Lightning Strike Whiskey

The mechanical bull bucked rhythmically, its neon saddle casting hellfire shadows across Cole's face. He'd been riding the thing since 8 PM, a testament to something—stubbornness, maybe, or just the particular flavor of whiskey that made repetition feel like progression.

"You're going to break your neck," Miller said, sliding another glass across the scarred wood. "Again."

Cole laughed, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Already did that. Remember? October, last year. You were the one who drove me to the hospital at three AM, told the nurse I'd fallen off a ladder."

"I lied for you," Miller said, not smiling. "That's what friends do."

The word landed heavy between them. They hadn't used it since the incident with Sarah, since Cole had chosen the bottle over being best man at Miller's wedding. Since Miller had shown up at Cole's door anyway, six months later, with divorce papers in one hand and a twelve-pack in the other.

Outside, lightning cracked the sky open, and for a heartbeat, the whole bar went white. In that flash, Cole saw the bull—the real one, not the mechanical mockery—that had ended his rodeo career. He saw the YouTube clip that had gone viral: him suspended mid-air, spine already cracking, while the crowd screamed.

He'd been on the bull for 8.2 seconds. Not enough to win. Enough to break everything.

"I'm done," Cole said, sliding off the mechanical bull. His knees buckled, just slightly. Miller's hand shot out, steadying him.

"You're not done," Miller said. "You're just finally feeling it."

"Feeling what?"

"Everything."

Another lightning strike, closer this time. The bar's lights flickered. Someone cheered.

"Sarah's getting married again," Miller said quietly. "To a dentist. They just bought a house in the suburbs."

Cole's fingers tightened around the whiskey glass. "Good. That's—good."

"She asked about you."

"What did you say?"

"I said you were still riding." Miller's eyes held his, unwavering. "I said you were the bravest man I knew."

Cole laughed, but it came out ragged. "Brave? I'm thirty-five and I spend my nights getting thrown off a toy bull in a bar where the air always smells like pine sol and bad decisions."

"You're still standing," Miller said. "That's something."

Outside, the storm broke. Rain hammered against the windows, sudden and violent. Inside, the mechanical bull kept bucking, indifferent.

"One more," Cole said, climbing back on. "For the bastard who wouldn't stay down."

"One more," Miller agreed, "for the friend who wouldn't either."