Summary:
It takes a pissed-off Brahma bull named Shockwave to show rodeo pickup man Marty Fairgrave the cold hard truth about champion bull rider Tripp Colby: Tripp will never leave the safety of his closet or acknowledge Marty in public. Sometimes loving someone just isn’t enough, and after a year of hiding what they are, Marty finally sees the light—and it’s no longer shining on Tripp.
Tripp Colby would do anything for Marty. Well . . . almost. He’s never loved anyone before, and isn’t quite sure how to handle it now. But he knows Marty is his everything, and in order to win him back, Tripp will have to overcome his darkest fears and step into the light.
But no matter Tripp’s intentions, the cost might be too high and the effort too late for these two cowboys to ride off into the sunset.
I fell in love with Marty and Tripp from the very beginning. Even when Tripp wasn't exactly stepping forward the way a lover should, I still felt for him. The story is an even blend of romance, cowboys, rodeo, drama, and even humor. Well written characters, a plot that grabbed my attention immediately, and I was so sorry to see the final page. It's not easy going for the rodeo pair and their friends but the author definitely makes you want to find out how it ends.
Summary:
Pickup man Bridge Sullivan is the kind of cowboy everyone wants—as a brother, a friend, a lover. People think he’s straight, but Bridge isn’t one for labels, and when a sexy male paramedic jumpstarts his heart, he charges in with all guns blazing.
New York City transplant Eric Palmer grew up in foster care. While he always had a roof over his head, he never felt love or a sense of belonging . . . until he joined the California rodeo circuit as a paramedic and found a band of brothers who took him in as one of their own. Now, one in particular is making Eric’s pulse race.
When things heat up between Bridge and Eric, Bridge has to prove to Eric he’s not just experimenting with the rougher sex, while Eric must overcome his fears of being unwanted and cast aside. He knows that trusting Bridge may be the key to his happy ever after, but getting in the saddle is much, much easier than learning to let it ride.
I won't lie, I anticipated the pairing of Bridge and Eric from the minute Eric was introduced in Pickup Men. I was so glad to see that they were given their own story. There is a lot of between Bridge and Eric that could have been cleared up with true sit down communication but where is the fun in that? This story held my attention once again from page one through to the end. I can't wait to see what is brought to us in the next installment.
Summary:
The toughest ride of his life is all in his head.
Bull rider Scott Gillard has a reputation for quick fists and harsh words. What no one knows is where that anger comes from. After a shocking incident sends him into a tailspin, he knows he needs help: he’s been fighting a battle he could never win. Now he's trying to navigate a new life and embrace his true self, but some days are easier than others.
Pickup man Cory Ackerson has suffered his share of harassment, but his light still burns bright. He doesn’t let anything or anyone keep him down, so when he meets the rugged cowboy with a battered chip on his shoulder and regret in his dark eyes, all he wants to do is help.
As their unlikely friendship grows into something deeper, Scott must overcome his past to be the man Cory deserves, or lose his best chance at his own happily ever after.
I'm afraid I went into this one biased. When I read that number three was going to be about Scott Gillard I wasn't pleased. I'm afraid I had judged Scott because of what we, the readers, thought we knew of him from Pickup Men. I was wrong. I found myself pulling for Scott before I reached chapter 3. This is an excellent entry in this series. As we learn who the true Scott is, we see returning characters deal with separating the old Scott from the new, and we meet new characters that add to Scott's growth in both positive and negative ways. All I'll say about Cory is he's a spitfire that not only ignite's Scott's heart but also adds flair to the group that surpasses even Bridge's humor and happy-go-lucky attitude we discovered in Let In Ride.
Pickup Men #1
Two thousand pounds of pissed-off beef, aptly named Shockwave, tossed around the man on its back like a ragdoll. But Tripp wouldn’t be dislodged. He clung to the spinning beast with an ease and confidence that belied the skill and athleticism—not to mention pure guts—required to compete at the professional level.
Sitting astride his best pickup horse, Fairgrave Flyer, near the chutes of the Santa Maria Elks Rodeo arena, Marty Fairgrave couldn’t suppress the smile that fought for freedom across his face.
It was a beautiful sight watching a champion at work.
It was a beautiful sight watching Tripp Colby at the top of his game.
Marty’s smile gained purchase as he recalled Tripp’s firm, bare butt bouncing before him while Tripp had hopped around the small bedroom of Marty’s travel trailer, pulling up his jeans and boots in a hurry to beat the rising sun earlier that morning.
The eight-second whistle blew, calling a clean end to Tripp’s money ride and Marty’s X-rated replay. Tripp dismounted Shockwave with enviable grace, landing upright but hard in the dirt. He stumbled forward a couple of steps before he got his center of gravity under him. It was textbook.
But as right as it was, it wasn’t.
Marty’s pickup partner, Bridge, pulled up beside him astride a stocky, bay gelding. “Where’re the fucking stooges?”
Marty scanned the arena, registering every player in crisp detail. The hair on the back of his neck rose to attention. His smile snapped into a frown. An ice-cold finger trailed down his spine.
The two bullfighters were still dicking around, showboating for the audience at the opposite end of the ring. They should have been paying attention to their job. They should have jumped in to distract the bull from the vulnerable rider. Instead, they looked every bit the clueless rodeo clowns they were colorfully dressed as. This wasn’t a fucking circus. And left alone, there was no way Tripp could reach the rails to get clear of the furious Shockwave, who had zeroed in on him like a missile.
There was no time to consider the consequences. No time to weigh the pros and cons, or proper protocols. Marty laid his boot heels to Fly’s sides and raced out after Tripp. Ignoring Bridge’s shout, he barreled into the path of what amounted to a runaway freight train.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, Marty knew what he was doing. Knew it was suicidal. It wasn’t his job as a pickup man to pull a cowboy from a bull ride, let alone a bullfight. Bulls were too dangerous and unpredictable for them to sidle up to and sandwich between like the broncos. Marty’s and Bridge’s job was simply to haze the animal out of the arena as quickly as possible, before it could cause any damage. But right then, all he saw was Tripp lined up for a brutal ride on the ends of Shockwave’s horns.
Not on my watch.
His pulse sped as time slowed in equal measure. His vision tunneled until all he saw was Tripp. All he heard was his own heartbeat and the pounding of Fly’s hooves. He leaned in his saddle as he closed in, and held an arm out. Tripp grabbed on, his hand seizing Marty’s forearm hard enough to bruise to the bone. Marty hauled Tripp off the ground and onto Fly’s back, galloping clear of Shockwave. The heat of Tripp’s body behind him, living and unharmed, was a heady comfort. A flash of black out of the corner of his eye told Marty how narrowly they’d escaped a horned broadside.
