Firefly Night

CHAPTER 1

|COLT LANGMORE|

I hate getting punched in the face.

Makes me angry.

And truly, nobody likes me when I'm angry.

The stars that explode behind my eyes after a solid hit to the skull are never fun. Even a glancing blow off my left cheekbone from some drunken, wannabe cowboy had those familiar sparks flickering up, clouding my vision. I could already feel the swelling starting, blood trickling down to mix with sweat. My cheekbone stung, and my neck ached from the impact.

Damn, that stings.

"Colt, hang on!" Wyatt's voice cut through the haze, but I didn't need the reminder. My eyes locked onto the kid, who was now held tight by Sean. The growing ringing in my ears wasn't just from the punch—it was the crowd too, roaring like they were at some damn gladiator match.

Rem must've been doing his thing, I thought, clenching my jaw. He always did know how to work a crowd, especially when there were women around. And as much as I hated to admit it, the guy was good—too good, sometimes.

The young punk in Sean's grip took advantage of my brief pause to thrash and kick, trying to break free. He was cursing up a storm, spitting threats about "unfair treatment," "calling the cops," and the classic "my uncle's a lawyer."

The kid had a mouth on him, I'll give him that. Too bad about that gate, though. Did a real number on his face.

We finally got him past the crowd and out onto the street. The cold air slapped me in the face, a bitter wind cutting through the adrenaline and cooling the heat in my veins. April's supposed to be warming up, but up here in the mountains, winter wasn't letting go easy. There's still snow on the ground, though most of it's slush now, dirty and half-melted.

So naturally, we dumped the punk hard on the sidewalk, right into the deepest snow pile we could find. His face hit the icy slush with a satisfying thud, and I couldn't help but feel a grim sense of satisfaction. Served him right.

"That's for the face, asshole," I muttered, wiping the blood off my chin. Sean and Wyatt stood beside me, both quiet, just waiting for the kid to say something stupid.

"Better stay down," Sean added, his voice low and calm, like he was giving friendly advice. "Next time, you won't be so lucky."

I reached up to my cheek, feeling the sting of the cut. It wasn't deep, but it sure as hell hurt. The bleeding had slowed to a trickle, leaving behind a sticky mess that clung to my skin. A couple of folks walking towards the stands stared, their faces twisted in a mix of curiosity and disgust. The way they looked at me, you'd think they'd never seen a little blood before. City folks, probably. The type to risk pneumonia just for a glance from anyone competing today. Couldn't say I understood the appeal.

"How you feelin', Colt?" Sean asked, his deep voice cutting through the chatter.

I grunted, rubbing the sore spot on my cheek. "Been better, been worse too," I muttered.

The two kids finally scrambled to their feet, looking more pissed off than hurt. The bigger one, his too-tight Wrangler shirt straining at the seams, tried to get in my face again, but Wyatt stepped in, shoving him back before he could start anything.

"You damn rodeo clowns are gonna pay for this!" the kid yelled, his breath coming out in angry puffs of steam. "Me and my boys hit up every rodeo in Wyoming. You kick us out, and we'll make sure everyone hears about it. No one's gonna want to spend another dime in this arena!"

I glanced over my shoulder at the crowd. The sun was dipping low, casting a golden glow over the arena. It was prime time, the golden hour when the buckle bunnies started circling like vultures, hoping to catch the eye of a cowboy. The whole place was alive with energy, and these two punks thought they could disrupt that? They were more delusional than I originally thought.