Chapter Eight

JESUS FUCKING Christ.

Dalton swore by all he held holy that every fucking time he turned around Tank was right there, looking at him, staring at him like he was a tasty snack.

This was the man who’d let him down, then left for the big show. Why the hell was he suddenly back and all over Dalton? Tank had moved on. Right?

Right. Everyone knew about Buick, didn’t they? The head bullfighter was a stud and a half and…. Right.

And Dalton had moved on. Hell, him and Rocket had just broke up at Christmas, and they’d been tight enough to spend Thanksgiving Day together.

He shook his head. Maybe it was wishful thinking. Maybe Tank had always been this intense and that was why he’d fallen for the man.

That was it. Dalton was a fool, but he could be a fool who kept his self-respect.

He shook his head, sweat flying off the end of his nose. He had work to do.

The sun beat on him like a hammer as the gate swung up, Tucker McAllen riding Sunfish like a dream, marking out and spurring.

Dalton sat in the saddle, Fritz shifting restlessly under him, ready to work.

“Soon,” he muttered. Then the buzzer sounded and off they went, Julio on one side and him on the other. Tucker grabbed ahold of him, and he cut away while Julio ran Sunfish out and away.

Boom. He set Tucker on the arena floor, right down on his feet, gentle as a baby.

“Thanks, man.”

“Anytime.”

He nudged Fritz, and they took off after the buckin’ horse too, hazing him so Julio could grab the strap free.

He looped her and then led the horse into the chutes, switched out ropes, knowing someone would deal with it, coil his rope and hang it where he could fetch it back.

They were like a well-oiled machine today. Sundays could be like that, and Dalton was glad.

They had this and the bull riding and then breakdown. Tomorrow was Colorado and a week off.

He wanted to whoop, but that would startle folks, and Fritz might just toss his ass, as het up as he was this afternoon. So he sucked it in, making another lazy circle around as they loaded up.

Fritz danced, and he reined in the gelding, soothing. “Hush now. You get pasture for a week as soon as we finish here. Such a good boy.”

Tank watched him like a hawk. Dalton could see the man’s eyes, feel the touch of the gaze. He wanted to shift in the saddle, but no way was he letting Tank know how much the man got to him.

No fucking way.

His balls let him know it was happening, though.

The next rider went down, and they kept the horse away from him as well as pulling the strap. Tank handed him his other rope, those brown eyes eating him up.

“Thanks.” Fuck, he wanted to just get on his knees and beg.

“No problem.” Tank gave him a slow grin that liked to burn him to the ground.

He rode over to wait with Julio, and both of them stood for less than a minute before Julio asked, “You okay, boss? Sun getting to you?”

“It’s hotter than usual up here, huh?” He tipped his hat down farther over his face.

“Sunnier, for sure.”

Not necessarily hot. Yeah, he needed to get his shit together and stop mooning.

“You ready to get to the mountains?”

“Shit yeah. I want to do some fishing.” He grinned, half his brain already there. “You?”

“Heading to New Mexico for a few.” Julio had family there.

“Chama, yeah?” That was damn near Colorado.

“Yep. Only a few hours away from Durango anyways.”

“Yeah. You’ll be full of fry bread.”

“Shit, amigo, I’ll be exploding with enchiladas. Mama promised.”

“Ooh. I’ll be there with bells on,” he teased.

“You know we’d love to have you.” Julio’s family raised amazing rawboned bucking horses in this gorgeous wooded canyon.

“I know. I’ll have to come and bring your mama some chile.”

“You do that, huh? She would love it.” They both circled back into position for the next run.

“Here we go.” They had this—up, down, around and in, and then Tank was handing him another rope. This time their fingers brushed, and Dalton damn near jumped out of his skin.

Tank almost—almost—smiled.

By the time the saddle bronc riding was over two events later, his cock was hard as a rock and his gut was churning.

He wasn’t going to fucking survive the bull riding. No way.

Dammit.

Tank liked to play when they were between bulls. Dalton remembered it well, and had seen it Friday and Saturday night. Tank would shake it, would sneak up on the other guys, and torment the pick-up men’s horses.

He was damn afraid he would cream his jeans like the teenager he wasn’t anymore.

Dalton rolled his eyes, climbing down for the team roping and barrel racing, loosening the girth strap to let Fritz breathe and relax.

“You ready for the bulls, Dalton?” Tank jogged, bouncing next to him.

“I am, man. Yeah.” Then he was going to his trailer to jack off. Twice. Maybe more. He wasn’t a kid, damn it. Why couldn’t he handle this?

Maybe because Tank had never looked back. Now he was looking. That once-over was unmistakable.

“You leaving out tonight or in the morning?”

“We’ll close up and cook out tonight, man. Everyone counts on that, you know? Family night with all of us.” Surely Tank was staying.

“Oh, good.” Tank chuckled a little. “I wasn’t sure if y’all still did. I didn’t want to just assume.”

“Yeah. It’s important to all of us. Burgers, dogs, chips, beer, music.” The good stuff.

“You know it.” Tank’s eyes flashed dark for a moment, almost sad.

“We want you there. Seriously. We’re happy you’re home.”

“Thanks, Dalton.” Tank beamed for him now. “I wouldn’t miss it.”

“Cool. Me either.”

They shared a grin that was like old times—Tank the older, wiser man he looked up to.

He guessed some shit was eternal.

The bullfighters went out in the truck to gather barrels and toss mini footballs into the crowd. That was his clue to cinch Fritz back up and get ready for the bulls.

It was time to get this shit done, goddamn it. The bulls didn’t do anything half-assed, so neither could he.