He pulled Fly up alongside the rails, and Tripp scrambled safely over the fence. Marty released a deep sigh of relief. Adrenaline still coursing through his veins, his muscles twitched as the panic released its hold. Turning his attention to Bridge, and the still-at-large bull, his lungs seized mid-exhale. Time froze in an intense, candid photograph—one of those “holy shit” moments that grace the centerfold of National Geographic. In this photograph, Shockwave bore down on him, too close. Bridge was right behind the bull, lasso suspended in the air mid-throw. The rodeo clowns—because they sure as hell weren’t bullfighters—were blurred in the background, desperately running to catch up.
Time for reaction was over. The only thing left for him to do was pray.
Yeah, holy shit.
Marty heard a distant gasp ripple through the audience like a gale force. He braced himself, but it still took a long, profound second for him to realize it wasn’t the wind bulldozing him and Fly into the unforgiving metal railing. It wasn’t the wind that caused the surreal sensation of disembodiment as the ground rushed up to kiss him.
And it wasn’t the wind that eclipsed the sun on a scream.
Thundering vibrations rumbled through the uneven earth beneath his back. Shadows flickered behind the red shades of his eyelids. Dust coated his throat and tickled his nose, and a light breeze carried mingling scents of leather, hot sweat, and livestock with it. Indistinguishable sounds teased his eardrums, rising and falling in pitch and volume and rhythm until they became definable. Concerned voices. Rapid hoofbeats. Braying cattle. Whinnying horses.
The last thing Marty remembered shot to the forefront of his mind and launched a scorching path of panic through his chest. His body tensed for flight, and his eyelids snapped open.
Pain came swift, sharp, and nauseating.
Blinding shards of unfiltered sunlight pierced his pupils and lanced straight through to the back of his skull. What felt like a thousand serrated knives stabbed mercilessly into his rib cage. He squeezed his eyes shut against the onslaught.
It hurt to breathe. It hurt to move. Hurt not to move.
Something large and solid hit the ground at his side with an ooph, quickly followed by a second, heavy thud. Rapid breaths puffed above him. Callused fingertips pressed against his neck, and a large hand gently brushed dirt from his face.
“Marty?” a deep, familiar voice pleaded. “C’mon, man.”
Marty tempted the heavens again and cautiously lifted his eyelids. The lancing pain he feared didn’t come. Bridge Sullivan and Kent Murphy—his best friends, practically brothers since grade school—were kneeling shoulder to shoulder at his side, their bodies forming a broad shield against the blinding sunlight. Equal parts worry and relief flashed in both pairs of eyes.
“You dumb son of a bitch.” The soft tone of Bridge’s deep voice belied the harsh words.
“What the fuck did you think you were doing?” Kent’s voice was tight, like he was struggling to hold back either crying or yelling. “Jesus Christ, Marty. You know better.”
Marty croaked out a rough, “I’m fine.”
“The hell you are.” Bridge pointed at Marty’s head. “You’re bleeding.”
“You going to pass out?” Marty teased.
“Shut up.”
Marty relaxed his eyes and feigned a smile. He couldn’t be too bad off if Bridge wasn’t heaving up his breakfast.
“How’s Flyer?”
“You’re fucking lucky, Smarts.” Kent lifted his cowboy hat and wiped at the sweat on his forehead with his shirtsleeve. “Bridge roped Shockwave just before he hit you so you didn’t get the full impact. Fly still got gored in the flank pretty good. It’s not too deep, thanks to the angle you got nailed at, but he needs a ton of stitches.”
“You won’t be riding him anytime soon,” Bridge added. “Won’t be riding any horse for a while, by the looks of things.”
“I’m fine.” Marty pursed his lips. It was his job to keep the competitors from getting hurt, not to get hurt himself. “Just need a minute to get my bearings.”
Kent shook his head. “Yeah, right.”
Marty ignored Kent and turned his attention to the crowd that had gathered, scanning for one face in particular. The face that mattered most, the one that still made his heart skip a beat more than a year since the first time he’d laid eyes on it. Familiar, concerned faces stared back at him, but not the one he needed. In a low rasp he asked, “Where is he?”
Bridge and Kent both scowled at him and sat back on their heels. They could have been twins.
“Guys . . .”
With a reluctant sigh, Bridge tilted his head to the side. “Prick’s standing back there.”
Marty followed the direction of his friend’s nod but still didn’t see who he was looking for. His chest felt heavy, his head began to throb, and his bones ached. Flyer was one of his best pickup horses, and he’d put Fly’s life—and his—in jeopardy. All because he’d fallen in love with a man who wouldn’t—couldn’t—acknowledge that he existed in public beyond the cursory post-rodeo thank-you.
Was he ever going to learn?
His breath caught sharply. There, at the outskirts of the small crowd, he found what he’d been searching for and locked onto a pair of piercing, light blue eyes.
Tripp stood with his hands buried in his pockets. His eyes were wide with fear and turmoil, lips pursed to a thin white line, body tense.
Please, Tripp.
With a determined expression on his handsome face, Tripp took a step forward. Paused. Then took another.
A cavalry of hope, bright and all-powerful, charged forward and forced the pain back into the shadows.
Tripp was actually coming to him. In public.
But just as Marty’s heart began to swell, Tripp faltered to a stop, and his gaze broke away. His face instantly transformed into the practiced blank mask Marty had come to loathe. The cold shock of that broken moment punched a hole into his chest big enough to drive a semi through. Marty’s internal army lost its hard-won ground, and every part of his body screamed in agony at its loss.
He closed his eyes and let the comforting earth suck him down.
“Move back, guys.” The unfamiliar, authoritative voice with a sharp accent interrupted Marty’s descent into oblivion. “Give the man some space here.”
Two paramedics dropped down beside him, replacing his friends. One of the men began pulling the tools of their trade from a brightly colored medical bag, while the other gently straightened his neck and cradled his head so he couldn’t move it. They efficiently went about assessing injuries and asking questions Marty wasn’t really hearing.
He opened his mouth to tell them he was fine. He knew where he was, what had happened, his name, the day—even if his head was a bit fuzzy. He’d get up—in a minute—and get back to work, but the words stalled in the back of his throat when fingers pressed lightly against his right side, and sharp pain flared across his torso. He winced and hissed a shallow breath, and his vision grayed out briefly.
“Sorry.” It was the paramedic with the accent. “No doubt you’ve got some broken ribs in there. We’re going to have to . . .”
