Flawless (Chestnut Springs, #1)

by Elsie Silver

Rhett told me earlier that he drew a good bull, and when I asked what that means, a slightly psychotic expression came over his face as his lips stretched into a toothy grin. “It means he’s going to want to kill me, Princess.”

Princess. The fifteen-year-old in me fainted on the spot, because this time it didn’t h...

Cowboy hats as far as the eye can see. Firm butts in tight Wranglers—the view isn’t terrible. Especially not when I catch sight of Rhett climbing onto the top of the fence. My heart stutter-steps. Yeah, I watched him on YouTube, but seeing it in real life is different.

There’s something about a man who is damn good at what he does that holds an appeal for me. Every step is sure. Practiced. Full of confidence.

His warm-brown leather chaps, with darkened spots from wear, match his eyes. They’re the color of the tiger’s-eye stones I liked as a child. Bright and shiny, perfectly polished. The collar of his dark blue shirt rubs against where his hair is pulled back in a short ponytail, and his broad shoulders peek out from the vest he wears. The one with padding to protect him from hard falls, or flying hooves, or well-placed horns.

“The one with padding to protect him from hard falls, or flying hooves, or well-placed horns.”

Theo hops down onto the bull and then glances up at Rhett’s face with a shit-eating grin and a wink. They share a laugh and fist bump.

The bull’s nose goes straight to the ground and his hooves fly up high behind Theo’s head. A flimsy cowboy hat is the only protection he’s wearing, and I feel like a mother hen wanting to rush down there and scold him for not wearing a helmet.

When the buzzer sounds, the rodeo clowns rush over to help him dismount, but he leaps off and tosses a hand in the air before turning and pointing at Rhett, who is still sitting up in the fencing, clapping hard. Looking so damn proud of the younger rider. Truthfully, it’s adorable.

“That boy thinks he’s God’s gift to this sport,” the woman beside me says. Her statement has me sitting up a little taller, pinching my shoulder blades together, and tipping my chin up. Am I Rhett’s number one fan? No. But after spending a week with the guy, after seeing how hard he’s taking this whole thing—how vulnerable he was at the kitchen table that morning—my protective streak is fired up and ready to burn.

If these were my last moments alive, I’d rather spend them enjoying the thrill of watching Rhett ride than mouthing off to some snarky super fan.

I watch in rapt fascination as he secures his hand against the bull, the opposite one braced against the fence. For a beat, his eyes close and his body goes eerily still. Then he nods. And they fly.

“For a beat, his eyes close and his body goes eerily still. Then he nods. And they fly.”

The gate crashes open, and his bull goes nuts. I thought the other one bucked hard, but this one is truly terrifying. The way its body suspends in mid-air as it twists.

Rhett is poetry in motion. He doesn’t fight the bull, it’s like he becomes an extension of it.

The crowd cheers, but it’s not nearly as loud it was for Theo. In fact, it’s borderline quiet.

Rhett stands in the middle of the ring, his shoulders drooping and his chin tipping down to his chest. His hand held protectively against his torso. He stares down at the toes of his boots, an almost-smile touching his lips, and I swear my heart breaks for him in that moment. Over a decade of putting his life on the line to entertain these people, and this is what he gets?

So, I guess that’s why I put two fingers in my mouth and pull out the most useless skill I’ve ever learned. One I’ve mastered. I whistle so loud that you can hear it over everything. I whistle so loud that Rhett’s head snaps up in my direction. And when he sees me in the crowd, grinning back at him, the sad look on his face washes away.

“And when he sees me in the crowd, grinning back at him, the sad look on his face washes away.”

Our eyes lock, and for one moment, we trace each other’s features. Then, almost like that moment never happened, he shakes his head, chuckles under his breath, and limps out of the ring, the fringes on his chaps swinging as he goes.

I want to high-five him. Or give him a thumbs up. Or do some other equally professional celebration with him. But not before I bend down to the woman beside me who just told me he thinks he’s God’s gift to this sport and say, “Maybe he is.”

Kip: Stop googling yourself. That’s my job. You just wear the Wranglers and ride the bulls. Rhett: This is the worst fatherly advice you’ve ever given me. Kip: Just do what Summer says, you’ll be fine. Don’t stress. We got this. Rhett: Stop being nice to me. It’s fucking weird. And your daughter is a pain in my ass. Kip: Don’t be such a pussy, Eaton. Rhett: Better. Thank you.

