Joaquim could hear them talking about him, about Renaldo, Leonid. Like he couldn’t understand them. He’d been in this country for fifteen years. He wasn’t stupid.
He wasn’t stupid and he spoke English, and he wasn’t Mexican, either.
Assholes.
Sometimes he thought the others were lucky, to not hear all the shit the Americanos were saying.
Joaquim rolled his shoulders, rocking back and forth on his heels as he waited for the rest to show up for the meeting. Baltazar Silva came in first, broad-shoulders and barrel chest easy to identify. The man flashed him a wide smile. “Bom dia, Joa. How are you?”
“Balta.” He nodded, smiled. “Good. I am very good. You?”
Every one of them stood and moved toward Balta.
“Good. Good.” Balta shook his hand, making his skin tingle. It was like the man was electric, somehow. He had a huge presence.
Of course, no one was Baltazar. No one. Balta had been the first one to come up, to break the barrier with the Anglos. All of them—well, most of them—wanted to be Balta.
Joa thought that maybe he just wanted to know Balta. He didn’t like the cameras so much.
Once all the handshaking was over, the last few riders had straggled in and the meeting could start. The meeting could always start once Balta was there. He was sort of the universal translator.
“We’re all here, huh?” Balta asked in Portuguese, glancing around. “Okay. Good. So, the draw is not so good today. Ed Lamott could not come with his bulls, so many of them are from a stock company in North Carolina.”
Most of them groaned. That would mean less experienced bulls. That always meant more hang-ups, more wrecks, and more time for him and Balta, translating for the doctors. Balta went on, pulling out his list, explaining who had drawn what bull, and there were only two animals on the list that he recognized. The rest were all new, including his bull, and Balta’s. That was going to be bad.
Leonid tugged his shirt sleeve. “Oi, it’s all of us, gets the new bulls, Sim?”
Joa nodded. “Sim. All of us.”
“The Americans, too?” Renaldo asked.
Balta grinned. “The Americans, too. We’re even, huh?”
“Not here.” Leonid rolled his eyes. “They talk, eh? Like we’re macacos.”
The man scratched his sides, hooting and bouncing, making them all laugh.
That got them a few dark looks, the few guys who could see them from the other side of the chutes growling. It was so strange, how mostly the other riders liked them one on one, but resented them as a group.
Balta, though? Everyone talked to Balta.
“It’s time.” The lights were about to go dark and it was time to get in line and hear David Donaldson butcher Eduardo’s name.
They all moved to get in their places, Balta heading off to take his place with the world champions. Not before he patted Joa on the butt, though.
The tingles lasted all the way through the national anthem.
Demon man.
Joa crossed himself.
Demon.
Demónio.
Balta flexed his arm and bent at the hips before bouncing back and forth, doing what Beau Lafitte would call his twist dance. The rest they all made fun of, from Dillon to the bullfighters to the other riders, but he had a warm-up routine that he liked. It was also one that Joa liked to watch.
Those dark eyes were on him now like a touch, watching every movement he made. It was heady, fine.
Balta wanted Joa. Desperately, in fact. He wanted the mouth and the sweet ass and those long legs wrapping around him.
Of course, Joa was…shy. It made it all the finer.
Poor Joa. He was so American in some ways. How did they say? Puritan. He believed in women and men and their roles. So, since Balta had an ex-wife and two children back in Brazil, well… That meant Balta liked women, sim?
He twisted again, showing Joa his ass, and he imagined he heard a moan. Imagined because, even if Joa had moaned, Balta couldn’t have heard it in this crowd.
The crowd was pumped, screaming and bouncing. The fan club seats were packed, and Balta posed for a few pictures, giving the fans a good show.
“Você é seguinte, Balta.” Joa’s accent was just a touch odd, lilting.
“Sim.” He loved that touch of Texas in Joa’s voice, which came out far more strongly when he spoke English. It made him smile. He was up next, though, so he needed to concentrate on his ride, not Joa.
“I’ll pull your rope? I have time before my ride.”
“Obrigado.” He clapped Joa on the back to emphasize the thanks before checking his glove and chaps. Then he climbed into the chute. The bull was small, black, and crouching. Eduardo had the four-by-four on him and Joa was bending over the chute, tugging his horns. Balta laughed out loud, putting in his mouthpiece and flapping a hand at the bull’s ear. Come on, you big bastard.
He surged up, Joa’s arm slamming across his vest to catch him before his face smacked against the bars. “Cuidadoso.”
Yeah. Careful.
He’d broken a few teeth that way over the years, the hard metal gates surrounding him the most dangerous part of bull-riding as far as he was concerned. He flexed his hand, pulling the rope tight across it and closing his fingers over the heavy ridge.
Joa crawled over him, already chattering at him in a mix of Portuguese and English. “Ride, Balta. Mind in the middle. Come on. Estada sobre. Passeio. Pressa. Get out of the chute.”
He blocked out Joa, Eduardo, and Leonid, knowing he had to get right in his own mind. The only thing he had to worry about, besides the bull, was the chute judge. He didn’t need a penalty. Balta gritted his teeth and let out a primal shout behind the mouth guard. Then he nodded.
The little bull turned right into his hand, back end rolling hard, head down. The rhythm was odd, unbalanced, and it took forever for him to get his seat.
