“Call me when you get some rest.”
“Okay.” The line goes quiet.
I press the heel of my hand to my eye and close the other one. My shoulder is on fire. My chest feels tighter than the tape Doc wound around me.
Three calls.
Three reminders that no matter how far I ride, the weight of home always catches up.
I slump against the wall beside the soda machine. The tape itches like fire. Lights hum overhead, turning everything sterile and yellow. Someone’s vacuuming down the hall. Country music plays soft and twangy from the front desk radio.
I reach into my back pocket to put my phone away and feel the pill bottle. I pull it out. It's warm from being carried, the label already starting to smudge. The pain is building, not getting better and Dad’s voice is echoing in my skull. I twist the cap off and dump one pill into my hand. White. Oblong. Harmless looking. I toss it back and swallow dry. The second one goes down easier.
My stomach growls the moment it’s done, but I brush it off. It’ll be fine.
I lean my head back against the wall and close my eyes, breathing deeply until the pain in my shoulder begins to dull. I don’t know how long it takes. It’s like someone’s turning down the volume, muffling the edges. Not all at once. Just... loosening the seams.
I check for my key. Room 224. Two floors up. If I movenow, I can sleep it off.
“Hey, handsome.” The voice is all honey and confidence, and before I even turn, I know who it is. Brittney.
She’s the kind of woman rodeo towns manufacture on purpose—tight jeans, tighter tank top, and a spray tan. Long blonde hair.
“You were incredible out there,” she says, smiling.
“Yeah,” I say. Or maybe just nod. My words feel like they’re coming from the bottom of a well.
She takes a step closer. “I’ve got a weakness for the quiet ones who throw themselves at death and call it a sport.”
I can’t seem to find the edges of my charm tonight. It’s all blurry.
“Are you hurt?” she asks, softer now. Her face starts floating around in front of me and I blink to bring it back to center.
“Let me help you upstairs. Just to make sure you’re okay.” She grabs my arm. I’m floating and she keeps me from hitting the ceiling.
“I’m gooood,” I say.
“Come on, cowboy. Just a few steps this way.”
The elevator is so far away and then it’s right in front of me. I hand her my key because it’s easier than arguing.
I don’t remember the ride up. I just remember her perfume smells like burnt sugar and makes my stomach twist.
And then—nothing.
Four
I WILL NEVER LOSE CONTROL LIKE THAT AGAIN.
WYATT
The first thing I feel is heat.
The second thing I feel is pain.
My shoulder’s a mess—taped, throbbing, and stiff. My stomach is a tight fist, nausea curling low and mean as my head aches like it’s trapped in a vice.
I open my eyes.