Son of a bitch, I made it! Plus overtime!

  I jump up and make a high-kneed victory lap around the padding, slapping hands as I go.

  When I get to my bestie, she grabs my shoulders and shakes me almost as hard as the bull did. “Oh, my God! You did it, you crazy bitch! That was epic! Awesome! Hell, yeah!” she calls out in a fake twang of her own, and everyone around us cheers again as they hold up their beers.

  The smile on my face is so big my cheeks hurt.

  “That was some ride. What’s your name?” I turn to face the deep voice behind me. Cowboy is looking me up and down like a snack. Like we’re already halfway through foreplay and I’m a foregone conclusion.

  I consider for a quick moment. He’s ridiculously hot. After all, I know what he’s working with since I felt it against my ass, and he was good with that bull-riding motion, which tells me he’s probably at least decent in the hay.

  I giggle inside at my own countrified joke.

  Tiffany grabs at my arm, digging her nails in a little too hard. The universal girlfriend code of no, no, no, abort mission!

  I don’t even have to look at her to know her eyes are yelling at me, so I give Cowboy my sweetest smile. “Cindy, but I’ve got to go.” It’s our play on Cinderella, an inside joke that roughly translates to ‘run for it like it’s midnight.’

  With that, Tiffany helps pull me over the polished wood railing around the bullpen and we take off, laughing as our hair flows behind us like perfectly curled banners.

  “Sorry!” I call back to Cowboy, who’s yelling at me to wait.

  I laugh harder, smile bigger, and dodge a waitress with a tray full of beers. We’re in the parking lot, Tiffany pulling into the street before I can ask why she didn’t let me give Cowboy my real name.

  “He was hot, Tiff. He could’ve ridden me all night!”

  In the passenger seat, I buck my hips like I’m back on the bull and bite my lip like I’m definitely somewhere else. Namely, beneath Cowboy.

  “You know that’s not how this works,” she admonishes.

  She’s right. We dare each other to do crazy things all the time. It’s a big part of our fun friendship.

  But we have limits.

  Nothing that could hurt someone, no sex, and nothing really illegal. A little illegal is sometimes okay, like the time we trespassed on the roof at school to underage drink and smoke, but nothing seriously over the line.

  “So sex with Cowboy couldn’t be part of the dare. It could’ve been my own fun after smashing that dare successfully. Did you see me ride that bull? That was no beginner’s luck. Maybe my streak could’ve continued all night long.” I’m back to teasing her even though I’ve mostly already forgotten Cowboy in favor of my delight at winning the dare.

  “Maybe, but you didn’t see the waitress eyeballing you two. I figured out pretty quickly that if you got off that bull and onto Cowboy, you were going to be in a catfight in less than those nine-point-five seconds this time.” She says it seriously, but there’s a tiny bit of disappointment in the words. Like she would’ve paid good money to see me catfight in a cowboy bar.

  But she’s a great friend and saved me like the rule follower she is. Which is to say that she dances all over the rules, tapping her pretty booted feet on both sides with regularity, but that’s pretty in line with me, so we’re golden.

  “Oh, no. I didn’t see that. Thanks for saving me then.” I reach across the console and hug her shoulders, careful not to distract her from driving.

  When I’m back in my seat, she glances over at me, a smile already blooming. “But dayum, did you ride that bull, girl! Whoo hoooo!” she yells out into the night through the rolled-down windows.

  “And yeehaw!” I answer just as loudly.

  Dare done.

  We pull into the dorm parking lot with our lights off so security hopefully won’t see us, because bull riding wasn’t our only dare of the night.

  Hours ago, I was the one who dared Tiffany to sneak out, so she’s got a successful dare done tonight too. As long as we can sneak back in after curfew without getting caught.

  We park and get out, staying low between the cars. I’m not sure why, but it seems like the sneaky thing to do. We’re probably too loud as we shush each other, giggling quietly, but we manage to make it all the way inside the building and to our dorm room without getting busted.

  As I lay in bed, my face scrubbed clean and in my PJs, I replay the night. Fuck, that was fun.

