around for another spin.
Bree sucked in a breath, anticipating a train wreck. The long horns caught the rider under the vest he wore,and the bull tossed its head, flipping the man off its back, launching him across the arena to land in a heap on the dirt.
Men dressed in baggy clown-like clothes rushed in, yelling and running in front of the enraged animal. It ignored them and bore down on the stunned rider, who’d managed to struggle to his knees. The bull charged, missing with its horns but trampling the cowboy before racing off after one of the other men.
The cowboys around her groaned and shouted. Bree put a hand over her eyes, but looked through her fingers to see the bull trot out an open gate. She jumped when one of the older men patted her shoulder.
“He’s okay. Just got the wind knocked out of him.”
Several men entered the arena and knelt by the cowboy who was still on his hands and knees. When her lungs protested, Bree blew out the breath she hadn’t been aware of holding.
“That’ll teach him to keep his heels down,” Armando said.
The men helped the cowboy stand and the crowd cheered. They handed the loser his hat, and he turned to salute the crowd as he limped from the area. The show cut to a commercial.
“Dear God.” She glanced at the cowboys around her. “Why would anyone
do
that?”
“Do you know how much money those guys make?” Armando said from his seat on the raised hearth. “Besides, they’re famous. Ah, to be young and swarmed by fans every weekend. It sounds like a pretty good life to me.”
The raw brutality of the sport left Bree shaken. “You mean they volunteer for this?”
Armando shot her an incredulous look. “You’ve never watched the PBR?” At her blank look, he added, “Pro Bull Riders.”
Max’s deep voice came from behind her. “Don’t you know? Our Bree’s a city girl.”
She ignored him, her attention pulled back to the television as the next contestant got ready to ride. A cowboy on the catwalk pulled the rope taut and the rider wrapped it around his hand. He pushed his hat down on his head, gritted his teeth, and when he nodded, the gate opened.
This time, the cowboy managed to stay in the middle of the bull, jump for jump. Like some kind of violent ballet, the man and bull both strained with all they had for opposite outcomes. A buzzer sounded, and the cowboy reached down with his free hand to release the one locked in the rope. He jumped and landed catlike, on his feet. The bull bore down on him, but he ran to the side of the arena and hopped onto the fence, and the animal passed harmlessly beneath him.
He punched both hands in the air and the crowd went crazy. As pipes on the bucking chutes shot confetti into the air, the scoreboard over the arena flashed “91,” and the crowd cheered again. The camera zoomed in for a close shot of the grinning cowboy.
That kid can’t be over nineteen years old!
Pedro turned to Armando. “Potato Masher’s coming up. He’s gonna take it all at the finals in Vegas this year.”
“Nah. Wait till you see Bullwinkle in the short-go. That dude can bring it!”
“They’re talking about the bulls.” Max spoke low in her ear. She snapped to her feet and took a quick step away.
“It’s time I got to bed. I’ll see you all tomorrow atbreakfast.” She turned and hustled for the door. She really needed to call her mother; she’d be worried.
Halfway across the yard, she felt a light touch at the back of her neck. She shot a look over her shoulder to see Max, arms crossed, leaning against the building, studying her.
Aubrey looked around the prison cell. It wasn’t the one in the twin towers, because it held only one bunk, but the gauged cement walls were the same, as was the toilet with no lid in the corner. Something had woken her. Silence. It was never quiet in prison. Her eyes strained to penetrate the inky blackness. It was also never this dark. Then she heard his breathing. She should have been
Bree sucked in a breath, anticipating a train wreck. The long horns caught the rider under the vest he wore,and the bull tossed its head, flipping the man off its back, launching him across the arena to land in a heap on the dirt.
Men dressed in baggy clown-like clothes rushed in, yelling and running in front of the enraged animal. It ignored them and bore down on the stunned rider, who’d managed to struggle to his knees. The bull charged, missing with its horns but trampling the cowboy before racing off after one of the other men.
The cowboys around her groaned and shouted. Bree put a hand over her eyes, but looked through her fingers to see the bull trot out an open gate. She jumped when one of the older men patted her shoulder.
“He’s okay. Just got the wind knocked out of him.”
Several men entered the arena and knelt by the cowboy who was still on his hands and knees. When her lungs protested, Bree blew out the breath she hadn’t been aware of holding.
“That’ll teach him to keep his heels down,” Armando said.
The men helped the cowboy stand and the crowd cheered. They handed the loser his hat, and he turned to salute the crowd as he limped from the area. The show cut to a commercial.
“Dear God.” She glanced at the cowboys around her. “Why would anyone
do
that?”
“Do you know how much money those guys make?” Armando said from his seat on the raised hearth. “Besides, they’re famous. Ah, to be young and swarmed by fans every weekend. It sounds like a pretty good life to me.”
The raw brutality of the sport left Bree shaken. “You mean they volunteer for this?”
Armando shot her an incredulous look. “You’ve never watched the PBR?” At her blank look, he added, “Pro Bull Riders.”
Max’s deep voice came from behind her. “Don’t you know? Our Bree’s a city girl.”
She ignored him, her attention pulled back to the television as the next contestant got ready to ride. A cowboy on the catwalk pulled the rope taut and the rider wrapped it around his hand. He pushed his hat down on his head, gritted his teeth, and when he nodded, the gate opened.
This time, the cowboy managed to stay in the middle of the bull, jump for jump. Like some kind of violent ballet, the man and bull both strained with all they had for opposite outcomes. A buzzer sounded, and the cowboy reached down with his free hand to release the one locked in the rope. He jumped and landed catlike, on his feet. The bull bore down on him, but he ran to the side of the arena and hopped onto the fence, and the animal passed harmlessly beneath him.
He punched both hands in the air and the crowd went crazy. As pipes on the bucking chutes shot confetti into the air, the scoreboard over the arena flashed “91,” and the crowd cheered again. The camera zoomed in for a close shot of the grinning cowboy.
That kid can’t be over nineteen years old!
Pedro turned to Armando. “Potato Masher’s coming up. He’s gonna take it all at the finals in Vegas this year.”
“Nah. Wait till you see Bullwinkle in the short-go. That dude can bring it!”
“They’re talking about the bulls.” Max spoke low in her ear. She snapped to her feet and took a quick step away.
“It’s time I got to bed. I’ll see you all tomorrow atbreakfast.” She turned and hustled for the door. She really needed to call her mother; she’d be worried.
Halfway across the yard, she felt a light touch at the back of her neck. She shot a look over her shoulder to see Max, arms crossed, leaning against the building, studying her.
Aubrey looked around the prison cell. It wasn’t the one in the twin towers, because it held only one bunk, but the gauged cement walls were the same, as was the toilet with no lid in the corner. Something had woken her. Silence. It was never quiet in prison. Her eyes strained to penetrate the inky blackness. It was also never this dark. Then she heard his breathing. She should have been
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