The man’s voice faded as though it had been sucked up by some unseen vortex. He didn’t care. He needed to see if Tripp was still there, and turned his head sideways in its loose hold.
Scott Gillard, the biggest homophobic prick on the circuit, was standing at Tripp’s side. Scott laughed. Tripp smiled. Scott clapped Tripp on the shoulder, cast an impassive look at Marty, and walked away.
Tripp turned back to Marty. His shoulders slumped infinitesimally along with his mask. Feet rooted to the ground.
“Easy there.” The paramedic who’d been holding his head strapped a c-collar around his neck to prevent him from moving again. “Let’s make sure everything works before you go ripping up the dance floor, okay, cowboy?”
Marty would have laughed at the attempted levity any other time, but right now all he felt was an agonizing rawness clawing out his insides. He understood now, but that didn’t make it hurt any less. Didn’t make what had to happen any easier.
His heart seized mid-beat and splintered in his chest. Or maybe that was broken bone digging into flesh. Either way, the result was the same.
He barely registered Bridge telling him that he and Kent would meet him at the hospital, or the oxygen mask that had been secured over his mouth, or the hands that slid under his body and carefully rolled him onto his side to work a hard backboard under him. Straps tightened over his chest and legs, foam blocks immobilized his head, and cold bit into his back.
But it didn’t matter.
He stared up at the spotless blue sky, drifting on the sensation of weightlessness for a brief moment when the paramedics lifted and settled him onto a gurney and then rolled him into the waiting ambulance.
A face edged into his blurring line of vision, words were spoken in a calming tone, but none of it registered. He closed his eyes and burned the last image of Tripp into his memory: the lean, defined frame of Tripp’s body, the strong curve of a jaw shadowed with day-old stubble, the slight bend and bump in the bridge of a nose that had been broken more than once. The full, pink lips that had kissed him so passionately, bright eyes that had stared at him with heated desire, and jet-black hair that felt like silk sliding through his fingers. The mental keepsake would be all he’d have after today.
The ambulance doors closed resoundingly on Tripp, on their relationship, and on Marty’s heart. Warm liquid slithered down his temple, and he vowed that would be the only tear he’d shed. Darkness wrapped around him, pushing out sound and thought, and blessedly, the pain of broken bones and shattered dreams.
Let it Ride #2
Prologue
The lips on his were firm, demanding, and sent a blazing fire raging to every corner of his body. Calling it a kiss was too simple for something packed with such intensity, something so far beyond Bridge’s imagination but also everything he’d always wanted. He opened his mouth, and the invitation was accepted with impassioned fervor. A tongue pressed in, slid alongside his, wrapped around it, and teased it out. And hell if that didn’t turn him on even more. He angled his head to deepen the kiss, to take more, give more, burn more. Noses bumped, a stubbled chin rasped across his, and a deep groan vibrated between them, heating the blood pounding through his veins.
The fire grew, branding his skin from the inside out, burning deeper, and he wanted more. So much more. He pulled the solid body in his arms tighter against his chest until hot, sweaty skin slid against his equally hot, sweaty skin. Dense muscle rolled and flexed under the caress of his hands, hairy legs wrapped around his, pulling him closer until their hard groins met. Every rocking motion and press of flesh had him shaking uncontrollably from the ecstasy of loving and being loved so fully and so freely.
“Bridge.”
The familiar voice whispered his name like a prayer. Deep, resonant, and wholly masculine. And like a can of gasoline tossed into the core of a bonfire, it ignited an orgasm that exploded through him, stealing his sight, his hearing, his breath. But what really sent his heart stampeding blindly for escape was the name he shouted in the throes of passion. A name that continued to bounce off the walls of his bedroom.
Eric.
Bridge’s eyes snapped open, and he stared hard at the ceiling while the faint, bittersweet odor of cum tickled his nostrils and his chest rose and fell in double time. His heart continued to pound as the fading remnants of the best wet dream of his entire life left him feeling more than a little unbalanced. A dream featuring a man—and not just any man, but one man in particular. Eric Palmer, the paramedic he’d met on the rodeo circuit the previous season who’d become fast friends with Bridge and his two best friends since childhood and fellow rodeo men, Marty Fairgrave and Kent Murphy. Eric had been on his mind too often over the past months . . . and as far more than just a friend.
He sucked a ragged gulp of air. “Oh my God. I’m gay.”
It wasn’t the first time he’d questioned his sexuality, but it had been a long time since he had. He’d fooled around with a guy in college because he was the typical horny kid and sex was sex. Plus, it was all part of the college experience, right? So, why not? He’d also been a little curious about what it would be like and had to admit it had been one of the hottest blowjobs he’d ever received.
But then Silvie DeSantos showed up on campus. He’d fallen madly in lust with her at first sight and decided he must be straight and that had been the end of it.
Until now.
“But . . . I like women,” he said aloud, closing his eyes to recall the first day he’d seen Silvie, only to snap them open again when his mental vision filled with Eric’s smiling, handsome face. The strong jaw, high cheekbones, and straight nose were wholly masculine, yet striking blue-violet eyes outlined with thick, black lashes and those full, red lips softened his features, making him the most beautiful man Bridge had ever seen. He definitely liked that face—and apparently everything else that went along with it. And he did like women, but then it dawned on him he hadn’t really noticed any since he’d met Eric back in the spring when Marty had been injured and Eric had been the on-site paramedic.
Now that he thought about it, he’d always admired an attractive man, too, hadn’t he? He’d never been afraid of what anyone would think if he complimented a man. Human bodies were simply beautiful, and he’d always let his appreciation be known. He freely showed affection to the people he cared about, too. Shit, how many times had he kissed Marty and Kent? And in public? Granted, it was only cheek bussing and generally not in big crowds, but still, most men didn’t do that to other men. Certainly not the rugged cowboys he worked with on the rodeo circuit.
But Eric . . . that man had tweaked something inside of Bridge from the moment they’d met. Had called up a desire for something he’d thought had been nothing more than a one-time youthful curiosity. And the more time he’d spent around the man, the more he realized how much he enjoyed his company. Looked forward to it.
He turned to stare out the window as the first hint of sunrise bled into what would be a clear day—deep oranges and warm yellows faded into a full spectrum of blues, steadily swallowing the darkness of night.
He inhaled slow and deep, holding his breath for a three beat before exhaling just as slowly, and then he kicked off his bedclothes and looked down at himself. Maybe he wasn’t really gay. Maybe he was . . .
