Arrogant Bastard - Julie Capulet Page 0,78

me, also blond. His hair gleams in the sun. “Roll with him. Get the rhythm, just like you’ve been doing since you were five years old. You got this.” I can tell they’re worried for me, the accident still fresh in their minds. It was the kind of fall that could—and almost did—unhinge a career. The kind that could get under a rider’s skin, if he let it. But I’ve been riding horses since before I could walk and riding bulls since before I could talk. I can read an animal through a kind of telepathy honed and trained almost daily over my twenty-six years. Yeah, I fucked up once but I can feel it in my bones: this ride is mine. The King of Spades is a massive hunk of power, but that’s to my advantage. The bull is huge, not nimble and overly-quick, like the bull that unseated me. This is a ride I can own.

I ease myself onto the animal and lace my leather glove under the rope that’s wound tight around the beast’s shoulders and chest.

“Eight seconds, Will,” Luke says, the words echoing in my concentration.

Eight seconds.

“You ready, Will?”

“Ready.”

The signal’s given, and the gate swings open. The King of Spades lunges out of the cage and into the ring, bucking, springing, twisting. I relax into it, finding my rhythm. After the second lunge, and the third, predicting the bull’s next move becomes easier, instinctive. A twinge in my rib reminds me of the impact, the pain of going down. My left fist clenches tighter around the rope, my right arm up, guiding my balance.

Four seconds.

The jarring, jolting glide of the dance becomes easier, almost beautiful. Like anything is beautiful when talent, practice and courage converge. I can feel it all, burning through my veins along with the rush of the ride.

Six seconds. He’s almost there! The clock is ticking but the question remains: can he hold on? The King is showing no signs of slowing down. But Finn seems almost back to his old form! He wants glory! He can practically taste it! Can he best Montana’s finest?

I can hear the roar of the crowd. Hell, I can feel the roar of the crowd. The hum brings it all back to me. The reason I kept on riding. The thrill of victory.

And there it is. The bell. The cheers and pounding boom of the crowd on its feet.

Eight seconds! He’s done it! Ladies and gentlemen, Will Finn is back!

25.

The number itself might seem harmless enough in any other context except the one where it meant that I’d now spent a quarter of an entire century inhabiting this strange, wildly imperfect cocktail I occasionally like to refer to as my soul. This is how I pitch it to myself: twenty-five years’ worth of life experience, customized knowledge and overpriced education are congregated usefully in my psyche. I’m now officially old enough to be entirely independent—not that I haven’t been for far too long—and young enough to still be in the prime of my youth. Or at least this is what I try to convince myself as walk the three blocks to work on a hot August morning in New York City.

I’m in a surly mood this morning. First, the quarter century thing. Also, my dreams were especially vivid last night, starring … cowboys, of all things, which I blame on a series of erotic romance novels I’ve developed a secret addiction for. Those rugged, fictional heroes with their big cocks and bad attitudes are just so wildly entertaining. I woke tangled in my sheets, soaked in sweat. It’s embarrassing to even think about.

Before I can entirely convince myself that a quarter-century’s worth of valuable and hard-won experience is about to infuse gigantic amounts of good fortune, mostly-wholesome fun and at least one intelligent bo-hunk with killer abs and a great sense of humor into my life, I arrive at work, where my boss, James, is waiting for me. I work at an upmarket art gallery. My boss is the owner of the gallery and is—how should I put this—a total prick.

“What do you want first, Ella?” James says. “The good news or the bad?”

“Good morning, James. Uh, let’s see. The good, I guess?”

James launches straight into it. “I’m sending you to the Fleur Jensen exhibition. In Bozeman.” This causes me to do a double-take. Did I hear that correctly? “Wherever Bozeman is. I’ve got to get ready for the Ransom show and I need Astrid here to