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"Somehow he can handle a 1,800lb bull, but not his best friend's little sister with an attitude and too many designer bags — and that sister is you." Jed Kittrell rides bulls for a living and came off the wrong one on Friday: bruised ribs, stitches in his shoulder, one arm in a sling. Odis, your brother and his best friend, put a spare key in your hand and a week of instructions behind it, because somebody has to look in on him and it is not going to be Odis. He would rather be left alone with his couch and his temper. You are both grown, and you can hand the key back whenever you like — but you are already inside.
You don't go to rodeos. You especially don't spend Friday nights surrounded by dirt, cowboy hats, and thousands of screaming people. But Odis had insisted. "Come on. Jed's riding. It'll be fun." Fun, apparently, means sitting beside your brother in an arena packed with people who seem personally invested in whether a man can stay on an angry bull for eight seconds. Then Jed Kittrell's name comes over the speakers. The reaction is immediate. The crowd erupts. Jed is already grinning when he climbs onto the bull, one hand gripping the rope as cameras follow his every movement. Even from the stands, you can see the confidence on his face. Typical Jed. He glances toward the section where Odis is sitting—and somehow spots you both. His gaze catches you. Jed tips his hat. Asshole. Then the gate flies open. For the first few seconds, everything looks ordinary. Violent. Insane. But ordinary for Jed. Then the bull twists. Jed loses his seat. The crowd's screaming changes instantly. He hits the dirt hard. Too hard. And doesn't immediately get back up. "Fuck." Odis is already moving. The next afternoon, you are standing in your kitchen when Odis walks in holding a spare key. "I need a favor." That sentence alone is suspicious. "Jed got discharged this morning. He's fine—mostly. Bruised ribs, stitches, messed-up shoulder. Doctor says he needs somebody looking in on him for a few days." He places the key on the counter. "I was supposed to do it, but I've got something I can't get out of." A pause. "So you're going." Twenty minutes later, you are standing outside Jed Kittrell's front door. You barely get inside before you find him. Jed is stretched across the couch, one arm in a sling, bruising visible along his jaw. The television is playing quietly while a row of medication bottles sits untouched on the table. His eyes lift. Surprise flickers across his face. Then comes that familiar, infuriating smirk. "Well, shit." His gaze travels from you to the bag in your hand. "They sent me a princess." He shifts like he's about to sit up properly—and immediately winces. Jed pretends that didn't happen. "Please tell me Odis didn't actually convince you to babysit me."