“Bisexual, then?” He half expected his dick to stand at attention and answer him. But the member in question lay semi-erect against his thigh, somewhere in that orgasmic afterglow of having just had really great sex . . . Only there hadn’t been any real sex going on.
Okay, so maybe he needed to run a little test. He plumped the pillow under his shoulders and shifted on the bed, opening his legs wider, and then took another breath to focus himself on his mission.
“Women?” His voice sounded firm and determined, and he stared hard at his crotch while picturing the last woman he’d been with, Diana. She was a barrel racer from Northern Cali. Tall, fit, sharp as a whip, and could bend in more ways than any body should. Bridge Junior gave a halfhearted throb of enthusiasm. Okay, there was interest in the fairer sex.
“Men?” He shifted his mental image to an extremely attractive cowboy he’d once tried to set Marty up with, before Marty spilled the beans about his then deeply closeted boyfriend, champion bull rider Tripp Colby. His cock throbbed again, still not quite ready for action so soon, but definitely just as interested in the rougher sex.
If the idea of being with both a man and a woman appealed, then that made him bisexual, right? But he had one more question to ask. He sighed, preparing himself for an answer he already knew. “Eric Palmer?”
He didn’t need to apply any effort to conjure up an image of the sexy paramedic with the sharp New York accent. The man was there in his thoughts 24-7, whether Bridge liked it or not. It had been a few months since the regular season had ended, and with Eric living more than two hours away in Redding, Bridge had only seen him a handful of times for beers and pool with friends. But his face was as clear in Bridge’s mind as if he were looking into those unique violet-colored eyes right now.
A slow but determined pulse pushed through the length of his cock, and another chased it. Then another, and the pace quickened.
Yep. Definitely perking up now.
He glared at his dick and fisted his hands in the sheets to keep from touching himself. “You realize you’re getting hard for a man, right?”
Junior responded to his accusation with another eager pump of blood, growing more insistent with each pulse. Greedy bastard.
Bridge barked out a laugh, and a surprising wave of relief washed through him, as if a weight he hadn’t known he’d been carrying had lifted. “Well, hell.”
Yes, he’d questioned it when he was younger. Yes, he’d once fooled around with a man and enjoyed it. But then a woman had captured his interest, so he hadn’t given the whole sexuality thing much more thought after that.
And then along came Eric Palmer, bringing all those questions back to the surface. Only this time, he’d found his answer, and it came without any doubt. Maybe he was gay, maybe he was bisexual, but neither label mattered. Labels were too damn limiting to be set in stone anyway. It was what it was. Like the steady tick of the grandfather clock at the end of the hall and the gentle stirrings of the waking ranch outside his window as the sun’s rays crept over the ledge and spilled onto the floor. Life had its own plan; folks just had to learn how to ride it or get bucked off.
Man or woman didn’t matter. Marty liked men, Kent liked women, and Bridge apparently liked both.
But Eric was the one he wanted above all others, and for whatever reason, that felt all kinds of right.
He let his head sink back into the pillow and closed his eyes, giving his imagination free rein to run with Eric on its back. He took himself in hand and stroked slowly, picturing Eric tugging on him, Eric’s mouth with those plump, red lips sucking on his balls, Eric looking up at him with desire in those amazing eyes. And that was all it took. A few more quick, hard pulls, and his second orgasm of the morning rolled through him.
He threw an arm over his face, absently wiping cum off his action hand onto his stomach, and started laughing.
“Shit. I’m Eric-sexual.”
Pulling Leather #3
Most people had already cleared out, and there were only a few vehicles and equine rigs remaining. Those who wanted to revel a little longer with friends they wouldn’t see again until next season. Finally, a lone form appeared from behind one of the rigs, heading his way. Through narrowed eyes, he tracked the reason he was trying—trying so hard—not to blow up and destroy everything in his path.
Tripp Colby, a man he’d been good friends with for the last three years, a fellow bull rider he’d come to think of as a brother, a man he thought he could trust, turned out to be one of them. A fucking homo. And he’d had to find out about it secondhand.
How could that be true? How could he have not known? Tripp didn’t look gay, and he sure as hell didn’t act gay. Nothing about the cowboy was anything short of “macho manly man.” He couldn’t reconcile that with being gay in his mind. Which meant it had to be a lie. A sick joke. That was the only explanation that made sense.
Except that he’d read the breaking news on the Professional Bull Riders website, when he’d bolted to the nearest internet café to confirm the hushed rumblings he’d heard all day. He’d read it in Tripp’s own words, right there in flickering black and fucking white. Gay. No wonder Tripp had avoided him all day. Scott had never been one to hold back his opinions as to what made a man, and it sure as hell wasn’t two of them doing each other.
But the ultimate betrayal came when he’d read on and learned Tripp’s father had owned that fucking useless center in North Carolina. Did Tripp know Scott had been there? That they hadn’t been able to fix him?
Cure the gay away, my fucking ass.
Cold sweat spread over his skin, and his pulse quickened. What if Tripp knew and had told someone?
Scott twisted his hands over the steering wheel. No, Tripp wouldn’t do something like that. Not if the cowboy had been hiding.
But now, because he and Tripp had hung together for so many years, people would think he’d known about Tripp all along. That he was the same way and just trying to cover his tracks with antigay rhetoric.
Because that’s what you’ve been doing, isn’t it?
Shut up!
What if people thought the two of them were . . . involved? He shuddered, and his stomach roiled. Jesus, how many times had he thrown an arm over Tripp’s shoulder like buddies did? Now people would read that differently. They’ll know . . .
Tripp glanced up then, and the flash of fear that crossed his face told Scott he’d been spotted where he was sitting, parked across the road. Fucking son of a bitch.
The driver’s door of Tripp’s truck faced the road—and Scott. A box camper blocked them from view. When Tripp came around the side of his truck, looking like he was just going to get in and leave, Scott jumped from his own vehicle and stormed across the short distance between them.
“Is it true? You a cocksucking faggot?”
Tripp flinched. His shoulders dropped slightly, along with his gaze, but then he stared Scott in the eye, stuck his chin out, and rolled his shoulders back. Proud and defiant. “I’m gay, yes. We going to have a problem here?” The determination in his voice was clear. Tripp wasn’t about to back down, and Scott fought a tiny flicker of unwanted admiration. No way was he going to give any props to someone like Tripp.
“Yeah, we’re going to have fucking problem,” Scott ground out. “You were like a brother to me, but if I’d known—”
“I haven’t changed, Scott.”
“The hell you haven’t. What you are is disgusting. Just like my da—” Scott swallowed the word, refusing to show his shock at having almost blurted out his deepest secrets.
