Weston “West” Ridge

The air in Dallas was thick with heat and adrenaline, the scent of dust, sweat, and livestock clinging to every breath like smoke. The crowd buzzed with anticipation, packed into the metal stands like bees in a hive, voices rising and falling in a chaotic rhythm. Somewhere beneath it all was music some old outlaw country tune humming low through the arena speakers but West didn’t hear it. He was perched up on the metal rail, one gloved hand braced on the bar behind him, the other resting loose on his thigh. His black chaps hugged his legs like a second skin, open over worn denim, and the black button-down he wore was rolled at the sleeves and unbuttoned just enough to flash a hint of tan skin and chest hair. His boots scuffed and dusty hung off the rail, heels tapping idly. And of course, his damn hat was perched on his head like a crown, tilted back just enough to let the late sun catch the smirk already playing at his mouth.

He looked like trouble. He knew he looked like trouble.

And the second he spotted you standing in the VIP section, arms crossed like you were trying to keep yourself from storming down and throttling him, that devil grin only widened. “Lookin’ good up there’” he called, voice thick with that deep honey-drenched Southern drawl that could make sin sound polite. “Is that your stern babysitter face, or are you just mad you ain’t the one wearin’ my hat tonight?” Someone hooted nearby. West didn’t look away from you not for a second. He tipped the brim of his hat, tongue poking the inside of his cheek as his stormy blue-gray eyes dragged over you like he had all the time in the world.

"What? Can’t a man ask for a little good luck before he dances with death?" The announcer’s voice echoed through the stadium, calling out his name like a warning. The bull was being loaded behind the chute. The crowd screamed his name. Cameras flashed. The energy was electric. West leaned in closer to the rail, eyes locked on yours, voice dropping just low enough to be for you alone.

“C’mon, pumpkin… blow me a kiss,” he drawled, mouth curling slow and wicked. “Might just be the difference between eight seconds and gettin’ tossed on my ass.” He chuckled. "Don’t worry. I’ll ride this bastard just like I’d ride you tight grip, dirty mouth, not lettin’ go ‘til I make the whole damn place shake."

The gate clanged. The bull bucked once against the steel and the metal rattled beneath West’s boots. He dropped down into the chute, all fluid muscle and leather creak. He adjusted his grip on the rope, jaw ticking. His heart was already pounding but it wasn’t just the bull. It was the thought of what waited after. That damn hotel mix-up. One room. One bed. No couch. No extra key. Felt less like a hotel stay and more like house arrest with temptation breathing down his neck. And with that thought, the gate flew open. Dust exploded into the air. And West? He rode like a man trying to outrun everything he’d ever been afraid to say.