Dynomite: A Stepbrother Cowboy Romance (15 page)

I knew it wasn’t really like that. Really, it was that super-snob Olivia who had done that. But April roused so many conflicting emotions in me that it was easier for me to blame her.

“Lawson! What’re you doing here? I only told Olivia—”

“Never you fucking mind, April.” Willard was viciously shoving April aside in his zest to get to me. He poked his hammy finger in my direction, but didn’t fucking dare actually touch me. “Drummond. I should’ve fucking known you were the scumbag behind this stunt. I knew it was another cowboy who done it. Only another cowpoke could’ve roped Bull Gravy hellaway over here.”

“Lawson…” April said warningly, trying to get between us again.

I bawled, “Whatchoo gonna do about it, Willard? Nark on me? Turn me over to the cops like the sniveling little baby you are?” Actually,
I
sounded like the sniveling baby. Willard was a giant goon of a brute. I was a wiry, athletic guy. I could wrestle a slinger, a hooky steer, to the ground in three seconds flat. But this goon could knock me out in two.

He crossed his salami arms in front of his chest and looked down at me. “You know I’d never do that. I’d like to take another shot at you.”

I was confused. Shot? “What exactly do you mean…shot?”

April swiped her hands in front of her as though petting cats. “No shooting! Lawson! You said you locked your guns up in your safe!”

Willard looked knowledgeable. He had something up his fucking sleeve. “Nah. This is
mano a mano
, which means man to man, and your best event too, Drummond. I suggest sneaking into the arena tonight and seeing who can stay on a bronc the longest.”

I smiled. What wasn’t to like about that plan? That made me even more suspicious of it. “What’s the angle, Willard? You’ve got a fucking angle.”

He looked smug. Now I knew how I usually looked to others. “Just one rule. We each pick the bronc for the other guy.”

What wasn’t to like about that, either? I had a real nasty star-gazer in my corral, a double-kicker that I’d only just begun working with. I called him Betelgeuse, of course. I knew Willard would choose a real arm-jerker for me, too, one that would give me right solid whiplash. It wasn’t a fair competition by any means. That’s why Willard had chosen it.

“You’re on.” I wasn’t sure if he’d sucker-punch me or not, but I reached out to shake his hand. He did, without sucker-punching me.

“Oh,” trilled April. “I don’t like the sound of this. I don’t like the sound of this at all.”

Willard actually slapped her on the shoulder. Like some fucking buddy of his! “Not to worry, little one. Don’t worry your pretty little head.”

APRIL

“G
o, Dyno, go!
Stay on ’im! Ride ’im, cowboy!”

Jesus H. Criminy. For a girl who was spreading rumors about Dyno and seemed to loathe the ground he walked on, Olivia was sure his biggest buckle bunny.

Sure, other girls from our cheer squad were almost as vocal. Amber Blankenship shrieked her fucking head off, whipping her stick-straight hair from side to side like a thoroughbred mare. Even Amy Lauerbach was flushed with excitement, screaming stupid stuff like, “Handle that rigging! Never let go! Ride ’im like you’re gonna ride me!”

Jesus Flipping Christ.
These chicks, my fellow squad mates, were going absolutely fucking apeshit. It was enough to make me want to rip out their weaves. We were there under cover of night and they were bellowing loud enough to keep the wolves awake.

Sequoia had let us in and turned on all the lights. He’d been working around the arena doing odd jobs and had keys for a few gates. He was playing pickup man now, too, although it looked more like he was trying to avoid being kicked in the jaw by Dyno’s horse.

Of course, I’d been timing Dyno ever since he burst forth from the bucking chute and marked out the horse. Sure, it was exciting. Watching Dyno ride anything was exciting. He was a macho, virile piece of man that stirred the hormones of any woman nearby. And man, was he stirring me with his spectacular ride.

Of course Lawson and his cronies were blaring bullshit like, “Go for it, fag! That’s the last time you’ll feel a hunk of flesh like that between your legs!” and “Hump ’im, homo! Pretend he’s your boyfriend and ride ’im like a fag!”

