Eight Seconds

"We wish," Cal said, and then the attention of the two went to identifying and assessing today's bulls. On the "wish I get that one" side were Sally Sue and one called Prancer, who went through the same gyrations each time, going down on his front legs for starters and then leaning left followed by right in his attempt to dump his load. A rider with experience with Prancer could make it to six seconds just by anticipating the bull's habits. On the other end of the scale were Mad Bull and, the most dangerous, Diablo. Thus far this season, Roy Waters had been the only one to make it the eight seconds with Diablo. One bull that was here today, called Felix, was largely an unknown quantity. He had been at the Gunnison event early in the season, but he hadn't been used since. He had been making more money for the bull-riding company by standing stud down in Texas most of the season. There was always a chance that fucking all of those cows had taken the fight out of him.

By the time Vince and Cal had done their wishing on the bulls, the trumpet had sounded, calling the spectators to the stands and the riders to the rails near the starting chute. Harv Simpson was standing in his tower with his microphone, warming up the crowd and announcing the first flight of riders. Neither Cal nor Vince were in the first flight, which included the lesser likely contestants.

Only one of the contestants held for the eight seconds from this flight—and that likely was because he drew Sally Sue to ride. Vince and Cal weren't the only riders to groan when Sally Sue was taken out of the mix.

Each ride was the same in form. The rider lowered himself on the bull in a small pen that didn't permit the bull to move forward or back or to the side, although it could buck a bit. Some bulls did; some didn't. Each of the bulls had a leather strap chaffing their balls and dick, which encouraged them to buck in irritation. The rider held an arm up. When he lowered it, a six-foot clock face, marked off for twenty seconds that extended from the side of the announcer's tower, chimed. Then, as the bull charged into the ring and started to do whatever it was going to do to be free of the man riding its back, the seconds chimed off on the clock, accompanied by the crowd crying off the seconds.

When the rider came off the bull—and they almost always did within ten seconds, the rider made for the fence line if he landed far enough from the bull and could move. Otherwise, two clowns charged out into the ring from the other side from the launch chute and, most hoped, although some came to see the gore, distracted the bull while cowboys dropped into the ring and helped the rider to safety. Each ride of only a few seconds took ten minutes or more to accomplish, and that didn't count the antics of the announcer that drew the time out to make the crowd think it was getting a full show.

On the fifth ride, a bull Vince and Cal hadn't seen before gored his rider and an intermission was called while the medics gingerly helped the unfortunate cowboy out of the ring and into a waiting ambulance.

Vince used the intermission to hit the port-a-john to take a piss. That was by a separate building off to the side of the ring. As he was coming out, he saw two cowboys walking off, close together, deeper into the fairgrounds, where wooden buildings to serve different fair purposes were scattered around haphazardly, having been built without uniform plan over time, as needed.

He identified them as Roy Waters and Billy Beartooth—Waters tall and muscular and Beartooth short, compact, and moving like a dancer. Vince followed at a distance, knowing what he'd see them doing, but drawn to the reality of how Billy Beartooth was fitting in so well on the circuit so late in the season.

The two entered a dining pavilion that was open on one side and was furnished with wood picnic tables. The pavilion wasn't in use today—at least not for the purpose it was intended. It took no more than twenty minutes for Billy to give Roy what he wanted. Billy was sitting on a bench and Roy was bellied into him, with Billy sucking the older man's cock, when Vince peeked around the corner of the building. Then, Billy, bereft of his jeans and shirt, still wearing his leather chaps and his cowboy boots, lay on the table on his spine. His fists were locked behind Roy's neck and his ankles were on Roy's shoulders. Roy, just in his open front shirt and his cowboy boots and with his knuckles pressed into the picnic table top on both sides of Billy's hips, crouched on the bench between Billy's raised and spread legs and fucked Billy's ass in long, strong strokes. Billy writhed under him, making noises of being beleaguered and of having his male cherry popped.

Vince stayed for the heavy breathing and Billy's cried-out declaration that he was coming and then that he was fucked—praising Roy to high heaven on what a stud he was. Laying it on thick. Vince got back to the ring just in time to help Cal lower himself on Prancer in the bull chute.

"Remember, it's Prancer. You've got this," Vince screamed at Cal above the roar of the crowd. "Lean back as he goes down on his front legs. Then lean to the right as he leans left. Then the other direction. Then just hang on for two or three more seconds. You got this."

"Yeah, yeah, I know this one," Cal screamed back. The two pressed their foreheads together, as intimately as they could risk in this environment, and then Cal raised his arm.

Shockingly, almost idiotically, the feeling of fear for Cal's safety and the knowledge that Cal was his whole world shot through Vince's brain at that instant. But all he had was an instant before Cal was out of his grasp and gone.

Cal's arm came down, the clock chimed, the chute door opened, and Prancer bucked his way into the ring, lowering his head and snorting. Contrary to habit, the bull leaned right, and Cal nearly hit the deck on that side in surprise—and then left, and Cal felt himself slipping. The crowd was roaring the seconds off. Four. Five, they cried out. Prancer bucked, raising his front quarters up and Cal, panicked but determined to hang on, leaned forward. That's when Prancer went down on his front legs. Six, the crowd cried. On seven Cal was airborne over the front of the bull and landed on the seat of his pants. Prancer lowered his horns, snorted, and prepared to charge. Two clowns rushed out into the arena, one at each edge of the bull's peripheral vision. They screamed at the bull and danced around. As Prancer was deciding which one to charge, a couple of cowboys, including Vince, were coming over the fence and helping to pull Cal away.

Once on the other side of the fence, Cal let out a big breath, and hissed, "Shit. Fuck."

"Fuck. Shit," Vince answered. "What hurts?"

"Just my pride. Fuckin' bull didn't follow the script."