He kicked out, and he hoped he looked like he was spurring, but he didn’t count on it. Tucking his chin, Balta groaned, his arm screaming as the G-forces pulled.
Cinco. Seis. Sete. Oito. Deus. Sim.
He heard Coke and Nate talking to him. “Come on, Balta. Off.”
Off. Off. The world spun, and he waited until the bull turned back the other way once more, before kicking loose and leaping off.
Strong hands grabbed his shoulders, whirled him around and shoved him toward the rail. “Go, man.”
Staggering, he headed for the fence, waiting for Nate’s voice to scream out, “Safe!” like a demented baseball umpire.
The crowd went wild and he climbed the fence, knowing that little bull was on his ass, somehow. A pair of strong, brown hands yanked him up and over, the bull almost taking his boot off on the way by. The blow to his ankle stunned him a moment.
“You’re all right. I got you.”
“Let me down easy, huh?” He wasn’t sure who to thank. His eyes were still watering.
“You need Doc?” Those hands set him down, light as a feather.
Nate.
Coke would call him ‘son’.
“No. No. I am bom, eh? Okay. Just grazed me.” He laughed, clapping Nate on the back, going to take his rope from Coke. He only limped a bit.
Leonid met him at the bottom of the stairs, jabbering at him furiously. “Eighty-eight, Balta. You’ll be in the money. You hurt?”
“Just bruised, huh?” Leonid was a sweet one, but Balta wanted to get to Joa. Really, he needed to help pull that rope.
Leonid took his bull rope with a smile, let him climb up so he could get by. He could see Joa, bending and stretching, over and over. His steps slowed, just so he could watch. Look at that behind. Joa was so well-built. Balta could imagine himself buried deep inside that tight ass, listening to Joa cry out for him.
Imagining it now might be inconvenient, though. So he started walking faster, boots clanging on the wire grid. “Ready, Joa?”
“Sim. Sim, Balta. Good ride.” Joa’s eyes sparkled, the excitement ratcheting up.
“Now you, huh? You watch when you get off. These new bulls, they’re angry.”
“Sim. I saw. I’ll watch.” Joa stepped over the rail, nudging the bull with his boot. The bull bucked up in the chute, front feet rolling over the rail.
He pulled hard, yanking Joa up before the bull could drag him down. “Deus!”
More of their countrymen moved in to help, and there was Nate again, tugging at the bull’s horn from the bottom. Nate was a good man. Joa was muttering under his breath, getting settled, setting his hand in the rope.
“Bear down, hey? Make sure you spur, if you can.” He couldn’t let Joaquim think too much.
“Sim. Sim, Balta. Eu sei.” Those eyes met his, serious and sure.
“Set?”
“Sim.” Joa nodded and the bull lunged out, spraying snot and spinning hard.
He knew he had to make Joa nod. You always did. Those few seconds before the gate opened were always the worst. Joa spurred and bore down, chin ducked, arm in the air. Look at that man. Just look. Balta whooped, urging Joa and the bull on, both.
Joa started to slide at six and a half seconds, and that muscled upper body clenched, the correction making him scream. He pounded on the top rail, bouncing, Eduardo right there with him.
“He’s going to make it!” Eduardo hooted.
The buzzer rang and Joa yanked at the tail of his bull rope, working to get his hand free.
“Esquerdo, Joa! Left!” If he went off to the right, it would be very, very bad.
Joa turned in a full circle, still spinning. He stepped toward the chutes and made it about three steps before the bull bowled him over.
Balta vaulted over the rail, landing inside the chute and reaching for Joa as Coke flung him toward safety. Joa landed against him, full-force, their bodies smacking together. Balta wrapped his arms around Joa, turning them to protect the man with his own frame. The gate slammed closed just in time to lock the bull out and them in.
“Obrigado.” Deus. Joa loved his job, Balta could tell. He loved it a lot. Physically.
Balta grinned, trying for a subtle bump and rub. “De nada, Joa. You need to go dance, huh?”
“Sim. Sim.” He could watch Joa samba for days. The man stepped back, vest open, buckle undone, shirt untucked.
Oh, he did love how Joa came loose when he rode. It was like the best striptease.
Joa ran back onto the arena, Oye Como Va playing while he and Dillon shook it, that tight ass bouncing.
A man had to admire the agility of Dillon’s ass. Adam Taggart spoke pretty highly of it, and if anyone would know, it was Tag. The man got around.
Joa’s laugh filled the air, the eighty-six and a half enough to get the man into the short go.
Balta would wait to see how the short round played out before asking Joa to supper. He would ask, though. The round would only affect how extravagant their meal was.
Joa came around, unfastening his chaps and grinning. “Not bad, eh?”
“Not bad at all. Good thing it was less than me, huh?” He grinned back, knowing Joa would laugh at that.
“Sim, sim.” That laugh rang out, bright and happy. “Still in the short-go.”
“Yes. There will be three of us, yeah?” He thought the new man, Raul, was going to do well.
Joa nodded, smiling for one of the fans, posing for a picture.
The urge to stick his tongue out caught him, and Balta made a face, sending the girl into a fit of giggles. “Come on, Joa. We need to go get ready.”
“Sim.” Joa nodded, jogged out to start warming up again.
Balta licked his lips. He could watch that all night. There were other things he could do, though. Good thing he had a vivid imagination.
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