“Rhett!” Some girls are gathered right by the exit of the ring where I ditch my helmet and place the brown cowboy hat back on my head. I recognize a few. The rest . . . well, I recognize the type.

Lame as it sounds, part of what I love about this gig is the attention I get for being good at something. It makes me feel like I have something to offer, like people are invested in me.

Because as close as I am to my dad and my brothers, none of them have ever taken my job seriously. It’s more like they’re all waiting for me to outgrow it. To grow up. And I hate that.

I grit my teeth as I walk through the staging area toward one of the locker rooms. The splash of heat burning on my cheeks. One of the best rides of my life, and the crowd gave me a fucking golf clap. I swear I could feel their disdain for me.

“One of the best fucking rides of my life, and the crowd gave me a fucking golf clap. I swear I could feel their disdain for me.”

“Rhett!” I start at the voice, and wince when pain shoots down from my shoulder. I said I wouldn’t stop, but I’ll stop for Summer.

I stop because there’s no avoiding her. She’s relentless, and she’s really fucking nice. Which makes me feel like a total dick for being growly at her.

I see her petite form striding toward me like a splash of color in a sea of concrete, dirt, and brown fence panels. She’s paired her dark yellow sweater with a flowing skirt covered in some sort of flower print and a pair of high-heeled boots. Her leather jacket and purse are slung over her arm, and her heels click against the concrete, drawing attention from all sides.

“Her leather jacket and purse are slung over her arm, and her heels click against the concrete, drawing attention from all sides.”

She carries herself like royalty, oblivious to the side-eye she’s getting from the people back here. Especially the buckle bunnies hanging around by the gates.

“Especially the buckle bunnies hanging around the gates.”

Her excitement over my ride is real—not at all forced. The skin beneath the sprinkling of freckles across her nose and cheeks is a soft pink, and she sounds out of breath. Her encouragement shouldn’t feel this good. I shouldn’t like that she’s excited. So, I just say, “Welcome to the wild side, Princess.”

Her fingers rub gently, making the fabric of my shirt rasp against my skin. Heat blooms through the joint in an unfamiliar way before she pulls away with a stiff nod.

“You going to play nursemaid now too? Go all Mary Poppins on my ass?”

When the doors slide open, I storm out, leaving her behind. And I feel like shit about not letting the lady go first the entire way to the door of my room and into the scalding hot shower.

I’m not opening that fucking door for anyone. “Yes!” Summer barks back, banging again. “Open up.” Except maybe Summer.

She plunks a plastic bag on top of it and starts pulling out small boxes and tubes of cream. “What do you think you’re doing?” I ask, taking another sip. “Taking care of you,” she mumbles, unboxing a bottle of pills with jerky movements. “Why?” “Because you’re too dumb to take care of yourself. I went and bought some stuff at the pharmacy across the parking lot so we can try to patch you up.”

“Has anyone ever told you what a massive prick you can be?”

I like our verbal sparring. Summer can keep up. She’s witty, and I like that about her.

“Nobody is going to care about your cock when you’re too broken to bang them, Eaton. Now put some clothes on.”

“Why are you doing this?” “Because it’s my job.” I go quiet because deep down that’s not the answer I was hoping for.

“Take them.” “Why?” “Because you’re going to get on a bull tomorrow either way. No point in suffering.” She jiggles her hand at me. Pushy little thing that she is.

“I have to ride.” “Why?” Her voice is full of disbelief, like everyone else’s. No one gets it. The high, the addiction, the thrill. That I’ll have to face figuring out who I am without it.

When we get back to Chestnut Springs, will you at least agree to let me book you a massage or acupuncture appointment? Can we just manage the pain responsibly for the next couple of months until you win?” My head flips up, the tips of my hair brushing against the top of my shoulders. “You think I’m going to win?”

All at once, I feel like the little boy who so badly wants attention, who wished his mom was there to see him do something impressive. The trouble-making shit disturber who didn’t care about getting a scolding because it was still attention. It meant someone cared about me, and as one of four kids with a single dad breaking his back to run a ranch, I sometimes got lost in the shuffle.

“You’re pure magic up there. Of course, you will. Now put your cream on and go to bed.” My chest warms as she reaches for the knob, and suddenly I don’t want her to leave at all. I want to hear all about how I look to her. It’s fucking lame.

“I want to hear all about how I look to her. It’s fucking lame.”