“Up next is one of those guys fans love to watch because he makes riding bulls look as easy as sipping fine wine on Saturday night under a blanket of stars with your honey. I’m talking about none other than fan favorite, Royal Guérin. Not only has he been strong all season, putting up consistent numbers against fierce competitors, but he’s been doing so on some of the highest-ranked bulls. He’s not messing around out there. Tonight, he’s climbing on the twenty-two-hundred-pound Atomic Sonic, a bull only in its first season but that has shown everyone why it’s here with these veteran bulls. This bull isn’t one you can clutch your pearls on. It has height, power, and some gnarly spins.
“Now we see Royal in the chute, getting set and wrapping his rope just the way he likes it. That’s the thing about these cowboys. They all have their own method, and they won’t leave the chute until they’re satisfied. He’s readjusting now, shifting up to move away from the flank, and that’s important. He doesn’t want to be back there because it makes it hard to get around the bull, and on a bull like this, not making little adjustments early can lead to huge mistakes later. When that gate opens, things are bound to get wild. He gives the nod, and here we go.
“Oh, look at that. Atomic Sonic explodes from the gate straight into a jump, and look at how high that bull is off the ground. This bull means business, but so does the cowboy atop. Royal’s setting his hips and riding the momentum of the kick back to the front. And there’s what we’re talking about—one of those nasty spins, but Royal’s right there with it, shifting his hips into the inside of the spin and transferring his weight to his right leg. Whoa, and another big jump. Atomic Sonic must think this is a catapulting event, because it’s aiming to cast Royal off to the moon. Royal is slung forward but quickly recovers. And this is where we see the skills of the rider. Royal isn’t guessing what he needs to do. He knows exactly where he needs to be on that bull and the intensity he needs to use to get there. Make no mistake, there is nothing random about what Royal’s doing. He knows how to find the rhythm of a bull, and that’s the key to staying on. Most riders would have been in the dirt by now. Big bucks. Big spins. And that’s going to do it.
“Now watch this dismount. Royal’s going to wait until the bullfighters straighten that bull out a bit before yanking off his wrap. There we see him undone, and now he’s going to jump off to the left. He lands on his feet while keeping low to the ground, and Atomic Sonic kicks right over his head. Beautiful execution here tonight by Royal Guérin, and this crowd is loving it. Forty-eight and a half for Atomic Sonic and a solid forty-six for Royal for a total of 94.5.”
Marcel slapped Royal on the shoulder. “Good ride.”
“Shit, boy! You need some oxygen? Looked like that bovine was trying to buck you to the tippy top of Machu Picchu,” Upton yelled, laughing and punching Royal.
Royal grinned back. “For a moment there, I thought he may have. He slapped down, and all I had was a mouthful of dust and an eyeful of horn. I thought I was on the ground until it went back up again.” He looked around. “Where’s East?”
“He walked over to the judging booth to see what’s happening with his bull,” Marcel responded. “Something was going on with its eyes. The vet thinks it may be irritation from this morning’s smoke. A couple are going to have to sit this one out, which means some riders now are being assigned different bulls.”
Royal’s expression turned to concern. “I thought all of that had been decided earlier.”
“It was until it wasn’t,” Marcel replied.
“But the vet checked them out and gave them all the all clear,” Royal continued protesting.
“Now, Roy, you know how these things go.”
“Yeah.” He sighed. He did know. It wasn’t unusual to have a switch, but something about this didn’t sit right with him. He glanced at the judge’s booth, where Easton gave him a double thumbs-up and flashed a goofy grin. “Maybe I should go up there and see what’s going on.”
“No,” Marcel corrected. “What you’re going to do is get over there and give that ring announcer a statement. Easton’s a big boy. He can handle his own business.”
Royal’s frown deepened—not because he thought Marcel was wrong, but, rather, he disliked having his excuse stripped away. Generally, Royal enjoyed being in front of the cameras after a stellar ride, but currently, he wasn’t feeling it.
“Stop pouting and get over there,” Marcel stated, giving Royal a light nudge.
“I wasn’t pouting.”
Upton chuckled. “Dude, if your bottom lip dropped any lower, it would blend in with the carpet.”
“There’s no dang carpet in here,” Royal uttered as he marched off to the ring reporter. “And what do they want me to say that’s different than any other time? It’s the same questions with the same answer. ‘How does it feel?’ ‘Well, I stayed my ass on.’”
“Boy, what is wrong with you? You just completed the most impressive ride of the night, and you’re acting like a petulant child.”
Cody snickered. “You know Roy don’t know about adulting and big boy breeches.”
“And you don’t understand English and subject-verb agreement, but you can kiss—”
“Royal, go!” Marcel ordered.
Royal grunted and headed toward the interviewer. “Yeah, yeah, I’m going.”
* * *
Easton
“It’s coming down to the wire. Tonight has been the stiffest competition all season. These cowboys are all looking to make it to the championship, and they know the only way to do that is to give it their all and take the fight to the bull. At this level, one small mistake can cost everything. With tonight’s scores, Easton Faucheaux is on the bubble and now finds himself in a must-ride situation. He understands this as he prepares to climb aboard Onyx Alpha—a bull he rode last week and struggled to make the requisite eight. Let’s see if tonight will be any different.