"Load of crap, Cal," Vince growled. "Sorry, guy."

"I had a feelin' this was it. But my feelin' kept telling me it was because I'd draw Diablo."

Vince tried to put his arm around his buddy, but Cal shook him off. "Not a good idea, Vince." His voice had a hard quality to it and Vince backed off. "Look, Roy's next. On Mad Bull. Maybe he won't last as long. They have to send at least four guys on to Laramie from here. Only one made it before intermission. Maybe . . ."

He didn't finish the sentence.

"Yeah, that'll do it," Vince said, trying to put hope and confidence in his voice, even though something told him this was it for Cal. He'd had that premonition about the Cheyenne event too. But he'd suppressed it. He didn't know how it would be going on without Cal with him. He knew Cal mostly did this for him—to be with him. It was only now occurring to him that maybe it was the same way with him.

They watched as Roy dropped down on Mad Bull, which already was bucking and snorting in the chute. The chute opened and Mad Bull charged out and immediately started bucking.

"Never seen a bull jump that high," Vince said. "He'll be off in a couple of seconds."

The bull moved around the ring, using the whole oval, bucking like mad. Roy stayed with him the whole time, even grabbing his Stetson and raising it in the air with one hand. Most of the riders couldn't even maintain possession of their Stetsons for the count of eight. Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen. Mad Bull was getting tired and couldn't manage a respectable buck. Twenty and the clock had rung its last available second off. With considerable style, as Mad Bull came close to the fence between the ring and the bleachers, Roy pushed off of Mad Bull, grabbed the top slat of the fence, and neatly vaulted over to it to stand, turn to the crowd, and bow. The stands went wild.

Vince saw red. Fuck, he thought. It ain't even a competition anymore. There were just the kid, Billy, and him left and two bulls: the unknown Felix and the much-too-well-known Diablo.

Eight seconds. Roy had done the full twenty and in style. He'd taken all of the promise out of the arena. Shit. Fuck.

"The kid won't last the eight seconds," Cal was saying. "Both bulls left are too much for a beginner. Diablo will kill him."

Harv Simpson announced the next rider over the sound system. "Next to last, our newcomer, Billy Beartooth, on Felix. Give a hand to the kid, folks. He may be small and pretty, but we'll toughen him up."

The crowd laughed.

"Diablo. Shit," Vince growled.

"No, he's on Felix," Cal said. "He won't have any idea what Felix will do."

"It means I'm on Diablo, Cal," Vince said. "And I have a feeling the kid knows exactly what Felix will do."

"How so?"

"I seen him with Roy. Roy was on Felix a couple of times at the beginning of the circuit. If I'm right about that kid, he's found out the secrets of riding Felix." And beyond that, which Vince couldn't say to Cal, he knew Billy had taken his place being fucked by Harv for favoritism in bull assignment. Just knowing he'd have to ride Diablo told Vince Harv had moved on from him—to the kid.

And, sure enough, when Felix bucked out of the chute with the kid on his back, they put on quite a show of uncertainty and "almost" for the crowd, but the kid held on for the needed eight seconds.

When he was done, Vince looked at Cal, whose face showed that he was stricken. If Vince rode for his eight seconds, there was no way Cal was going on to Laramie. Even if he didn't, chances were good Vince would be the one picked to make up the four who had to go on. It certainly wouldn't be Cal; the kid, Billy, had better stats now then Cal did. Cal's season was done, regardless.

"Cal," Vince said, touching Cal's arm. "If you don't qualify and I do, you can go on to Laramie with me anyway."

"Sure, Vince. It won't be the same, though . . . will it? I won't get to ride. We won't be on the same basis."

"We'll do what we have to do," Vince said. But he knew it wouldn't be the same either. They were a pair. They did it together. "There's always next season."

"Yeah, sure. There's always next season," Cal said, giving Vince a weak smile. But Vince could see the tears in his lover's eyes. Both of them knew Cal didn't really have another season in him.

"And last, but not least, our very own Vince Vale—on Diablo. It's gonna be quite a show, folks," came blaring over the loudspeakers in Harv Simpson's voice.

"Just do it," Cal turned to Vince and said. "Get out there and put on a show to rival Roy's. I'll help you saddle up. I'll always be there with you. You want this. And I want it for you."

Vince was torn by wildly mixed emotions as he settled down on Diablo. The bull snorted, blowing steam out of his nose, ready to tear up the ring. Vince lifted his arm and turned and looked at Cal, who was looking directly into his eyes. There with him for the ride; there with him no matter what. Vince's arm came down.

Diablo was dancing and bucking the second he launched out of the chute, doing everything he could to toss that alien weight off his back. Vince relaxed and went with him, going into his zone of not thinking of the bull as an adversary but as an extension of himself. Focusing on the bull, becoming one with the beast, anticipating what Diablo would do. One. Two. Three.

But his mind was also on Cal. Cal being there with him, the two of them moving as one too. The two lovers naked, in close embrace, their pelvises moving in unison, as one unit, Cal inside Vince. What was it he wanted most—Cal or the bull? The bull or Cal?

Four. Five. He and Diablo were in synch. He could do this. He knew he could do this. Diablo knew he could do this and some of the fight was going out of the bull. There was no doubt he could do this if this was what he wanted most.

Six. Seven. And, with a sigh and the thought "It's Cal, not the bull. There's always another life for both of us—for both Cal and me," Vince pushed off the back of the bull, under his own power, flipped in the air, and came down hard on his side.

He heard the crack, felt the pain. He knew the arm was broken. There was a sense of relief, though. He hadn't figured out yet how he would avoid being picked for Laramie anyway. Now he didn't have to come up with an excuse. The first one to him, looking down into his face with a look of panic and concern, was Cal.

Of course it was Cal.