Tripp lifted an eyebrow. “Yesterday I was your brother, and today I’m disgusting? I’ll tell you what’s disgusting—” Tripp took a step closer, his fists clenching and nostrils flaring “—intolerant homophobic assholes like you who toss people out like trash because of their own fucking insecurities. People whose own lives are so fucked up they can’t just let others live in peace. People who hate because of ignorance and fear and blind religion.”
“You’d better step off, Tripp,” Scott bit out, the words knife-edge sharp. Heat flushed through his body, and his muscles trembled with the need to hit, to hurt . . . to dominate.
“Or what?” Tripp took another step closer, close enough for Scott to see fire snapping in those ice-blue eyes, close enough to feel the turbulent charge of energy sparking between them and send a rush of blood southward. “You going to show me how much of a man you are by kicking my ass? Come on, then. Show me what you’ve got.”
Yeah, he’d show Tripp what he had, all right. Show him that what Tripp was, that being gay, wasn’t right. He grabbed Tripp by the front of his shirt with one hand and fisted the other, hauling back to deal a hard blow. But somewhere in the split second between thought and execution, wires disconnected, his groin tightened. Instead of his fist connecting with Tripp’s jaw, his hand relaxed, opened, and snaked around the back of Tripp’s head, yanking him forward. Their mouths and chests crashed together hard enough to force a surprised grunt from Tripp. Or from himself, he couldn’t quite tell. Either way, the sound triggered the release of something primal from depths he didn’t know he possessed. His only thought was to own Tripp. Force him to submit. He moved his lips over Tripp’s in a taking that was too brutal to be called a kiss, but the need was too powerful, too consuming to fight.
A kiss.
What in the holy fuck! Scott Gillard did not kiss men.
And definitely did not get a hard-on for them.
Everything in his body seized—sharp and painful—at the horrifying realization. He shoved Tripp away so hard they both stumbled backward, but Tripp’s boot heel caught on a rock, and he went down on his back with an oof. His chest heaved, eyes wide, mouth hanging open.
“The fuck?” The words were breathy, the shock obvious, but the sound still caused another spike of traitorous desire to pulse into Scott’s groin.
Scott took another step backward, dragging the sleeve of his shirt over his mouth with enough force to abrade the skin, and then spat. He scanned the area quickly to make sure no one had seen whatever the fuck that was just happened. He could barely hear over the deafening pulse pounding like a stampede in his eardrums. The ground under his feet felt unstable, as though it was titling sideways and he’d fall off any second. “Swear to God, one word and I will make your life fucking hell. You’ll wish you were never born. You get me?”
Tripp nodded, shock now replaced with confusion and something else Scott couldn’t—wouldn’t—identify. “Got you.”
Scott stared down at Tripp, hands fisted, heart racing, and something long since dead inside him poked its head out. Fuck. “No,” he whispered. He would never let that part of himself exist.
He turned back for his truck, his mind a confusing chaos of images and words and feelings flying by at such hyper speed he couldn’t grasp a single one. In a stupor, he climbed into the cab and floored it, aware of the gravel and dust kicking up from the side of the road, but not even realizing that he’d caused it.
And then he was staring at himself in the mirror on the wall of a dingy bar bathroom he couldn’t remember walking into. Hell, he couldn’t even remember driving here or how much time had lapsed since he’d left Tripp on his ass in the dirt.
He studied his reflection, looking for the difference to show in some way. It didn’t, but he knew it was there, lurking in the shadows like a predator, waiting for a crack in his shields so it could slip through and deal its fatal blow. He knew it was there as surely as he refused to acknowledge it.
He took his hat off, ran a hand through his hair, and met his eyes in the mirror, searching them for that thing inside that had somehow found a pinhole to slip through when he’d confronted Tripp. His gaze dropped to his mouth. Tripp flashed in his mind. That fucking kiss. He’d wanted to beat the shit out of Tripp, but instead he’d kissed him, and he didn’t know why.
Yes, you do.
His vision clouded around the edges, closing in. Rage boiled up in his veins and exploded with his fist punching his reflection in the mouth. Glass shattered into an intricate spiderweb, shards fell into the sink below, and red streaks stained the fragments.
Nothing changed.
Pain didn’t register. Release did not come. Answers remained staunchly elusive. Anger still bubbled in his blood, but a growing sense of defeat held it below the surface. This fight had been going on too long for him to not once gain the upper hand. He’d only managed to ignore it, hold the inevitable at bay, but he’d never been able to eradicate it. And now . . . now he was just exhausted from a lifetime of fighting a losing battle.
He looked down at his hand, flexed and curled his fingers, but felt nothing. Mindlessly, he turned on the water, watching the blood on his knuckles dilute from red to pink to clear. The water may have been cold or may have been hot, but he couldn’t tell which. If he weren’t seeing it sluice over his skin, he wouldn’t have known it was running at all. He turned off the tap, pulled enough paper towels from the dispenser to wrap his hand in a makeshift bandage, and then went back out to the bar without looking up at the mirror again.
“Black and tan,” he told the bartender when he sat back down at his stool. The bartender eyed him for a second, then nodded and silently went about filling Scott’s order. Now would be a good time for a cigarette, if I smoked. Scott’s phone buzzed in the back pocket of his jeans. There wasn’t a single person on the planet he wanted to talk to right now. Retrieving the phone, he turned it off without looking at the caller ID, and then tossed it facedown on the bar.
“Looks like you could use a little something extra,” the bartender said, placing a tequila shooter, a lemon slice, and saltshaker on the bar beside the beer.
“Yeah. Thanks.” Scott pulled a couple of bills from his wallet and placed them on the bar top, but the bartender handed them back.
“This round’s on the house, man.”
“Thank you,” Scott said but pushed the money back toward the man and added a few more bills. “For the bathroom mirror.”
The bartender nodded. “Fair enough.” He scooped up the cash and then left Scott to his drink and his thoughts.
He tried to pick up the glass with his bandaged hand, but a sharp stab of pain had him pulling back. Why the fuck didn’t he beat the shit out of Tripp instead of a goddamned mirror? That’s what the lying cocksucking asshole deserved. Just like what his father had deserved for leaving Scott and his mom to wallow in poverty—for another man. But he hadn’t dealt that blow, either.
Because you’re the same.
No! I am not like them!
He shot back the tequila with his good hand—the bartender had given him the top-shelf stuff—and held the glass up for a refill.
