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T he official decision was that bull riding was boring unless it was Jackson riding. I didn’t give a flying fuck about any of the other riders. The ideal event would be just watching Jackson and then I’d get to fucking leave. And I wasn’t about to start in on the fucking rodeo clown they brought out in between shit to entertain people. I had opinions on that too.

My nerves were shot from the volume, the clutter of noises, and the high energy in the air. I wasn’t cut out for places like this.

All of that faded away when it was Jackson’s turn. Unlike every other bull, Rampage was utterly still in the chute. Even when they tried to provoke him a little, he remained unmoving. My heart raced in my chest, and I inched forward in my seat. No one would understand just why that bull was so fucking dangerous.

Yet again, Darla hopped over the seat to sit beside me. When she offered me her hand, I took it without thinking.

“Our boy’s got this,” she whispered .

“Fuck yeah, he does,” I murmured. I just had to keep reminding myself of that. Jackson was a damn good bull rider. Always had been. He was made for this.

When he nodded that he was good and ready, the chute opened. Rampage flew out in a wild frenzy.

One …

Jackson’s hat flew off as Rampage twisted and bucked violently.

Two …

“C’mon… c‘mon…” Darla damn near chanted next to me. Her hand tightened in mine or maybe it was the other way around.

Three …

Of all the goddamn bulls I’d watched, none moved like Rampage.

Four …

I saw Jackson’s hand slip. It was a fraction of a second but it happened.

Five …

He flew off the bull’s back and crashed into the ground—his head snapping off the dirt.

Six …

My heart stopped.

Seven …

Jackson never stood a chance as Rampage trampled right over him.

Eight…