Two Shots Down (Battle of the Bulls Book 1)

  TWO SHOTS DOWN

  (BATTLE OF THE BULLS, BOOK 1)

  By T. S. JOYCE

  Two Shots Down

  Copyright © 2019 by T. S. Joyce

  Copyright © 2020, T. S. Joyce

  First electronic publication: September 2020

  T. S. Joyce

  www.tsjoyce.com

  All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded or distributed via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the author’s permission.

  NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR:

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental. The author does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for third-party websites or their content.

  Published in the United States of America.

  Editor: Corinne DeMaagd

  Photograhper: Wander Aquiar

  Dedication

  For Jamie May Williams

  Cheyenne sure thanks you for her name.

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Epilogue

  Up Next in this Series

  Newsletter Sign-Up

  More Series by this Author

  For More from this Author

  About this Author

  Chapter One

  Fear didn’t exist here.

  That was a phrase that had been burned into Two Shots Down’s brain with every second he spent in the bucking chute.

  The cheering, jeering crowd was nothing but a murmur. His heavy breath and heartbeat were louder. They always were right before a ride.

  He looked out the slats and exhaled heavily. The rodeo arena was bright, the packed seats just a blur around the edges. The sponsor signs were colorful along the rail, and two of the best bull fighters in the game were standing about ten yards from the gate, shifting their weight from boot to boot, ready.

  If he could toss them an evil smile in this body, he would. Be ready, boys. I’m about to bring you hell, and you know it.

  The adrenaline was doing its thing, pumping through his system and firing him up. The announcer was talking as Two Shots Down clanked his horn against the chute gate. His rider was good, young, uninjured, had been drawing some good bulls and moving up in the rankings over the last month.

  “Jack Tethers,” the announcer crowed, his voice echoing as he introduced Two Shots Down’s rider to the crowd. “And he drew one hell of a rank bull tonight. Some of you came here just to see him. I see those T-shirts. I see those flags a-flyin’. I see y’all lifting those shot glasses in the air. The bull in chute number three needs no introduction. He’s been on fire this season. No one has been able to ride this bull since March of last year, and Jack sure has his work cut out for him tonight if he wants to break this winning streak. The girls love him, and the guys want to be him. Whiskey is his drink of choice, and he takes two shots before he changes for every ride. That’s where this monster got his name. Ladies and gentlemen, Two Shots Down!”

  The crowd went crazy with cheers and boos. He loved this. Loved the attention, the negative, the positive, it didn’t matter.

  And then it happened. Like it always did, it happened. Right as Jack slipped onto his back and the flankman pulled his flank strap tight, he showed up. Two Shots Down’s own personal ghost. Tarik Walker appeared in the middle of the arena in the space between the two pickup men on horseback and the bull fighters still standing at the ready. He looked the same as he always did—hollow eyes, boots and spurs, and the same outfit he’d worn the night Two Shots Down had killed him. Wranglers, a plaid shirt, and the riding vest that was supposed to protect him. No hat, though. Two Shots Down had found his hat later and kept it, but he couldn’t explain why. Now the ghost didn’t have a damn hat, and he supposed that was his fault, too.

  The adrenaline surged higher as the sadness, anger, frustration, and a million memories of the year following that death resurfaced. He kicked off his back legs, aiming for the top of the chute, and damn near jumped it before his front legs hit the metal and he fell back to earth.

  The cowboys around the chute were yelling, scrambling, trying to settle Jack on his back, trying to keep him calm.

  “He always does this…”

  “Trying to get in your head…”

  “Don’t let him win before he even bucks you...”

  Panic and anger were his favorite cocktail right before a ride, and Tarik’s ghost wasn’t haunting him anymore. He was helping him.

  The sound of his snorting breath drowned out the noise of the spectators. The flankman was good. He’d studied Two Shots Down. Knew he bucked better if the flank strap was up higher on his waist, not pressing his nuts. The rope was irritating, and when he tightened the strap, it was all he could do not to buck Jack in the chute again.

  Steady. Save it. Get him.

  The cowboys were yelling, but Jack seemed calm. Two Shots Down slammed his horn against the gate with an echoing clang to rattle him. Jack was almost done adjusting the position of his hand in the rope now. Soon. So soon.

  “You ready for the ride of your life, boy?” an older cowboy named Hank yelled at Jack.

  Two Shots Down angled his massive head to watch his reaction.

  Jack looked as pale as Tarik’s ghost. He gazed out at the arena, one hand in the ropes at the hump in Two Shots Down’s back, one gloved hand on the gate. He blew out two quick breaths and nodded to the gateman.

  The second that gate swung open, the noise stopped, and in Two Shots Down’s mind, the clock started ticking.

  Go.

  He jumped out of the chute and twisted right, kicked high because he’d studied this rider. He knew every weakness, every buck he would do. He was going to give him two seconds. Get his confidence up, get the crowd cheering, and then he was going to slam that rider onto the ground and make those bullfighters earn their paychecks saving Jack tonight.

