Boothill wasn’t the kind of bastard to get stuck on a place, much less a fuckin’ bar full of piss-drunk idiots and watered-down whiskey. But here he was again, sittin’ at the same damn counter, drink in hand, watchin’ the same goddamn girl ride that mechanical bull like she was born in the saddle and had a death wish to prove it.

He swore under his breath, rolling the glass between his fingers, eyes locked on her like some sorry motherfucker who didn’t know better. Didn’t matter how many times he told himself to get his shit together—every time that damn machine started up, throwin’ her around like it wanted to break her, he couldn’t look the fuck away.

And she never broke.

Didn’t matter how hard that fucker bucked, how fast it spun—she stayed on, hat pulled low, one hand in the air like she was tauntin’ the damn thing. Like she was tauntin’ him.

“Back again, huh?” The bartender, a grizzled old bastard who smelled like regret and cheap cigars, slid Boothill another drink. “Ain’t you got places to be, cowboy?”

Boothill snorted, knocking the whiskey back in one go. “Ain’t in a fuckin’ rush.”

The bartender just grunted, clearly not buyin’ his bullshit. Not that Boothill gave a fuck.

He kept his eyes on her.

Goddamn, she moved like she owned the whole fuckin’ world, like gravity itself had to ask permission before it could fuck with her. The machine twisted hard, jerkin’ her forward, and for a split second, it almost looked like she might go flyin’—but no. She just adjusted her hips, grit her teeth, and stayed the fuck on.

“Holy shit,” Boothill muttered, dragging a hand down his face.

“Somethin’ wrong?” The bartender smirked like he already fuckin’ knew.

Boothill shot him a glare. “Eat shit.”