  A tiny voice tries to butt in, telling me to be safe, take things seriously, and be good. It’s my dad’s voice, living in my head, quoting all the things he’s said to me an infinite number of times over the years. He still thinks of me as his good little girl.

  But when I set his prerogatives on the scale against the exhilaration I feel doing things that are a little crazy, Dad loses every time. Mentally, I can tell him to shut up and do what I want, though I’d never tell him that in person. I love him way too much for that.

  I just love doing daring things too.

  Elle - Four Years and 1500 Dares Later

  “Ow!” I yelp right out of my sleep as Taylor Swift jolts me awake and causes me to bang my head against my headboard.

  Rumbling irritably, I slap the alarm next to my bed. But it doesn’t go off. It gets even louder as it falls off the nightstand and into bed with me, Taylor sassily telling the guy she’s singing about that they’re never, ever getting back together. Great news, but I could really, really use another half hour of sleep before discussing your love life drama, Tay-Tay.

  Grumbling, I mash the button again and Taylor goes up another octave, making my head pound. Why did I buy an alarm clock with such tiny buttons again?

  It takes several more mashes and a well-placed karate chop to silence the alarm. I make a mental note to buy a new one because I might’ve actually just broken it, and if not, something with a big-ass snooze button would be nice.

  “Gee, thanks—” I begin to growl but then stop, choked as I breathe in a . . . ball of cat fur? Hacking, I wipe at my mouth, disgusted and unfortunately not all that surprised. “Sophie!” I complain, “Have you been sitting on my chest while I sleep again?”

  My black and white Persian cat, Sophie the Magnificent—and in her mind probably a lot of other titles—gives me an imperious, I-give-zero-fucks look from where she’s perched on my desk before licking her paws. If I didn’t know any better, I’d almost be tempted to think her incapable of being responsible for the fluffball that oh, so conveniently found its way into my mouth.

  But looks can be deceiving.

  Sophie can be a sweetheart most times, but she can also be my worst nightmare. Besides costing me a rather nice chair earlier in our relationship, I swear she hops on my chest while I’m asleep. The sweet side of me likes to think she’s guarding me, making sure I’m breathing all night. The not-so-sweet side is certain she’s trying to suck the life out of me.

  But I know better than to expect further response from my feline companion, so I get up and stretch my arms. I mentally cycle through all the things I have to do to get ready for work. Shower, shave, makeup, get dressed, and then off to pick up my bestie, Tiffany Young, for carpooling, but I talk to Sophie the whole time. That’s one of the main reasons I have her—so that I don’t look like a lunatic talking to myself.

  “If you keep leaving me hairballs for breakfast, you’re going to see me use up every last one of your nine lives—” My voice fails me as I step forward and fall into a tangled heap. “Dammit!”

  Damn, am I usually this clumsy?

  I glare balefully at Sophie, who’s still sitting pretty on my desk, but I can see the laughter in her eyes. She’s enjoying my morning clumsiness. I kick my feet, messily getting untangled from the pair of jeans I shed as I fell into bed last night. I know there’s a trail of clothing from the front door leading to this last puddle right here, meaning I’ll have to watch it so I don’t fall again. At least I managed to not knock last night’s wine glass off the nightstand with my alarm clock battle du jour.

  Yeah, last night was epic. If you consider one and a half glasses of wine, my favorite book boyfriend, and falling asleep immediately after jilling off to be a great night. To be fair, sometimes, I do. Others, like now, I think I really, really need to get a release with a pulse. Wait, make that a heartbeat because Maximus, my battery-operated boyfriend, does have a pulse mode. A really good pulse mode.

  “Don’t you dare laugh at me,” I warn Sophie, shooting her a murderous glare as I climb carefully to my feet. Meanwhile, she’s unperturbed by my death gaze, even offering a soft meow that belies her evil nature. “I swear someone’s got a voodoo hex—”

  “Papa don’t preach—”

  The music is back again. This time it’s my phone, and fate must be screwing with me today on the music choices.

  Shit. I do not need this right now.

  Part of me wants to blow it off and go about getting ready for work. But another part of me feels guilty for even thinking that. There are people you can ignore and people you can’t.