  No, fear didn’t exist here…for him.

  Fear sure as hell existed for the rider who had to spend eight seconds on his back.

  Chapter Two

  The hot shower water ran down Two Shots Down’s face, and he leaned heavily on the wall and just took in the moment. Changing back into a man hurt like hell. Training his body the way he needed to hurt like hell. Bucking like that hurt like hell.

  But…

  The vision of Jack flying off his back and into the wall, then him scrambling out of Two Shots Down’s way as he charged him was something that would make him smile for days.

  Goddang, he hated bull riders. And they hated him. Rightly so. He’d just moved up to
the top three bulls in the Professional Bull Shifter Riding Circuit. This wasn’t a normal rodeo circuit. Shifters were bigger, more aggressive, and smarter than the animals in the PBR. They studied their riders, and the riders in turn, had to up their game and study the bulls right back.

  The shifters were also running on a significant amount of testosterone, so when Two Shots Down heard the bathroom door open and smelled another bull shifter, he saw red real quick. Bad idea approaching him right after a ride and a shift back to his human skin.

  He spun on the intruder, but it wasn’t one of the other bull shifters. It was the head organizer of the entire circuit, Tommy Hane.

  He came in with his hands held up. “I know you like to be alone after a ride, but you’re needed in the meeting room.”

  “Why?” he asked. “I had a clean ride.”

  “It’s not just about you. It’s a circuit meeting.”

  “Jesus.” He rested his hands on his hips. “You don’t think I’ve done enough of those meetings in the last three years, Tommy?”

  “I already said it ain’t just about you, Two Shots Down! It has nothing to do with Tarik. I’m not arguing with you today. Just put your fuckin’ jeans on and head to the meeting.” He stormed to the door but turned back before he left, his eyes darkening to the brown of his bull’s eyes. “Don’t bail on this meeting, or I will drop you a rank. That ain’t a threat. It’s a promise.”

  After the door slammed behind Tommy, Two Shots Down turned and blasted his fist into the wall a few times. Probably broke a bone or ten, but he healed fast—a benefit of the bull that was fuming inside of him.

  He stopped the water and barely toweled off before he yanked his jeans on and stormed out of the bathroom. The bulls each had private changing room so they could turn back into their human forms after a ride and shower off before they had to do any interviews.

  Apparently, there was no press tonight, just some bullshit meeting about God-knows-what-now. It was always something.

  “Watch out!” one of the bull handlers yelled from behind him.

  “Shhhit,” he muttered as he turned around. Quickdraw Slow Burn was charging down the hallway straight for him, and the tan bull with the white blaze down his face and sharply curved horns had murder in his eyes.

  “You couldn’t fuckin’ warn me when I was in my changing room to stay inside?” Two Shots Down yelled at the handler. He yanked the doorknob of another room and tossed out, “You suck at your job,” just before he slammed it closed behind him.

  Boom!

  Quickdraw’s head made a solid indentation in the reinforced metal door, but that was life. Bull shifters weren’t dainty flower-pickin’ wood sprites. They broke, punched, and ruined everything they touched. It was in their nature.

  “You can come out now! He’s in his changing room!” Quickdraw’s handler’s yell echoed through the vacant bathroom Two Shots Down had escaped into.

  “Congratu-fuckin’-lations, Junior Whopper,” Two Shots belted out as he exited. He gestured to the dented door. “And only one damaged door.”

  “Everyone’s right about you,” Quickdraw’s handler said, fury in his eyes.

  Two Shots Down flipped him off and left without a word. Silence pissed people off, and over the years of his career, he’d learned to use it when it would cause maximum irritation.

  But, slight admission, what the handler said had stung. Everyone had everything to say about him. It was all bad. His reputation had to be the worst in Professional Bull Shifter Riding Circuit Rodeo, or PBSR, history.

  Two Shots Down was the one who everyone loved to hate.

  Part of that was his fault.

  Part of it was Tarik’s.

  The conference room door creaked open under his rough hand, and he froze in the doorway. The room was clogged with bull riders and bull shifters, and at the front was a long table on the stage with every big-name sponsor representative in the PBSR. Managers for the bull riders lined the walls, talking low among themselves. The murmur of voices was deafening to his sensitive ears, and to the left, where the bull shifters had gathered, they looked just as uncomfortable as him with the noise. He could tell because one had the loudest bull rider, Tony Rorke, in a headlock. No one even cared that they were fighting until they broke a table. Then a couple of the low-ranking bull shifters broke them up. He thought their names were First Time Train Wreck and Kiss Your Momma Goodbye.

  “Come on in, Two,” the commissioner said into the microphone up front. He arched his bushy eyebrow and glared, like he knew Two Shots Down was about to run.