Of course, Dyno couldn’t hear any of this crap. I’d been told that during a ride all sight and sound is shut down aside from you and your horse. Dyno was fixated on gripping his rigging just right and rolling his spurs over the horse’s shoulders while his joints and ligaments were pounded, his skull cracked back against his spine. Bareback bronc was the most demanding and physically costly sport in rodeo. And I knew the horse Lawson had chosen for Dyno. Double Trump was the meanest, rankest gelding in Lawson’s dad’s stable. He’d been known to thrown men and purposefully trample them. I knew from the start that Lawson would choose him, and I’d tried to warn Dyno. But damn if that arrogant, tough cowboy wasn’t so full of himself, he just brushed it off.

“If I can’t ride a rank bronc for eight seconds, I don’t deserve to go pro,” he growled at me.

That had pissed me off, so I gave up trying to warn him. But deep inside, I was petrified. It blew me away how much fear I had for Dyno, and none for Lawson. And it had nothing to do with knowledge of their skills. I
knew
Dyno was a far superior rider. Dyno was a true vaquero through and through. Us buckle bunnies could wear upside-down triangular bandanna shirts till we had a nip slip—usually on purpose, if you want to know the truth—but we’d never be true cowgirls until we rode with the herd or started barrel racing. And none of us were about to do that. Only a few women did that, and those women wouldn’t look good wearing upside-down bandanna shirts.

Nope, I was terrified that Dyno would hurt himself. The risks these cowmen took were unbelievable. Bareback was a punishing, brutal event, and as I watched Dyno being lashed back and forth like a leaf in a tornado, all I could think was
I want him to quit
. This sport didn’t involve longevity. Injuries and burnout claimed many enthusiastic souls. And then what? A guy went back to roping calves for someone else’s outfit—in my case, my damned dad’s. Rough stock competition was manly, show-offy work with an extremely bad prognosis.

“Thirteen seconds!” screamed Amber.

“You traitor
bitch
!” someone yelled from the men’s bleachers. It sounded like Amber’s boyfriend, but I wasn’t taking my eyes off Dyno’s ride.

It was fucking spectacular, the muscular way he spurred the horse as it lunged and arched furiously. He was perfectly balanced for every one of Double Trump’s spins. I was flying high on the pure adrenaline of the rush, made even more potent as we’d be skinned alive if we were caught in the arena. Dyno and Lawson would probably be at least fined if not disbarred from competing. But Dyno took it all in stride, his free hand splayed to prove that he touched nothing on the horse, his hips bucking, fringes flying.

“
Oh my God
!” squealed Amber. “
Seventeen seconds!”

“Loser!” bellowed Lawson through cupped hand.

“Faggot!” roared Kemp.

“God damned liberal pothead!” yelled Troy.

That last one would’ve made me laugh if I wasn’t in danger of losing my shit completely. I even grabbed onto Amber’s shoulders and dug my fingers into her bare skin. Dyno finally, at long last, went out the back door, landing on his ass where he twirled like a fallen skater. He got to his feet just as Sequoia circled around on his pickup horse, twirling Dyno like a gyrocopter over the ass end of his horse. Double Trump harmlessly trotted off after Sequoia removed the flank strap that helped him buck, and I found myself in a mess of jumping girls intertwining our arms like we were set to do a cheer.

In fact, a few of us
were
chanting a little bit. “Dyno! Dyno!”

I broke away from them, though. I didn’t want to seem like one of his stupid fans, a little cheerleader with nothing better to do than to idolize a bareback bronc rider.

Dyno stayed on the back of Sequoia’s horse until they’d left the arena. Now it was time for Lawson to get ready for his ride.

Normally, as Lawson’s girlfriend—in name only, by this time—I’d be back there by the catch pens fawning all over him, pumping his ego for his turn in the ring. Now I stumbled all over myself rushing down the bleacher stairs just to reach Dyno.

I caught up to him as Sequoia led him to a bench. Why was Sequoia doing that, instead of catching the bucking bronc? I reckoned maybe Lawson was catching his own damned bronc, as well he should, but as I got closer, I realized something was wrong.

We were partially in the dark, Sequoia not wanting to turn on too many lights. The arena was out in the ghost town of the county fairgrounds, but you never knew who would happen by. So Dyno’s face, his high chiseled cheekbones, his slanted exotic eyes, was all in shadow.

“I’m just tuckered out, ’sall,” he was telling Sequoia. “Long-ass ride. Long-ass day.”

