She passed under the VIP sign and made her way down a narrow alleyway, showed the man at the end of it the pass that hung around her neck, and asked where she was supposed to go.
“Right there some of the bulls and riders will be signing autographs,” he said, gesturing to a row of tables against a wall.
“Thank you so much,” she said quietly.
A couple of pretty girls on horses trotted through the alleyway so Raven pressed her shoulders against the wall to stay out of the way of those hooves. She didn’t know anything about horses, or rodeos, or any of the events she’d just seen, but she’d enjoyed herself. This was a completely different world than she was used to.
Careful not to spill the beers, she made her way to where other VIP members were gathering around the tables. A few of the tables already had riders at them, signing autographs for lines of people. The three closest to her were labeled Quickdraw Slow Burn, Two Shots Down, and Dead of Winter on a place tag written with pink glittery ink. She didn’t know why that made her giggle, but it did. Those boys didn’t look like the pink sparkly type.
There were already lines in front of the bulls’ tables. She stood in Dead of Winter’s line behind a trio of excited cowgirls for a few minutes, but the beer was getting warm, and everyone who was anyone knew warm beer was gross.
So, she meandered away from the crowd and peeked through a doorway the signing riders had come through. In the hallway were none other than Dead of Winter and Cheyenne Walker. They were talking low, but cow shifters had amazing hearing, so she could make out what they were saying just fine.
“He’s going to be fine, Dead. Kicking yourself isn’t an excuse to skip out on the signing.”
“Well, Quickdraw doesn’t have to do it.”
“Yes, he does! You all have to do it. That’s part of the contract.”
Dead threw up his hands and sauntered off. “Tell them to take it out of my paycheck. I’m not going to take some dumb pictures with a bunch of humans. I’ve had a shit night, Cheyenne. I’m not even a top three bull anymore, so I don’t really think my contract sticks.”
“Yeah, but in two weeks you’ll be back in the top three!” Cheyenne yelled after him. “This is just a bump in the road! We will train harder!”
“I don’t need to train harder! I need to grow my beard back. That’s probably where my power came from.”
“Your beard?” Cheyenne asked with a snort.
“Yeah! And you come along and make me trim it for stupid social media and to look like some pretty boy for the lady fans, and I don’t care about any of that. I liked being hairy!”
“Yeah, I’m aware, Dead! Your constant pictures of your hairy legs say as much, but you look much more handsome now.”
“I want to look like a mountain man. I’m never listening to you again,” he grumbled. “I’m going home.”
“Your home is a camper.”
“Then I’m going to my camper. I have to lick my wounds in private and drown my sorrows in cheap beer.”
And that was Raven’s que. She cleared her throat and called out softy, “Excuse me?”
Dead stopped in his tracks and twisted around and, good golly, that man was something to look at. He was tall as a mountain, wide as a barn, and had bright green eyes, even brighter than her own. He was wide in the chest and trim in the waist and wore a charcoal gray T-shirt that emphasized his ripped physique. He wore jeans with mud smears, and his sandy brown hair was all messy on top. Maybe he’d ran his hands through it a bunch, or maybe he’d spent time in the mirror getting it to stand up like that. She didn’t know. All she knew is he was the most striking man she’d ever seen.
“Yeah?” he asked.
Raven swallowed hard. Be brave, little cow. She lifted up a beer. “It’s getting a little warm, but I got a beer for you.”
He frowned but then sidled Cheyenne in the narrow hallway, approaching Raven. “I know you.”
“Oh, no, not me. I’ve never been to one of these things before.”
“You’ve never been to a shifter bull riding event?”
She shook her head and held out the cup of beer. “I don’t even own a pair of boots.”
Dead hooked his hands on his hips and narrowed his eyes. “Motorcycle boots count as boots.”
Raven stared at the toes of her black leather boots. “Oh. I guess that’s true.” She cleared her throat again and murmured, “Here.” She shook the beer a little that she was still holding in her outstretched hand.
Dead closed the last few feet between them and, holy bull balls, he was so much bigger up close. She had to stretch her neck all the way up to look him in the face.
His eyes were narrowed and suspicious. “Are you trying to roofie me?”
“W-what?” she stammered. “No! Of course not.”
“Dammit. That would’ve been fun.”
“Dead!” Cheyenne admonished. “It’s not okay to make roofie jokes!”
“Warden,” he called over his shoulder, “have you ever met a cow shifter before?”
Raven’s heart got sucked straight up into her throat, and she froze.
“Uuuuh, no,” Cheyenne Walker murmured, walking toward them.
“Because this little stick of dynamite smells like a cow.”
Now self-conscious, Raven sniffed herself, but she just smelled like she always did.
Dead snatched the beer from her hand and tinked it against her own beer, then intertwined their arms like they were drinking champagne at their wedding. “Ready?” he asked.
“What are you doing?” she asked, leaning as far back from him as possible.
“We are chugging this together.”
“Why?” she squeaked out. “W-why would you want to drink like this?”
“Because you said ‘it’s okay.’”
Oooooh, he did recognize her from the arena. Clearly, his human side was present when he was in his bull form.
“Ready?” he asked.
“Uuuuummm…”
“To nearly breaking my best friend’s leg, trying to kill a rider, and almost dropping to fourth place and breaking up my herd.”
“Uuuuh, cheers?” To the weirdest toast ever.
Arm hooked in his, she drank her beer, but not fast enough. Dead of Winter slammed his back and even spilled some as he gulped it in just a few swallows. And then he had time to tell her, “Come on girl, get it down! Chug it!”
And she did. She spilled it a little and was embarrassed, but when she looked up, he had the biggest grin on his face. And a silly little piece of her glowed with pride. Over drinking a beer? Her life was really strange tonight.
“Want me to sign your boob?”
“Wh-what?” she yelped.
“Dead!” Cheyenne exclaimed. “You can’t ask girls that!”
“Why not? Most of them ask me to sign their boobs. ‘It’s Okay’ seems a little shy. Figured I would ask her first and then she doesn’t have to muster up the nerve.”
Cheyenne’s whiskey-colored eyes were round as moons. “I’m so sorry for his behavior. What’s your name again?”
“Cow shifter,” Dead answered for her.