  And if you don’t answer, he’s liable to get so worried he might send the “boys” to check on you.

  Just the image of my two lumbering, overprotective hand holders, also known as my cousins, showing up at my door is enough to change my mind, and with a sigh, I press Accept.

  “Dad,” I complain as my father, Daniel Stryker’s, handsome face appears on my phone’s screen. At forty-six, he’s what my best friend crassly likes to call a D-I-L-F. I have to constantly remind her that’s the last fucking thing I want to hear. Yuck.

  His strict diet and workout regimen help him exude a youthfulness of a man almost half his age. If that weren’t enough, he’s a vice-president at Fox Industries, a multi-billion-dollar Fortune 500 Company, making him the most desirable middle-aged bachelor in the city. And that’s according to several magazines, not just his own ego.

  I mean, it’s kinda nice to know I’ve got the genetics to age gracefully myself, but it’s also really, really strange when you have to use a bat to keep your female friends at bay. Surely, they can work their daddy issues out with someone who isn’t my actual dad, right?

  “I’m trying to get ready for work. Is it important?”

  “Ah!” Dad exclaims, ignoring my complaining, his handsome mug lighting up like a Christmas tree as my face appears on his screen. “There’s my beautiful little princess!” He suddenly recoils sharply from his screen, his face twisting in horror. “Damn, baby girl, Medusa’s got some competition going!” He pops a raspberry into his mouth, talking to me and prepping his breakfast at the same time.

  “Very funny!” Despite my irritation, I laugh, not offended in the least. He’s always teased me about my bed head. It’s been an ongoing joke since I was a little girl when he’d have to painfully, patiently get the tangles out before school. It got so bad I started wrapping my hair in silk wraps in my teen years to help control it, but that never seemed to work since apparently, I roll around like the possessed girl from The Exorcist in my sleep.

  Eventually, I said to hell with it and just started fixing it with a shower, heavy conditioning, and a quick blowout in the morning.

  “Not everyone can wake up looking picture perfect like Your Highness,” I tell him, stroking his ego. “And I just rolled out of bed, so I have an excuse.”

  “You’re definitely right about that,” Dad agrees, smoothing back his already impeccably slicked back hair. But there’s a hint of laughter in his eyes, letting me know he hasn’t gone totally arrogant in his not-that-old age. “But you’re just getting out of bed? Honey, you really do need to make time for yourself. Early to bed, early to rise, get a workout in and a healthy breakfast to start your day right.”

  It’s advice, but it’s also a recap of his morning as he holds up a glass containing green glop. He takes a good gulp of the drink, and I cringe. That stuff tastes like grass, and I refuse to drink it anymore now that I can make my own coffee and Pop Tart breakfast.

  I roll my eyes in an exaggerated enough manner to make sure he sees it. “Give me a break. I’ve had a rough start this morning. Sophie’s been playing soul stealer again, and I damn near tripped and broke my neck before you called. The only thing that could make it worse is that Peeping Tom I caught outside my window a couple of nights ago.”

  Dad frowns and leans forward to get closer to the camera, suddenly serious and on edge. “Peeping Tom?” Dad’s breath escapes him in a huff. “Should I send the boys to check everything out?”

  I let out a groan.

  But Dad’s on a roll now. “Security system, with door and window alarms. Maybe have the boys sleep over for a few nights to see if they can catch the fucker . . .”

  My cousins, Billy and Ricky, or as Tiffany likes to call them, Bebop and Rocksteady, are like my dad’s adopted sons. More meat than brains, they’ve been a thorn in my side ever since I could remember, with Dad having them watch over me like hawks.

  Their primary mission? Keep me safe, which leads conveniently into their secondary mission, no fun for Elle. And now I’m talking about myself in the third person like I’m crazy. Thanks, Dad!

  At least I’ve always been able to outsmart Billy and Ricky so they haven’t been much of a hindrance to my shenanigans.

  “Dad, didn’t we already have this discussion?” I ask in a tired tone and giving him the ‘look’ through the camera. “I’m a grown woman. I don’t need anyone to come looking after me just because I’m having a rough morning. Besides, I was just joking about the Peeping Tom thing. Payback.” I stick my tongue out, disproving my claim of being an adult.

