I say again. “How many fucking times do I have to say it, Fleur?” Then I instantly feel like shit. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to swear at you. I meant to swear at him.” I glare at Travis. Travis smiles but I don’t smile back. The crowd is roaring, the sun is hotter than hell and there’s dust in my eyes. I can barely make out a flock of girls standing nearby, tittering and waving at me. “Jesus,” I say, pulling on my leather gloves. “Your timing sucks. I’m getting ready to ride an angry two-ton bull. I’d appreciate it if you two wouldn’t talk about this right now.” Some shit about New York and some fucking art gallery. I really couldn’t care less. Besides, I need to concentrate. I easily rode the full eight seconds yesterday and the day before that. But the taste of victory wasn’t quite as sweet as I remember it. I’m not even sure I want to ride today, which is a completely new feeling. I always wanted to ride.