Sequoia’s eyes held a sharp concern. “I don’t know, boss. You’ve got that clammy feeling I’ve seen a couple times before.” He passed a hand over Dyno’s forehead, beneath the curtain of sandy hair.

Dyno brushed him away like he was dandruff. “Go, go. You got to ride pickup for that buttwipe Willard. I’m fine.”

I sat down on the other side of Dyno and did the same thing, feeling his forehead as though he were a little kid. “You do feel damper than normal. Are you dizzy?”

Dyno whacked my arm away almost violently. “Like you’d know! Yazzie, git on out there and help that dickwipe.” I could tell that Lawson and the horse Dyno had chosen for him were already prepping in the bucking chute. The sooner we got out of the arena the better.

Sequoia walked backward, talking to Dyno while heading toward the chute. “Okay! But if he takes a spill, I’ll be extra-slow in picking him up.”

Dyno waved weakly. I’d never seen him like this, so weak after a ride. “You do that.” It seemed he really could give a shit less. So something must be horribly wrong.

“Seriously,” I said. “You don’t look well. No broken bones?” This time, I didn’t touch him.

He sighed heavily, wiping his face with his hand. He grabbed his cowboy hat and bashed it against his knee. “I’m fine. Just a minor concussion is all. Happens all the time.”

I knew he was telling the truth. Cowboys, especially bronc and bull riders, had their brains sloshed around in their skulls all the time. But that was no excuse for the words that came out of my mouth next.

“I want you to quit.”

That
sure got his attention. He snapped to eyes front and fixed me with shocked, narrowed eyes. “What?” he whispered.

I had to speak louder now over the yelling coming from the chute. “I want you to quit. This is a hazardous job. It’s the worst, Dyno. Believe you me. I’ve seen contestants ride my dad’s animals. One guy
died
, Dyno. Died in the arena. A bull gored his ribs and severed a main artery. He died on the spot.”

Dyno nodded. I could tell he was soaking in every word. “I remember that guy. Alan Mack up in Redding in oh-one. He was your guy?”

“Our guy. I remember my mom crying and begging my dad to stop sponsoring events.”

Dyno snorted. “Well. It’s hardly the sponsor’s fault. Those are the risks of the trade.”

“I know my opinion has no sway over you. It’s just something I feel in my gut.”

I couldn’t believe he actually seemed to be considering it. Or maybe he’d considered it before. “What else do you want me to do? Cowboy all day and night?”

My heart leaped, and I grabbed for it. “Javier is set to retire soon! He’s old, Dyno.
Old
.” I made him sound as old as Abe Vigoda, when really, he probably wasn’t even sixty, which was still old for a vaquero. “You could easily take over for him. It’s a good salary, a good career.”

He snorted again. “Hate to say, April. But not for your dad. He’s got some…choices in morality that cause conflict between us. We could never work that closely together.”

I was going to ask him what he meant, but they must’ve opened the bucking chute then, because my so-called friends had started shrieking like the wind.

Dyno didn’t seem like he even wanted to watch, but I took his arm. “Come on!”

Lawson was flailing like an eel and hadn’t even “marked out” by the time we rushed the stands. He’d worn his fringed chaps to show off, and the way they swished up and down every time his gelding bucked was even sort of pathetic from the get go. And the girls weren’t even screaming his name as loudly as they had for Dyno. There was a half-hearted sort of jumping and calling out coming from their bleacher. The difference was painfully noticeable, and for a moment I almost felt sorry for Lawson.

Dyno muttered, “He’s not spurring consistently. His form is bad.”

I just marked all that up to sour grapes, although I’d seen their respective standings. As much as Lawson bragged, he didn’t have what it took to get to nationals anyway, so it was a good thing he was going to study law—anti-gay law, from what I’d seen.

But within the blink of an eye, even before the word “bad” had left Dyno’s mouth, Lawson was on the ground. Dyno’s horse, which actually belonged to my dad, was known as a double kicker. He made his name proud now by kicking his hind legs, walking on his front legs, then kicking again with the back. He nailed Lawson in the shoulder on the back kick. When Lawson went down like a sock puppet, the ornery bronc twirled right around and stamped on the football player’s chest.