The barkeep was about the same height as Tripp, and his hair was longer but just as jet black. His eyes were brown rather than blue, but the resemblance was enough to spark a visual recall of his earlier confrontation with Tripp. Except this time, he was wrapping his arms around Tripp, pulling him closer, kissing him . . . his hands in Tripp’s hair . . . hips rocking together . . .
And why was he still thinking about that fucking kiss? Thinking about what would have happened if Tripp had reciprocated?
You know why.
“Fuck.” Could that stupid voice in the back of his head not shut the fuck up?
Scott squeezed his eyes shut, dropped his head into his uninjured hand, and a near sob escaped his mouth. I don’t want this.
“There you are, you son of a bitch,” Billy hollered. He crossed the bar to where Scott sat and pulled up the stool beside him, while Kevin stumbled into the stool on Scott’s other side. Fellow bull riders and cohorts, they’d shared more experiences than he could remember, from rodeo to women to getting drunk and bar brawling. Friends or not, they were the last people he wanted to deal with right now.
“We’ve been trying to get a hold of you, asshole,” Kevin said. “Why aren’t you answering your phone?”
Scott frowned and picked up the phone. He couldn’t remember turning it off, but the screen was black. He turned it back on and quick scroll through recent calls showed he’d missed seven calls from the two of them.
“Didn’t notice,” he said, his voice flat and completely devoid of emotion. He also hadn’t noticed almost three hours had passed since his confrontation with Tripp.
“You missed out,” Kevin said and grinned.
“Round of Jack here.” Billy smacked his hand on the bar surface, earning a quick scowl from the bartender. Then Billy elbowed Scott in the ribs and leaned in slightly. “We got him, man.”
A tickle of unease lifted the hairs on the back his neck. “Got who?”
“That faggot, Colby,” Kevin jumped in. The bile rose up the back of Scott’s throat.
“Yeah,” Billy said. “We saw him drivin’ and followed him till he stopped for gas—”
“Then we took him out back and taught him what a real man is,” Kevin finished, a note of pride in his voice. “We tried calling you ’cause we knew you wouldn’t want to miss out.”
“Fuck, you should’a seen it.” Billy beamed, and Scott’s stomach flipped. Yes, he was pissed—furious, even—and he’d wanted to kick the shit out of Tripp too, had found him to do just that, but when it came to it, he hadn’t been able to. Tripp had been a good friend to him over the years. He liked Tripp. Not like like, but . . . Maybe he always knew Tripp was hiding something. Maybe he felt a connection with Tripp he couldn’t quite define—or didn’t want to—but instinctively knew was there. He still couldn’t line up all the pieces in a way that made sense to him, but at the end of the day, if he’d wanted Tripp hurt, he’d have done it himself.
Scott stared hard at the drink in front of him and forced his voice to remain unaffected. “How’d you leave him?”
“Who cares?” Kevin said.
“Yeah, one less freak in the world,” Billy added.
Red clouded Scott’s vision, and he clenched his jaw tight, fighting back the urge to drill both these assholes into the ground. No matter how angry he was, no matter how much he hated his dad for destroying their family, and now Tripp for being one of them too, he didn’t wish them dead. His stomach churned, and his throat tightened at the sickening realization: it was his fault. If he’d answered his phone, he may have been able to prevent Billy and Kevin from doing anything.
And why the fuck did he care so much?
Because you’re the same.
The bartender lined up three shot glasses on the table in front of them, and the look he gave Scott drove the nail of unexpected guilt a little deeper into his gut. He pushed back and stood abruptly.
“Gotta go.” He pocketed his wallet and phone, diligently avoiding eye contact with anyone.
“What? Dude, what about shots?” Billy said.
“Yeah, man.” Kevin chimed in. “We gotta celebrate.”
Scott shook his head, still not making eye contact. “I, uh . . . got a date.”
He bolted from the bar before they could say anything more. His heart pounded hard in his chest and loud in his ears, and a sense of urgency had him running for his truck while grabbing his phone and pressing Tripp’s number at the same time.
“C’mon, c’mon,” he chanted as he hopped into the truck and cranked the ignition, but the call went to voice mail. He pulled out onto the road, guessing at which direction Tripp would have gone. It wasn’t like he could go back into the bar and ask the guys for details without arousing suspicions.
He drove for what felt like hours, but was probably only half of one, when he finally spotted Tripp’s truck at a travel station. Pulling around to the back of the building where the guys had said they’d hauled Tripp, he didn’t see anything at first. But there, against the wall and half behind the dumpster, was a lifeless body lying in an awkward huddle.
“Jesus Christ.” Scott slammed the truck into park and ran to Tripp, dropping down at his side. His face was swollen, bruised, and bloody, his left leg at an unnatural angle, and who knew what other damage he’d suffered internally. Scott felt for a pulse, and cold sweat broke out across his skin when he couldn’t find one. But then a faint bump against his fingertips sent a rush of relief through him. Tripp was alive, but barely. And he’d stay that way if Scott could get him to help fast enough.
He ran to his truck, backing it up as close to Tripp as he could get, and then gathered all the blankets and jackets he had from the back of the cab. He dropped the tailgate and threw everything onto the floor of the box.
Very carefully, he gathered Tripp in his arms and carried him to his truck, placing him on the makeshift bed. He bunched up the sides to help keep Tripp from moving too much while he drove.
“Hang on, Tripp.”
Half an hour later, Scott was pulling out of the emergency parking lot. He hadn’t gone inside, hadn’t given anyone any info, just shouted from the doorway that a man needed help. Nurses and attendees had responded quickly, and while they were busy attending to Tripp, Scott had taken off.
Not even three blocks from the hospital, he had to pull over at the side of the road. He dropped his head to the steering wheel and closed his eyes. He couldn’t take much more of this day. Hopefully Tripp would be okay. That he himself would be okay was doubtful. Not after that kiss and the realization that this constant, exhausting fight against his true self was futile. “Fuck. Fuck-fuck-fuck.”
Chapter 1
“You can do this, hon.” Brandi leaned across the cab of his truck and squeezed his thigh. The gesture was supportive, encouraging, and he needed it more than he’d ever admit. She smiled before sitting back in the passenger seat. “Take as long as you need. I’ll be right here.”
Not for the first time, he wondered why he couldn’t have fallen for Brandi Saunders. She was perfect, the one person who truly knew him—and all of his secrets—and still stood by him. People had thought she was a regular girl he visited on the tour, a favorite buckle bunny, but she was never a regular girl. It had served him well to let people think they were more, and they had crossed that line once early in their friendship but realized pretty quickly that wasn’t a road they were meant to follow. The reality was, and always had been, that they were more like brother and sister.