“The chute opens. Onyx Alpha spins hard to the right, almost folding itself in half, and that has Easton laid back farther than he wants. And wow! Look at that bull buck. The height of the Eiffel Tower on that one.”
This fucking bull, Easton thought, wrestling to get back to the middle of Onyx Alpha’s back. How had he managed to pull this bull twice in a row? Well, he hadn’t, technically. His bull had been pulled out of the lineup last minute. Last freaking minute. It didn’t get hurt in the chute. No accident had occurred in the holding pen. Nope. All of a sudden, it developed smoke inhalation from this morning.
Come on!
Onyx Alpha wasn’t even supposed to be in the rotation. Its name should have been scratched off the list with a crayon. Rode bulls were allowed at least two weeks to rest between events. So, how had Onyx Alpha gotten into the mix? It made no damn sense no matter which way Easton pretzel-twisted it.
No matter now, though. It had been put into the mix, and East had drawn the short straw. He couldn’t ponder the why and how while straddling a mobile billboard of fuck around and find out. He had to make it through the next seven and a half seconds without looking like Who let him in? and What fool is this? and this bovine’s bitch. But staying on wouldn’t be enough. He needed showmanship to earn the high points and stay in this competition. And that wasn’t going to happen with his hand about to pop out of his rope and him barely hanging on by his fingertips.
“Good God Almighty!”
“You continue to beseech prevarication, you derisory stooge.”
Easton knew that sound… that voice… that unnatural…. He’d heard it before. He looked downward, where a swirling violet cloud of dust was forming into…
“No!” He worked his hand beneath his wrap and hoisted himself forward. A strong smell of infection, excrement, and rot filled his nostrils. Bile rose to the base of his throat and lodged there, refusing to proceed upward or to retreat in reverse.
Onyx Alpha’s hooves propelled clay and minuscule specks of gravel into the air. What resembled dismembered limbs and curdled entrails emerged from the arena floor in mangled heaps.
Seven seconds.
“Jesus, help me. Notre Père, qui est aux cieux, que ton nom soit sanctifié—”
“Your prayers cannot help you. Nothing can.”
Onyx Alpha whipped left, and Easton’s head flung back with a piercing pain that streaked from his neck to his sternum and snaked around to his lower back. Easton exuded a new sheen of sweat, and his skin prickled with goose bumps at the realization that his legs were numb.
Do I hear singing?
The scratchy whispers of a lullaby rang in his ears—so soft, yet screaming.
“Hush, little one. Go deep down into the hole beneath the willow root. Shred the flesh and ram sawdust into vessels after bucking out of the chute. Snap the neck and pulverize the bones to ash for spectators’ delight. Surrender now and accept one’s plight.”
Six seconds.
Was he up? Down? Still on? Easton scrambled to get his bearings. He couldn’t afford to panic no matter what he was imagining. Now, if never at any other time, he had to maintain his cool or else…
I’m going to die.
“Yes, you are,” came the cackled response.
Five seconds.
“Bastard!” Clenching his teeth, Easton lurched forward as Onyx Alpha lunged into a bull death spin. Easton’s vision filled with the curve of thick horns, and his body stopped mere centimeters from contact. He felt himself slipping, his center of gravity off.
It’s over.
“Hang on, East! You got this.”
Royal.
Royal’s voice flooded his ears. But how was that possible? How could he hear Royal over the crowd? Over Onyx Alpha’s stomps and grunts? Over whatever the fuck that was rising from the bowels of hell and speaking to him? He heard Royal above it all.
Four seconds.
He didn’t have shit, but if Royal believed in him, he’d hang on.
He tugged on the rope again, righting himself—or repositioning to a less awkward position, at least. Hell, he didn’t know. Between the industrial overhead lights blinding him and a dirt floor that had turned into a minefield of cadavers, he was disoriented and ensnarled in a briar patch of metaphysical weeds. He could have been upside down and dragging behind the bull’s ass for all he knew, except he doubted it. The crowd wasn’t loud enough. If he were being dragged, the place would have been shaking like the Roman Colosseum as the crowd demanded a macabre coup de grâce.
Stomp, stomp, stomp.
Up and down, Easton danced with the bovine beast. Dust swirled like a tornado around its hooves. A more distinct shape had formed, and an emaciated hand extended toward his foot.
“Get away! Don’t touch me!”
“Come home, Easton,” the eerie figure replied.
Home. That was where Easton wanted to be. Home with Royal by his side and not this bullshit.
Three.
Although Georgia had been good to him and had been better for his training and career, he missed Louisiana. He and Royal could build a cabin overlooking the bayou and spend their days ranching and raising horses.
Two.
If not horses, gators. There were plenty of those ancient dinosaurs swimming about. They could do bayou tours or open a gator farm. But no. Royal loved the rodeo. He’d never leave, not even for him. Easton’s heart sank at the latter thought, and a hard thud stole his breath. He was off the bull and rolling. Creatures crawled after him, gaining speed.
“You are mine, Easton Faucheaux. You belong to me.”
Something sticky pressed against his neck—like small, gummy needles sinking into his throat.
Then everything went black.