I don’t know how long I stood there, staring in the direction I’d last seen him before Mickey stood beside me, clearing his throat. “Nugget,” he hissed. “I did what you asked. You drew Black Hurricane. I mean, I drew Black Hurricane.”

Fuck.

I shook my head, shaking away the fog of that damn kiss and looked over at Mickey. He was the same height as me, and he was weedy. I knew he was about due for his growth spurt, otherwise he might look like a bean pole forever.

I reached into my back pocket and pulled out a hundred bucks. I’d paid Mickey to sign up for me because he had two advantages I didn’t. One, he was eighteen and you had to be eighteen to ride at this event. Two, and the one that peeved me off the most, was that he was a boy. The misogynistic old bastards who ran this league didn’t care that he was so weedy that he’d basically be a toothpick for a bull like Black Hurricane. As long he had a dingleberry that could flap in the breeze and the brass ones to sign up, he was good.

“Branch is right though, Tessa May. It is dangerous.”

I rolled my eyes at him as I headed towards the livestock trailer that Daddy had brought the bulls in. In my duffle I had everything I needed to ride. It was time to prepare.

“I know how dangerous it is, Mickey. I’ve been sitting on top of bulls since before I could walk.” Mickey followed along behind me, stuttering out protest after protest.

“I’ll give you your money back, ya know. You don’t have to do this.”

I whirled around, smiling at Mickey because no matter how annoying his protests were, they were kind of sweet too.

“Thanks, but we had a deal, and an Everett never backs out of a deal. Just go home or hide or something Mickey, so you don’t get spotted and all this is for nothin’.’”

Mickey looked like he wanted to protest more, so I do the only thing I can think of that would guarantee him leaving. I started undressing. By the time I pulled my shirt over my head, Mickey was gone.

I slipped on the clothes Mickey had loaned me. Ariat jeans that didn’t cling to my ass too much and a loose chambray shirt that hid my boobs which I’d strapped down tight. Not that you’d be able to see them under my protective vest, but better safe than sorry. Between the vest and the helmet, I hoped no one would know I was not Mickey.