About Give It Time
Written by BA Tortuga
36 pages / 11000 words
ISBN: 978-1-60370-673-5, 1-60370-673-9
Available file types - html,
lit, pdf, prc
CB, nicknamed Biscuit by his cowboy friends, has to stay off the bulls to heal up a groin injury that leaves him wondering if he'll ever get to have sex again. Sports medicine man, Jonesy, is more than happy to help in both departments, but he knows CB has to take his time and get better.
Biscuit is as stubborn as a cowboy can be, and determined to play the bullriding game he loves so much. Jonesy thinks he has the perfect bribe, though, and he's willing to play dirty to get CB back to health. Can the two of them nurse CB back to his best riding form?
Sample
Cody hit the ground so hard his teeth rattled and, for a half-second he just sat there. Waiting. It couldn't hurt worse if the big fucker stomped him.
Of course, he knew better. It could.
It had.
He scrambled, heading for the fence, the Brahma whirling the other way, bull rope slapping the ground with a thwack that was damn near at his boot heels. He could hear the announcers somewhere in the back, the pitiful applause, the way Nate was going on and on and on.
"You're all right. You're all right. You're all right."
Yeah. Right.
He was deeply fucked and had needed that fucking ride.
Coke grabbed him and pushed him up against the rail, all but lifting him to the top as the bull kicked by them. "Lord, son, you got to move faster."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Some of us are getting old."
"Shee-it. You don't know from old, Biscuit."
"Yeah, Gramps. I hear you." Right. He was seven fucking months younger than the bull fighter. He was a baby.
"You okay?" Those strong hands eased him back down, so fucking careful, handing him off to the guys.
"Yeah." He tipped his hat, limped out to the back, needing a beer in the worst way.
"Hey, Cody." That was Callum Jones, from sports medicine, waiting for him like a cowboy jack in the box. Damn it.
"Jonesy. You bring me a beer?" La la la. Not needing the doc.
"No. I want you to come back to the training room." Those almost-black eyes were serious as the grave, the equally black hair curling out a little from under the straw hat. Hippie. "Make sure you're still all set right."
"I'm cool." Or possibly dying. Dying might work. Man, he was never going to get to have sex again. Never. Shit, that woman was coming with the camera man. "Okay, okay. I'll come. Keep the harpie off me."
"Well, come on, then." Jonesy put one hand on his back, steering him away, giving the camera bunny a look and a shake of the head.
Thank God.