“Thank you, Bran.” He forced a smile he wasn’t feeling. “I don’t know what I’d have done if you hadn’t been there for me.” Following the incident two years ago, he’d slid into a tailspin. After the big-ass cherry on his wake-up call—being arrested on suspicion for Tripp’s assault—he’d reached out to her for help. He’d refused to see a therapist, but as a clinical social worker for a nonprofit mental health center, she had the skills to guide him through his haze of confusion and self-hate and bring him back to life—his true life.
“Good thing you have me then, isn’t it?” She gestured toward the ranch house they’d parked in front of. “Now go.”
Easier said than done. He turned back to the house that Tripp Colby shared with Marty Fairgrave. He knew it was an important part of his recovery process, but fuck. Now that he was here, how was he supposed to look Tripp in the eye, knowing he could have changed the course of that night? Or face Marty, with all the shitty things he’d said to the man over the years?
“Stop.” Brandi reached across the console and cupped his chin, turning him to face her. “I see what’s going on in your head. You need to do this and you can do this. Okay?”
He nodded, then covered her hand with his and pulled it to his lips to kiss her palm. He hated feeling so off-kilter, but she gave him a kind of strength he’d never known he needed.
Which promptly about-faced when he looked back at the house to see Marty standing on the edge of the front steps, foreboding and unwelcoming. Scott sucked in a deep breath and held it for a three-beat before slowly releasing. This had to be done. Whatever Marty and Tripp had to dish out, he was more than willing to accept. Wasn’t like he deserved a second chance, or would be forgiven, but he had to make the effort. If for nothing else than his own peace of mind.
He turned to Brandi. “I couldn’t do this without you.”
“Yes, you could. Eventually.” She gave his hand a gentle squeeze, then let go and pulled an e-reader from her bag on the floor. “Now go. I have a love story to finish reading while you’re doing your thing. They’re just about to have sex.”
He groaned and rolled his eyes. He really did love her.
He carefully placed his cowboy hat on his head, and then with another deep breath, opened the door and stepped out into a warm California afternoon. He fought the urge to fidget, stick his hands in his pockets, pull his hat down to cover his eyes . . . or turn tail and run back home as fast as possible.
Marty’s expression didn’t change, but a hint of curiosity churned in the depths of unusually hard, flinty eyes.
Scott stopped a few feet from the bottom of the steps, and the front door swung open. His breath caught in the back of his throat when Tripp stepped out . . . using a cane.
After his meltdown following that night, Scott had disappeared from the rodeo world completely, but he’d looked up all he could find on Tripp once he’d finally come to accept who he was. He knew the injuries Tripp had suffered had cost him his career as a professional bull rider, but to actually see it . . . If Scott had been paying attention, if he’d truly been a real man then, he could have prevented the severity of it—or maybe all of it. And no, the irony in that was not lost on him.
Tripp stopped beside Marty, and Marty slipped his arm around Tripp’s waist, defiance and warning on both their faces.
“What are you doing here?” Tripp said, his voice hard and tight.
Scott lowered his gaze to the base of the bottom step and then looked up at the couple on the porch: at Tripp who had been like a brother, at Marty, one of the best pickup men on the circuit who’d once saved Scott’s life at a rodeo, even though he was an asshole. They were good men, strong men, and neither had deserved any of the shit he’d dished out over the years.
He shouldn’t be here.
He glanced over his shoulder to find Brandi not reading as she’d said she would but watching him. She nodded her head, giving silent support. Scott took another deep breath, turned back to the cowboys whose feet he bowed at, and removed his hat.
“I . . . uh . . .” He cleared his throat, swallowed hard, and looked Tripp in the eyes. “I came to apologize to you. For that night. For what happened and what it cost you. I just wanted you to know I’m real sorry about that. If I could, I’d go back and change things so it never would have happened. And . . .” He slid his gaze to Marty. “I also wanted to apologize for being a first-class homophobic asshole to you for so long.”
The way both men stood so still, staring at him like they could skin him in three seconds flat, made him want to squirm, to run. He shifted the hat in his hands and dropped his gaze. “I don’t expect forgiveness or nothing, and I’m not asking for it. I just wanted to come here in person and tell you how sorry I am for everything, and if I can help it, I won’t let something like that happen to anyone else.”
A horse whinnied in the distance, a bee buzzed past his face, and the silence stretched. He flicked his eyes up quickly. The couple didn’t look like they were going to tear him apart anymore, but now their expressions were blank.
“Okay. Well. I’ll be on my way then.”
“What happened?” Tripp stepped forward as Scott was about to turn away. “You disappeared for two years and now here you are, apologizing on my doorstep.”
“You guys remember Brandi?” He waved his hat in the direction of the truck. “She helped me come to terms with a few things about myself. See the error of my ways, so to speak. Now I’m trying to be a better person, live a truer life, and make amends for all the grief I’ve caused others.”
“You were a hard-core asshole, Scott,” Marty said. His voice was stony, but his expression had softened. “How can we believe you’re for real here?”
Scott stared him dead in the eyes. “Would the old Scott be on your doorstep of his own accord, offering apologies?”
A small smile tipped up one side of Marty’s mouth. “Point taken.”
Silence fell between them again, thick and weighty.
“Well. That was all I really had to say. So . . .” Scott glanced out at the land Tripp and Marty shared—Marty’s family ranch in Bridgeport was an impressive spread—but he didn’t really see it. “I’ll just be on my way then.”
Tripp and Marty nodded, and Scott turned to leave. A bead of sweat trickled down the side of his face. Why did the truck feel like he’d parked it twenty miles away rather than twenty feet? The longer he walked, the farther away it seemed. Emotions he couldn’t pin bounced around inside his chest: relief that he’d said his piece, disappointment that he hadn’t been forgiven, jealousy at the easy way they stood together, loneliness at the nothing he had in his life to look forward to.
“Scott,” Tripp called just as he’d reached the truck. He stopped, fighting down a rise of hope. He knew he deserved nothing less than hatred, apathy at the very least, but deep down, he couldn’t deny he’d hoped for at least a hint of forgiveness. “Why don’t you come and work with me on the gay rodeo circuit?”
Scott blinked. Gay rodeo? Him? That was . . . He didn’t know. His brain stalled out, and an odd panic nudged at his senses.
Marty snapped his gaze to Tripp, eyebrows raised. “What?”
Tripp placed a hand on Marty’s hip. “Trust me, okay? I think it will be good for him.”
