned me about. I'm ready, shifting my weight back just enough to avoid being thrown forward. The crowd roars as I manage to stay on.

Six seconds.

Suicide Note goes into a series of rapid-fire spins that make my vision blur. My thighs burn like they're on fire, every muscle straining to keep me centered. I can feel the exact moment he changes strategy, his massive body coiling beneath me like a spring.

Seven seconds.

He bucks straight up, all four hooves leaving the ground. For a heart-stopping moment, I'm weightless, the only thing keeping me attached to this beast is the death grip I have on my rope. I clamp my legs tighter, feeling the precise moment gravity takes hold again.

The buzzer sounds.

Eight seconds.

Fucking eight seconds.

I stay on as Suicide Note continues to buck and spin, waiting for the bullfighters to distract him so I can make my escape. The crowd is on their feet, the roar deafening as I finally release my grip and launch myself clear of those deadly horns. I hit the dirt hard but scramble to my feet immediately, adrenaline masking any pain.

The arena explodes with noise—some cheers, some boos, all of it washing over me in a wave of sound. I pump my fist in the air, riding the high of the perfect ride. Eight seconds on Suicide Note. Eight fucking seconds.

"Ladies and gentlemen, give it up for Rhett Calloway! A perfect ride on one of the meanest bulls in the circuit! That's an 89.5—putting him in the lead!"

I jog toward the exit chute, high-fiving fans and soaking in the electric atmosphere. My body's running on pure adrenaline, the aches and strains still hidden beneath the rush of a perfect ride. As I hop the fence, I catch sight of the other Savage Eight members—Knox looking grudgingly impressed, Jace shaking his head with a hint of a smile, Levi and Colt exchanging what looks suspiciously like money.

And at the edge of it all, Willow.

She's standing with her medical kit, expression carefully neutral as she watches me approach. But I catch it—that tiny flicker in her eyes. Pride, maybe. Or just professional appreciation for a clean ride. Either way, it sends a jolt through me stronger than Suicide Note's best efforts.

"Nice ride," she says, voice clinical as she scans me for injuries.

I can't help the grin that spreads across my face. "Nice enough to win our bet?"

"Night's young, hotshot." She gestures for me to turn around, her fingers probing at my shoulder muscles with clinical precision. "Any pain? Numbness? Tingling?"

"Only when you touch me," I say before I can stop myself.

Her hands freeze for a half-second before resuming their professional assessment. "Cute. I see your suspension didn't improve your material."

"Some things are classics for a reason."

She steps back, snapping off her latex gloves with a decisive pop. "You look intact. Try to stay that way."

Before she can walk away, I catch her wrist—gently, barely a touch. "I'm going to win tonight, Willow."

Those eyes meet mine, guarded but not cold. "Maybe. See you at home.”

Home.

One simple little word has me kicking my feet like a damn little girl.

I watch her walk away, trying not to stare too obviously at the way her jeans hug curves I remember all too well. Home. Not "the ranch" or "the house." Home. It's a tiny victory, but I'll take it.

"You gonna stand there grinning like an idiot all night, or you gonna watch your competition?" Knox's voice breaks through my thoughts as he claps a hand on my shoulder, harder than necessary.

"Both.”