Eight Second Magic: Paranormal Gay Cowboy Romance

Chapter One

Beau didn’t think he had unreasonable requirements -- at least six feet tall, familiar with bull riding and the danger that came with it, understands the life of a traveling cowboy -- but as he hit send on the preferences form at Cowboy Matchmaker, he thought he was asking for a trip to the moon or something. Though depending on how good the cowboy was at giving a blow job, it might feel as if he’d gone into orbit. He grinned at his mental joke, then quickly sobered. He hadn’t had so much as a quick hand job in the men’s room for a very long time.

He’d been focusing on his career and watching his bank account get fatter. It was nice to skyrocket in the standings. It was even better to know he would have a nest egg for when he was ready to hang up his bull rope. At some point he’d have to leave because even though people knew about vampires, the fact he aged more slowly still creeped most of them out. Guess that would be another requirement -- not icky about vampires.

He checked his ride time. The rodeo would be starting soon, and he wanted to find a good place to watch before the bull riding closed out the event. Grabbing his travel mug, he drained the last of its contents before heading out.

He made it to the arena just as the first event, bareback riding, was starting, and found a spot behind the chutes to watch. He waved at the bull riders passing by to go scope out their rides and see what they were up against. He already knew. He’d drawn Smoke Demon, a big, dark gray bull that few cowboys could stay on for the required eight seconds. He could, though. He knew it, and tonight would be his night to add to his winnings and his legend.

The cowboy in the arena spurred in rhythm with the bronc’s big bucks, the two of them as pretty as a postcard. His white hat tumbled off about three jumps in, and his long, dark ponytail fanned out behind him like a horse’s tail. Dirk was good, one of the best, and a good friend. The crowd cheered and hollered as the buzzer sounded, and the pick-up men helped Dirk off the big chestnut paint bronc. When his score hit the board, the arena erupted even louder. Beau drank it in, thinking the crowd would cheer just as loudly for him, too.

He watched the rest of the bareback and saddle bronc riding, then as the first roping events started, he went back to the locker room to begin his preparations for the night’s ride. He wove through the workers behind the chutes, giving some nods of hello to men busy moving stock to and from the pens and those working the chute. He reached the locker room, surprised to find it lightly populated, and went to his trunk where he kept his chaps and bull rope.

He sat on the bench, trying to focus on the visualization exercises he did before his ride, but he couldn’t stop thinking about that Cowboy Matchmaker application he’d submitted. After paying and filling out the form, all he had to do was wait and see who he’d be connected with and just how well and how fast they’d hit things off.

Word of the service had spread through the cowboys, with most of them calling it magic. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe in magic. He was a vampire, and he knew magic existed. It was just, well, cowboys like him didn’t get a happily ever after, and even the mortal, completely non-paranormal cowboys had rough relationships with the stress and danger of the road. A vampire? Who rode bulls? After living for a few hundred years, he loved the adrenaline. He also knew he’d have to move on in a decade or so. He could only claim a great skincare regimen for so long.

Beau removed his hat and raked his fingers through his long sandy-brown hair, cut just shaggy enough to give him a rakish look.

Worried about your ride tonight? a familiar voice asked as he walked into the locker room.

Beau replaced his hat and put on a big grin. I’ve ridden worse. Who’d you draw? he asked to deflect the conversation from him. Brand Bennings had chased his place at the top of the standings for the past few years, and the younger vampire was always trying to give him a hard time.

Spit Stain. He rolled his eyes. He’s so predictable. One hop out of the chute, then spin to the left. Yawn. I’ll have to be perfect to get a good score tonight.

Stay on your rope. Sometimes he’ll go to the right and dump you in the well. They might be competitors, but Brand had to ride well for them to be in close contention, which was exactly what the fans wanted.

Right-O. He gave a two-fingered salute at the tan brim of his cowboy hat, then went to his trunk.

Beau returned to his visualizing the ride. He knew Smoke Demon’s moves, had watched countless videos of him after the draw. The trick to staying on was to expect the unexpected, because Smoke Demon didn’t have a single way of going. He could do this. He moved to his stretches, and by the time barrel racing started, he exchanged his cowboy hat for his helmet and was ready to ride.

He went behind the chutes with the rest of the riders, giving a nod to Brand as he passed him on the bleachers. Beau would be riding fifth, so when the barrels were removed from the arena and the spotlights dimmed, he was ready and already getting stationed behind the chutes where the first three bulls were being guided into place.

Normally he’d ignore the announcer’s hype. He knew the sport was rough and dangerous, that he was epitomizing the essence of the cowboy, especially since he’d been part of the Wild West when it was truly wild.

Smoke Demon went into the chute, and it was show time. Upon reaching the chute, he climbed down, straddling the gate while he adjusted the bull rope. When he was ready and the arena cleared of the last rider, he settled on Smoke Demon’s back. He fastened his bull rope, and though he’d done this a thousand times, he wasn’t sure if it was like strapping himself to a rocket or a fifteen-hundred-pound rattlesnake. One wrong move and it’d hurt like hell at the very least. He was immune to a lot, but a horn through the chest wasn’t one of them.

Out of habit, he reached to press down his cowboy hat, his hands encountering his helmet instead, and gave the nod. The gate swung open and Smoke Demon exploded. He jumped from the gate, hitting the ground with his front feet solidly in the dirt and his hind feet up over his ass. A long thread of snot whipped from the bull’s nose to slap across the toe of Beau’s boot with the remainder hitting the ground. Beau ignored it, because just as the hind feet landed, the bull bucked again -- another leap and snort and all Beau’s focus remained on his center of gravity locking with the bull’s.

One more jump, then the bull settled down to turn to the right, into his hand. He didn’t get cocky, didn’t think he had the ride. Instead, he rode each spin, each jump as it came, and when Smoke Demon whirled out of the spin, reversing like a cat pouncing on its prey, he rode with the bull. He’d never been one to count the seconds. He didn’t even try to view the board, but surely he’d ridden eight seconds by now.

He dimly registered the bullfighters staying in position in case he needed help. One, dressed all in black, a mop of curly blond hair poking from beneath his black cowboy hat, gave him a thumbs-up as the bull twisted and spun. More jumps, more bucks -- how the hell could so much beef be so athletic?

Then the whistle blew.

Beau yanked on the bull rope.

It didn’t budge.

Fuck.

He yanked again as the pressure on his hands tightened, his fingers swelling from the loss of circulation.

The bullfighter in black was there. I got you, he yelled over the crowd’s gasp as they realized what was happening. Relax your hand.

Relax his hand? He was trying to cling to a pile of angry fucking hamburger. He also knew the bullfighter was right.

I got you. Look into my eyes, the bullfighter said again, and something