Page 77 of On the Wild Side

“Good.” He settles me back against him, my back to his front, and kisses my hair. “Because that’s not an option for me, either. Now, what do you want to see?”

“I didn’t know that there would be somany,” I admit.

“I’ve been doing this a long time. Fourteen years, professionally. So, yeah, there’s plenty to watch.”

“You won the world championshiptwice?”

“Three times,” he says with pride.

“Where are all of your belt buckles and trophies?”

“In totes. I don’t have the space to display them. I keep a couple out to wear when I’m working, but otherwise, they’re just stored away.”

I tip my head so I can stare up at him. “These aren’t simple bowling trophies, Brady. This is abigdeal. You should have those on display.”

“You’ve been to my cabin,” he reminds me. “Where do you propose I put them?”

I twist my lips and then turn back to the computer. “Someday, you’ll show them off. Now, where should we start?”

“Do you want to see me ride?”

“Hell, yes. I want to see you ride.”

He pages back up the screen and clicks on theBrady Wild Wins Second World Championshipvideo.There is commentary, a little interview with him before, and he says,“I want Bushwacker.”

He pushes away, places his cowboy hat onto his head, and the announcers start talking.

“Bushwacker again. That’s the toughest bull out there, and Wild keeps choosing him, week after week.”

“No one has conquered that bull sixteen times in a row. Wild wants to set another record.”

I glance up at him, and his eyes are narrow, watching the screen, as if he’s studying it.

“You’re going to miss it, Blue Eyes.”

I turn back to the computer, and now Brady’s settling onto the bull, still behind a big gate. Men are around him, helping him, and then a buzzer sounds and the gate swings open, and that huge bull starts to buck and kick, trying to get the human off his back.

But Brady holds on, one arm in the air, his body jerking and bouncing. When the eight seconds are over—which feels like an eternity to me—he falls off, and the men hurry to him, helping him scurry out of the pissed-off bull’s way.

“Wow,” I breathe, my heart hammering. “That’s intense.”

He chuckles. “You should be on the bull.”

“I think I’ll leave that to you.” I look up at him again. “That is scary as fuck, Brady.”

“Butsofun.” He laughs and kisses my cheek.

“Your arm is limp as you run away.”

“Dislocated it again,” he says, as if it’s no big deal. “It happens. Twisted the shit out of my ankle on that one, too.”

No wonder his body hurts and he has the walk of a man twenty years his senior.

“Oh, watch this one.” He clicks on a link, and the noise of the arena is back. “I’m only about twenty-three here.”

Before Dirks died. Brady’s chatting with a man, laughing with him, before he walks to the microphone and says, “I want Bruiser.”

“Do you always announce which bull you’ll be riding that day?”