  “Seriously? That doesn’t stop me from worrying about you, El,” Dad says, not amused by my little joke. “No matter how old you get, I’ll always worry about you. It’s my job.”

  The sincerity in his eyes and the worry lines etched in his brow pull at my heartstrings, and for a moment, I empathize with him.

  After all, his worry isn’t totally unfounded, given our family’s history. Our life had seemed pretty picturesque, but then came the fateful day where Mom up and left with no explanation. No goodbye letter. No telling me, or him, that she loved us.

  Nothing.

  She just disappeared one day, never to be heard from again.

  At first, we’d thought the worst and Dad had even called the police to report her missing. But she hadn’t been missing. She’d just left us. To say Dad was devastated is an understatement. His entire life, his partner, his heart had been ripped out of his chest.

  We later found out that she was having an affair with an old college flame, and he was tired of being the side dick, so he gave her an ultimatum. Him or her family.

  She chose him, and I’ve never even gotten a birthday card since.

  Dad reacted by going insular, focusing on me and work, in that order. For a while, I reveled in being his main focus. He made me feel safe, comforted, and loved in the face of my mother’s rejection, which was no small task. And somehow, he managed to still be a machine about work. When I learned what the word efficient means, I immediately saw Dad. He’d drop me off at school at eight, and while I would catch a ride home with my cousins or a friend, he was always there by five thirty to take me to ballet class, Girl Scouts, or whatever. He even cooked, and he cooked good stuff too. No spaghetti from a can in my house. He balanced it all and made it seem effortless and easy.

  But as I got older, things changed.

  I coped rather oppositely, deciding that living safe was no guarantee of a happily ever after, so why not try YOLO instead? If I’m only living once, I’m going to make the absolute best of it.

  Okay, so that led to a couple of scares. I might’ve jumped off the roof into the pool once or twice, and I sorta got into it with a curb and broke my nose after spinning around a bat a few dozen times. And there was the time I decided I could handle hard liquor even though I’d never so much as had a beer. And those are just the things Dad knows about.

  Eventually, I wouldn’t say no to any dare, no matter how crazy it was. If someone said those magic words—I dare you—I was in.

  “Well, stop worrying about me,” I tell Dad, shaking myself out of my reverie. “I can take care of myself, remember? Lord knows, Billy and Ricky made sure I knew how to squash a guy’s nuts like a pumpkin pie as soon as I was old enough to swear.”

  Dad’s answering grunt sounds a bit pained, as if the summoned imagery makes him think of his own family jewels getting crushed, but he murmurs something that sounds suspiciously like, “Good boys.”

  I cut him off, wanting to change the subject from the one we’ve beaten to death, reanimated like a zombie, and beaten to death again. “I’ve got to get ready. But quickly, before I go, how’s the search for Fox’s HQ2 coming along?”

  Dad brightens, straightening his shoulders and steepling his fingers beneath his chin, his eyes brimming with excitement. If there’s one thing he loves almost as much as me, it’s work. And with my ‘leaving the nest’, first for college and then getting my own apartment, he’s been able to rocket up the corporate ladder even faster.

  The recent announcement that Fox Industries would be acquiring a second headquarters, along with a Regional President to run it, had every top executive scrambling to produce the best location for the company.

  Rumor has it, Dad’s plan is top on the company’s list.

  “Great! The board is still hearing presentations, but I think they’re close to voting. If everything goes to plan, you’re looking at the new President of Fox HQ2!” Dad gloats.

  I clap my hands and let out a whoop, causing Sophie to jump at the sudden noise. “Wow, that’s awesome! I’m so happy for you!”

  Dad beams, but then he leans forward, looking at me expectantly. Even through the screen, his gaze is heavy and meaningful. “If I land the deal and get promoted, you know what that means, right?”

  I know exactly what that means.

  Come work for me.

  He might have let me live in the dorms in college and of course have my own apartment . . . but he still wants me to be within arm’s reach. I’m his little girl, after all.