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Cody hit the ground so hard his teeth rattled and, for a half-second he just sat there. Waiting. It couldn't hurt worse if the big fucker stomped him.
Of course, he knew better. It could.
He scrambled, heading for the fence, the Brahma whirling the other way, bull rope slapping the ground with a thwack that was damn near at his boot heels. He could hear the announcers somewhere in the back, the pitiful applause, the way Nate was going on and on and on.
"You're all right. You're all right. You're all right."
He was deeply fucked and had needed that fucking ride.
Coke grabbed him and pushed him up against the rail, all but lifting him to the top as the bull kicked by them. "Lord, son, you got to move faster."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Some of us are getting old."
"Shee-it. You don't know from old, Biscuit."
"Yeah, Gramps. I hear you." Right. He was seven fucking months younger than the bull fighter. He was a baby.
"You okay?" Those strong hands eased him back down, so fucking careful, handing him off to the guys.
"Yeah." He tipped his hat, limped out to the back, needing a beer in the worst way.
"Hey, Cody." That was Callum Jones, from sports medicine, waiting for him like a cowboy jack in the box. Damn it.
"Jonesy. You bring me a beer?" La la la. Not needing the doc.
"No. I want you to come back to the training room." Those almost-black eyes were serious as the grave, the equally black hair curling out a little from under the straw hat. Hippie. "Make sure you're still all set right."
"I'm cool." Or possibly dying. Dying might work. Man, he was never going to get to have sex again. Never. Shit,that woman was coming with the camera man. "Okay, okay. I'll come. Keep the harpie off me."
"Well, come on, then." Jonesy put one hand on his back, steering him away, giving the camera bunny a look and a shake of the head.
Thank God. He hobbled in, his groin screaming like a left-behind whore. Steiner had stepped on him eight weeks ago, snapped his pelvis and left him bent over in the arena, foaming from the mouth. Eight weeks ago he'd been surged from bellybutton to asshole. Three weeks ago he'd run out of money. Two weeks ago he'd got back up on a bull.
"I got you. Stupid fool. You know, you don't heal up like you was eighteen anymore." Jonesy had a hellacious Oklahoma accent.
"I'm okay. Gotta keep on the tour, huh?" He wasn't sure he remembered eighteen. Hell, that was damn near twenty years ago.
"Jonesy! You gonna wrap my knee or what?" Kynan hollered, and Jonesy eased him down on a gurney, giving him a stern look.
"Stay put." He opened his mouth and Jonesy glared. "I mean it, Biscuit."
"Uh-huh." Whiny little fuck.