Page 9 of Meant to Be

“When are you going to come hunting with us?” Brennon asks, snapping me back to reality. He shoots, hitting two of the five of his targets.

Us. Brennon and his brothers. I barely have it in me to stand being around Brennon anymore, let alone with two others just like him. All of them together are chaotic, especially doing something as inhumane as that.

I used to go away a lot with Brennon and his family. I would have gone anywhere—with anyone—to escape this place for a while. His family has a farm even further west than here. We would go for a week or so. It was basically a week of drinking and hunting—and only one of those things I half-enjoyed. It’s been years since I’ve agreed to go, and Brennon has yet to take the hint.

Shaking my head, I reload. “Not interested.”

Brennon opens his mouth to argue—like we have many times about this—but he exhales and drops it. For the first time in his life.

“Next, you’ll become a fucking vegetarian,” he mutters.

“If you spent as much time focusing on the job at hand as giving me a hard time, you might be better at this.”

Brennon’s eyes swivel to mine as he glowers at me. “Fuck you, Harley.”

I grin. “Try not to miss this time.”

He scowls. He aims, and this time, he hits the two targets with ease. I clap my hand on his shoulder.

“Better.”

Stalking back to the esky, I cup my hand over my eyes before I withdraw two cans of beer. I toss one at him and crack the other before taking a long sip. The alcohol is cold and crisp on my tongue. I swallow it down in greedy gulps.

“Christ, it’s hot,” I complain, blinking away the sweat threatening to leak into my eyes. Reaching into the bag, I pull out my cap and fling it over my head, shielding my eyes from the harsh sun rays filtering through the trees.

“Let’s go to the dam after this,” Brennon suggests. “Could use a swim.”

“Sounds good.”

When I finish my drink, I set up another five cans. Standing in my usual spot, I slide my earmuffs back over my ears and shoot. After Brennon has finished, we gather the cans up and tie the bag onto the back of the quad. Brennon loads the esky onto the back of the other before we rev the engines to life.

We take off, zigzagging and cutting each other off as we make our way across the fields. I let out a loud laugh as Brennon narrowly avoids a ditch that would have sent him tumbling.

The engine has barely turned off before I’m diving into the dam. The water glides over my skin and through my hair, relieving me from the piercing sun overhead. I shake my head when I emerge, water droplets spraying everywhere.

As I tread water, I stare down at my arms. Scars litter the skin of my left elbow.

“You ever going to ride again?”

I glance a Brennon for a moment before looking back down at my arm. A patch of skin is off-colour, where I had to get a skin graft. Sometimes, when I close my eyes, I feel it happen all over again.

The bull’s head ducking, his back vertical. Being slingshot into the air. Hitting the ground so hard, it seemed like every bit of oxygen in my body was sucked up into a vacuum. Hooves digging into my body. Bones shattering. People screaming. Blood soaking my clothes, dripping over the dirt ground. Darkness.

I haven’t ridden since it happened over a year ago. I only started riding to have something to do around here. To try to fitsomewherehere. I hated every minute of it.

Tearing my eyes away from the scars, I look forward, out to the grass paddocks. A cow canters across the glade, stirred up from the sounds of the motorbikes.

“I don’t know.”

“You should,” he replies. “You were great at it.”

Every time I think about settling onto a bull’s back, a sickening sensation grips my stomach. I’ve never felt anything like it. I’ve always been adventurous, getting myself into all sorts of trouble. I’m no stranger at the hospital, but something about this has shaken me to my core. Maybe it’s because I really did, for a few moments, think I was going to die.

“Yeah. Maybe.”

“Your number one spot has been taken,” Brennon continues, oblivious to the fact that this is the last thing I want to be talking about. “Sam Mayor has gotten good. Really good.”

“Good for him.”