  “I hate when people call me Two. Name’s Two Shots Down,” he barked as he strode down the aisle between the rows of chairs. “If you’re that lazy, you can call me Two Shots.”

  “No one cares,” Roddy Brander yelled from where he was drinking a beer from a plastic cup with his buddies. “You’re an animal. We’ll call you by your animal name. Two.” He gave a dead-eyed smile and swigged his beer.

  “You still pissed I threw you last month?” Two Shots Down asked. “I probably embarrassed you in front of that pretty girl who came to watch you rodeo. I don’t see her at your events anymore, Roddy. Did she upgrade to a real cowboy?”

  “Screw you, man!”

  “Sorry, I’m taken. Been screwin’ your mom.”

  Roddy launched himself at Two Shots Down, but he was ready. He ducked the first punch easy and clocked him in the side of the face. Roddy went down like a sack of bricks. Two Shots Down stepped over his stupid body as he told Roddy’s friends, “Don’t forget to pick up your trash when you leave.”

  The two of them were both riders and looked shaken. That happened when newbies saw a bull shifter fight. You couldn’t explain power to a man. You had to show him to make him understand.

  They didn’t kneel down to check on Roddy until Two Shots Down had sauntered up a few rows and taken his seat on the end so he could escape this God-awful meeting. The bull shifters around him smirked and murmured and went about their business like he hadn’t just knocked out a rider. Once upon a time, in his household, fighting had been frowned upon, but this was all normal life now.

  “Are you done?” Tommy Hane asked from behind the podium at the front of the room.

  He looked tired, so Two Shots Down tossed him a bone. “Quite done,” he said in a proper tone.

  Tommy Hanes had an eye twitch. Ha ha. Tommy straightened his spine and tapped the microphone a couple times, which let off a shrill noise that doubled over the bull shifters in unison.

  A whole lot of cursing bounced around the left side of the room while Tommy told them to, “Man up and pipe down.” Whatever that meant. They weren’t men, and what the hell did pipe down mean anyway?

  The back door opened, and Quickdraw Slow Burn stood in the open doorway with his normal scowl and pissed-off demeanor. He was tall with pitch black hair and a beard, eyes that were as black as his soul.

  “Ladies and gents, our number one ranked bull,” Tommy said into the microphone.

  “You want a trophy or somethin’?” asked one of Roddy’s little friends. Roddy was conscious and nursing a beer at the end of an aisle cap, glaring at Two Shots Down through a swollen eye.

  He probably just needed to be flipped off to reset his pissy mood.

  “Number one bull rider right here,” Jessie Campbell called out, “but I didn’t get no introduction.”

  “’Cause no one gives a shit about you,” Quickdraw muttered as he strode directly past Two Shots Down and took a seat two rows in front of him. Asshole blocked out the entire podium with his giant shoulders and cowboy hat.

  “No, no, no, that’s not true,” Tommy said, trying to slow the turning mood on the bull riders’ side of the room. “You are very important, too.”

  “No, he ain’t,” Dead of Winter called from the back wall where he was standing alone, arms crossed, scowl on his face. “No one’s here to watch you dipshit humans get thrown off a bull. They’re here to watch us.”

  “L
ike a freak show,” one of the riders called out.

  “Call it whatever you want,” fired back Dead of Winter, the number two bull in the circuit right now. “Freak show works. But that’s why more and more of those seats are being filled every week. That’s why more and more people are paying to watch our competitions on their televisions. That new attention our circuit is getting? It ain’t because of you boring men. All that pressure, all that attention, all the funding coming in is because of the freak show. Us.” Dead of Winter gestured to the entire left side of the room.

  “Speaking of funding…” Tommy said into the microphone. “We’ve called this meeting because we have some big changes happening for all of us.”

  “The bulls are getting some manners?” a rider asked sarcastically.

  “Yeah,” Two Shots Down called out. “We’re now taking the same etiquette classes your mom made you go to, Timothy.” Tim hated being called Timothy.

  “You have men ride you for a living,” Timothy barked.

  “You ride men for a living,” Two Shots Down pointed out.

  “I would ride your mom, but she don’t buck so good.”

  “Well, your mom bucks just fine,” Two Shots Down enlightened him. Best way to piss off the riders was to mention their moms. He didn’t know much about book smarts, but he’d learned about riders and your-momma jokes real quick.

  Timothy’s face was getting red. “Well, your mom’s a cow!”

  She actually was a cow shifter, so that insult didn’t burn. He’d heard it a thousand times growing up. Two Shots Down shrugged then relaxed into his seat and gave his attention to a very exasperated looking Tommy.

  “Anyways,” Tommy yelled. The microphone shrieked again, sounding like nails on a chalkboard. “Back to what I was saying so we can all go the hell home. Dead of Winter is right. We have new funding flooding in, and that gets us better venues, better accommodations, and most importantly to all of you, gets us more prize money.”