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Eight Seconds
By Barrie Abalard
Sticky Fingers Publishing
Smashwords Edition
Copyright March 2011 by Barrie Abalard
All rights reserved.
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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Eight Seconds
By Barrie Abalard
AUTHOR’S NOTES
The Marchville Rodeo and the characters portrayed in the story EIGHT SECONDS are completely fictional. Nothing in the story is meant to reflect anything negative on the fine rodeos in the Philadelphia/southern New Jersey area. However, Philly does have a gay rodeo, and the International Gay Rodeo Association really exists. If you’d like to know more, here are some suggested links:
Please also note that I took some liberties with the facts of how rodeos are run, and the facilities they provide to riders and employees.
Chapter 1
Wyatt Knott tightened his hold on the leather rigging and breathed. "I'm gonna do it this time, you little bastard."
The gate opened. The holy terror of Marchville Rodeo, Riley the gelding, busted out of the chute, warping his back into a C-shape while Wyatt marked out the horse with his blunted spurs. Only pure guts and lots of practice kept both his spurs above Riley's shoulders until the horse's feet first hit the ground. Now it was a matter of staying aboard for eight seconds and letting his spurring technique speak for itself, though he hated that word, spurring. It made people think the horses were getting raked with pointy things that cut, when in reality the spurs were rounded.
Eight seconds had never felt so long. Wondering if he'd aggravate any of his old injuries, he prayed hard while keeping his feet above the horse's shoulders. He was aiming for his highest score ever, but Riley, known among barebackers as "The Jackhammer," had other plans. The horse torqued left, then right, then right again, and Wyatt's free hand brushed against his thigh.
Damn. Disqualified! All that punishment and nothing to show for it. Wyatt punched his own thigh.
The pick-up man scooped him off the horse, timing his rescue perfectly after the whistle blew. Wyatt grasped the man in gratitude and fell into eyes the color of Texas bluebonnets.
Thirty-two and older than any other bareback rider on the professional rodeo circuit, no bronc had ever busted him the way Cam Chester hit his heart.
* * * *
"Hey, Professor!"
Cam heard someone calling him by his nickname, but all he cared about was saving the disqualified rider. That, and drinking in the man's chiseled looks just a little longer. Say, forever.
He remembered when he'd ridden broncs, until the injuries and pain had grown intolerable. Those were some times, all right. Lost in thought and in the man's full lips, Cam hugged him tighter until he protested, "Hey, enough."
Cam allowed the bronco-buster to slide off the horse. "Tough break on your disqualification. I can't tell you how many times my free hand contacted some part of me by accident. It sucks."
The handsome man's eyes widened. "Holy shit, are you Cam Chester?"
"In the flesh."
"Geez, I thought you were retired."
Annoyance flared through Cam. "I'm retired from bareback riding, not rodeo. Buddy, you owe me something for grabbing you off Riley before you got tossed."
The barebacker smiled. "Buy you a beer later, Professor?"
"Yep," Cam replied as he hustled to pick up another rider who'd lasted the required eight seconds.
A few hours later, the humid southeastern Pennsylvania air had taken its toll, and Cam was a wrung-out dishrag. He couldn't wait to clean up and change before he hit the bars--the Philly bars. As a genuine cowboy, he never lacked for companionship when he made the scene on Saturday nights. He put up the rodeo horse he used, Boogaloo, with a friendly pat, then headed for the showers.
Cam stopped in his tracks, remembering the cowboy he'd taken off Riley, the one with the square jaw, football-hero looks, and dark hair shot through with silver--obviously premature gray hair, because his face didn't look a day over thirty. During the past few hours, Cam had learned the guy's name and his rep on the circuit, and he liked what he'd heard.
He also knew a tight end when he saw one, and he wasn't talking about football. His cock stiffened at the memory of Wyatt Knott's ass showcased in tight denim.
When he hit the bathhouse, the other fellows stopped their banter. Living out of the closet on the rodeo circuit wasn't the easiest life. Most of the cowboys might not like his preferences, but he'd earned enough respect that Cam didn't have to fight too often to prove his manhood.
The other men parted like the Red Sea for Moses as he coolly sauntered to his locker. The vast majority found reasons to be somewhere else, drifting away like smoke on a summer's night. None of them liked hanging around whenever Cam got naked. The others liked it even less when he was around and they were naked.
While the cowboys exited, Cam heard a few muttered phrases, words that sounded a lot like "ass goblin" and "butt bandit" and the ever-popular "cocksucking freak." He ignored them all while trying not to stare at the man who'd just stepped into view, a very naked Wyatt Knott. His chest seemed built from slabs of muscle, his thighs looked hard and well-defined, and his cock--Jesus, his cock.
Flustered, Cam fumbled with his combination lock, saying, "Still want to buy me a beer?"
"Buy The Professor a beer? Hell, yes. How's The Fencepost suit you?"
The Fencepost, a popular rodeo hangout in the next town north, was a decidedly non-gay-friendly-bar. Cam knew he'd be about as welcome there as Rush Limbaugh at a gay pride parade. He snapped his fingers, as if remembering something. "Damn, I forgot, I'm meeting a friend in the city. Another night?"
Wyatt looked around, then stepped closer. His voice fell to a whisper. "Hey, I get that you walk the other side of the street. I do it myself, uh, now and then. In between the girls, I mean."
Cam gave him a look before he grabbed his towel to head for the shower, holding it carefully to hide his erection. "Don't shit me, kid. You're not out, and you're pretending you're not gay. I get it."
The bathhouse had quieted, but nevertheless Cam chose a far corner of the showers. The lone man standing under the spray hustled out when he noticed Cam had entered.
The warm spray needled Cam's face. Sometimes he wished he weren't gay. Just once, he'd like to have a normal friendship with other cowboys without the issue of sex interfering. Cranking the water as hot as he could stand, he began washing himself, wishing he had a private shower stall so he could jerk off. Seeing Wyatt's body had done nothing to ease his horniness, horniness he planned to lose up the ass of some beautiful, twenty-something boy later tonight.
A
couple of lines about love and sex and need floated through his head
while a melody began to form. He stopped rubbing soap on himself,
lost in the song taking shape in his head.
Summer
rodeo, hot nights under the lights,
Cowboys in my sights,
I'm feeling alright.
But
I won't give up my heart without a fight.
Eight seconds, and you
gotta last it all,
Eight
seconds, without a fall.
Eight seconds, and you
hogtied my heart.