Chapter One
Fear didn’t exist here.
That was a phrase that had been burned into Two Shots Down’s brain with every second he spent in the bucking chute.
The cheering, jeering crowd was nothing but a murmur. His heavy breath and heartbeat were louder. They always were right before a ride.
He looked out the slats and exhaled heavily. The rodeo arena was bright, the packed seats just a blur around the edges. The sponsor signs were colorful along the rail, and two of the best bull fighters in the game were standing about ten yards from the gate, shifting their weight from boot to boot, ready.
If he could toss them an evil smile in this body, he would. Be ready, boys. I’m about to bring you hell, and you know it.
The adrenaline was doing its thing, pumping through his system and firing him up. The announcer was talking as Two Shots Down clanked his horn against the chute gate. His rider was good, young, uninjured, had been drawing some good bulls and moving up in the rankings over the last month.
“Jack Tethers,” the announcer crowed, his voice echoing as he introduced Two Shots Down’s rider to the crowd. “And he drew one hell of a rank bull tonight. Some of you came here just to see him. I see those T-shirts. I see those flags a-flyin’. I see y’all lifting those shot glasses in the air. The bull in chute number three needs no introduction. He’s been on fire this season. No one has been able to ride this bull since March of last year, and Jack sure has his work cut out for him tonight if he wants to break this winning streak. The girls love him, and the guys want to be him. Whiskey is his drink of choice, and he takes two shots before he changes for every ride. That’s where this monster got his name. Ladies and gentlemen, Two Shots Down!”
The crowd went crazy with cheers and boos. He loved this. Loved the attention, the negative, the positive, it didn’t matter.
And then it happened. Like it always did, it happened. Right as Jack slipped onto his back and the flankman pulled his flank strap tight, he showed up. Two Shots Down’s own personal ghost. Tarik Walker appeared in the middle of the arena in the space between the two pickup men on horseback and the bull fighters still standing at the ready. He looked the same as he always did—hollow eyes, boots and spurs, and the same outfit he’d worn the night Two Shots Down had killed him. Wranglers, a plaid shirt, and the riding vest that was supposed to protect him. No hat, though. Two Shots Down had found his hat later and kept it, but he couldn’t explain why. Now the ghost didn’t have a damn hat, and he supposed that was his fault, too.
The adrenaline surged higher as the sadness, anger, frustration, and a million memories of the year following that death resurfaced. He kicked off his back legs, aiming for the top of the chute, and damn near jumped it before his front legs hit the metal and he fell back to earth.
The cowboys around the chute were yelling, scrambling, trying to settle Jack on his back, trying to keep him calm.
“He always does this…”
“Trying to get in your head…”
“Don’t let him win before he even bucks you...”
Panic and anger were his favorite cocktail right before a ride, and Tarik’s ghost wasn’t haunting him anymore. He was helping him.
The sound of his snorting breath drowned out the noise of the spectators. The flankman was good. He’d studied Two Shots Down. Knew he bucked better if the flank strap was up higher on his waist, not pressing his nuts. The rope was irritating, and when he tightened the strap, it was all he could do not to buck Jack in the chute again.
Steady. Save it. Get him.
The cowboys were yelling, but Jack seemed calm. Two Shots Down slammed his horn against the gate with an echoing clang to rattle him. Jack was almost done adjusting the position of his hand in the rope now. Soon. So soon.
“You ready for the ride of your life, boy?” an older cowboy named Hank yelled at Jack.
Two Shots Down angled his massive head to watch his reaction.
Jack looked as pale as Tarik’s ghost. He gazed out at the arena, one hand in the ropes at the hump in Two Shots Down’s back, one gloved hand on the gate. He blew out two quick breaths and nodded to the gateman.
The second that gate swung open, the noise stopped, and in Two Shots Down’s mind, the clock started ticking.
Go.
He jumped out of the chute and twisted right, kicked high because he’d studied this rider. He knew every weakness, every buck he would do. He was going to give him two seconds. Get his confidence up, get the crowd cheering, and then he was going to slam that rider onto the ground and make those bullfighters earn their paychecks saving Jack tonight.
No, fear didn’t exist here…for him.
Fear sure as hell existed for the rider who had to spend eight seconds on his back.
Chapter Two
The hot shower water ran down Two Shots Down’s face, and he leaned heavily on the wall and just took in the moment. Changing back into a man hurt like hell. Training his body the way he needed to hurt like hell. Bucking like that hurt like hell.
But…
The vision of Jack flying off his back and into the wall, then him scrambling out of Two Shots Down’s way as he charged him was something that would make him smile for days.
Goddang, he hated bull riders. And they hated him. Rightly so. He’d just moved up to the top three bulls in the Professional Bull Shifter Riding Circuit. This wasn’t a normal rodeo circuit. Shifters were bigger, more aggressive, and smarter than the animals in the PBR. They studied their riders, and the riders in turn, had to up their game and study the bulls right back.
The shifters were also running on a significant amount of testosterone, so when Two Shots Down heard the bathroom door open and smelled another bull shifter, he saw red real quick. Bad idea approaching him right after a ride and a shift back to his human skin.
He spun on the intruder, but it wasn’t one of the other bull shifters. It was the head organizer of the entire circuit, Tommy Hane.
He came in with his hands held up. “I know you like to be alone after a ride, but you’re needed in the meeting room.”
“Why?” he asked. “I had a clean ride.”
“It’s not just about you. It’s a circuit meeting.”
“Jesus.” He rested his hands on his hips. “You don’t think I’ve done enough of those meetings in the last three years, Tommy?”
“I already said it ain’t just about you, Two Shots Down! It has nothing to do with Tarik. I’m not arguing with you today. Just put your fuckin’ jeans on and head to the meeting.” He stormed to the door but turned back before he left, his eyes darkening to the brown of his bull’s eyes. “Don’t bail on this meeting, or I will drop you a rank. That ain’t a threat. It’s a promise.”
After the door slammed behind Tommy, Two Shots Down turned and blasted his fist into the wall a few times. Probably broke a bone or ten, but he healed fast—a benefit of the bull that was fuming inside of him.
He stopped the water and barely toweled off before he yanked his jeans on and stormed out of the bathroom. The bulls each had private changing room so they could turn back into their human forms after a ride and shower off before they had to do any interviews.
Apparently, there was no press tonight, just some bullshit meeting about God-knows-what-now. It was always something.