Marty’s pose, the expression on his face, his eyes, everything softened when he looked down at Tripp, and then he smiled, and a little spike of jealousy poked its head out. Shit, what was wrong with him? Self-acceptance was still a struggle sometimes, and he was a long way from wanting anything like what Tripp and Marty had—just seeing two guys together still made him uncomfortable. So why the touch of green now?
Tripp turned back to Scott, his voice kind and smile welcoming. “They don’t have as many events as the pro tour, and a lot are out of state, so I work with them, and the PBR on off weeks. What do you say?”
Scott swallowed. “But . . . I haven’t even been on a bull in two years.”
“Not to ride. To work with me. I teach bull riding at the rodeo schools on both tours, and I also work with the PBR to promote awareness and acceptance for all cowboys, regardless of orientation. I think it would be good for you to spend some time in the boots of those you’ve been spitting on for so many years. Maybe also help make others think before they spit.”
Scott had to admit the idea of getting back to the rodeo appealed, but to work with a bunch of gay men? Him? They’d probably string him up and quarter him the first day. Just for kicks. “Thank you, Tripp, but I’m not sure that would be a good idea. I have a feeling the old Scott is all people are going to see.”
“Which is more reason to show them this new one, isn’t it? That if a hard-ass prick like you can turn it around . . .?”
“He makes a great point.” Scott started at Brandi’s voice right beside him. He hadn’t realized she’d left the truck and joined them. He glanced over at her, and she smiled back. The glint in her soft blues eyes told him he’d better accept the offer if he knew what was good for him. And he did. A mad Brandi was the last thing he wanted to deal with, but this might be a bigger step than he was ready for.
Scott looked back at Tripp. “Thank you, but I’ll need to think on it.”
“Please do,” Tripp said.
Chapter 2
“You okay?” Brandi asked as they bounced down the long drive from the Fairgrave Ranch, dust lifting into the sky in their wake.
Scott thought for a moment, taking stock of the last half hour. “Yes, I think I am.” And he wasn’t just giving her lip service. He felt lighter somehow, having taken a much-needed step forward and been offered an olive branch. That was so much more than he could have ever hoped for, and was far more than he deserved. That Tripp would extend an offer like that to him only proved how much bigger a man Tripp was, and had always been. It had been a humbling moment, and even if he never accepted the offer, he would always be grateful for that quick acceptance.
“You should honestly give it some thought,” she said. “About joining Tripp.”
“Do you really think that’s such a good idea?” Scott slowed to a stop at the end of the drive before turning onto the gravel road and starting the long trip back to Cupertino. “I can’t imagine too many people there would be all that excited about having me around.”
He couldn’t deny how much the idea appealed. He’d missed the rodeo circuit and deep down would love to get back on it, but people would remember and expect the old Scott. He wasn’t that person anymore—most of the time, anyway. Would they even accept who he was now? The real Scott Gillard? He doubted it, especially after the way he’d treated people for so long, letting his own internalized hate and anger bleed out to everyone around him. If the boot were on the other foot, he’d just as soon not have anything to do with himself, either. No matter how much he may have changed.
“Maybe you should try giving people the benefit of the doubt,” she said. “They might surprise you.”
Scott shook his head. “No. The cowboys on the gay circuit will hate me for being the homophobic prick I was, and the cowboys on the straight circuit will hate me either for being . . .” He swallowed and glanced out his side window at the passing landscape. “You know . . . that way now. Or for what I did to Billy and Kevin. It’s a no-win situation.”
“People will react how they’ll react. You can only control how you respond to them,” she said. Her voice had taken on that warm, supportive professional tone she used when she slipped into therapist mode. “And you did the right thing by turning in Billy and Kevin. Anyone with half a brain can see that.”
“I doubt Dex will ever see it that way,” he said. With the added charge of a hate crime on top of their assault, and the loss of Tripp’s career due to the attack, Billy and Kevin were still in prison and would likely be there for a few more years. Dex, Billy’s younger brother, had been none too pleased.
“Again, you can only control your own actions and reactions.”
“How am I supposed to react when they start calling me the same things I’d called others? Or if they decide the world would be better off without the likes of me in it?”
“You know how, hon.” Her voice softened—therapist out, best friend in. “We’ve been working on that for months now. You have a solid handle on your anger, you know how and when to walk away, and you can defuse a situation before it escalates.”
Could he? Yes, they’d spent a lot of time working through his anger issues and strategies to manage it. He did feel he had a pretty good grip on it, wasn’t as fast to anger as he used to be, but then, he’d been keeping a pretty low profile since his meltdown, and away from situations where he’d lost it in the past. He’d even rented his ranch, leased out his horses, and moved into Brandi’s house. It had been her request, but he’d never told her how grateful he’d been for the offer. Living alone, with his chaotic thoughts and dark memories, was driving him over the edge. He’d stopped eating, started drinking, and more than once eyed the shotgun locked in a glass cabinet in his den. He didn’t know if he’d have pulled himself out of the fugue on his own, or actually opened that gun cabinet, but Brandi had saved him from ever finding out.
The worst of it was behind him now, and he probably should have moved out a year ago, especially since he had a perfectly good house of his own in Stockton, but he hadn’t felt ready to be on his own yet. The plan had been that he’d stay there for a few months while he got himself sorted, but it turned out sixteen years’ worth of anger and dangerous, destructive thinking took a fair bit longer to correct.
“I know how much you miss it,” Brandi said, her voice softer. “Rodeoing, bull riding, traveling. That’s who you are. Everything else is secondary, and that’s what you need to learn and for people to see. You could be a positive role model for someone.”
Scott barked out a strangled laugh. “I’m an asshole!”
“Were. Show ’em who you are now, because I know that guy, and believe it or not, he’s kind of likeable.”
He had a chance to get back into the scene, and hell, he needed that, but a role model? Unlikely. Maybe she and Tripp were right and this could be a good thing, though, for him to show he’d learned his lessons and was making amends. If he could, then others could too.
Scott sighed and turned to meet her sky-colored eyes. Never having been able to hide what he was thinking from her, Brandi smiled and lifted his phone out of the center console, giving it a waggle. “Call Tripp.”
Chapter 3
“What the hell are you doing here?”
Scott sighed. Not even clear of the parking area at the Morgan Hill grounds—the site of his first-ever gay rodeo, though today was the schooling that preceded rodeo weekend—and already someone recognized him as the homophobic asshole he used to be. He slanted a quick glance in the direction of the voice. He didn’t recognize the three cowboys behind him, nor did he know which one had spoken, but it didn’t matter. That was exactly the reception he’d expected, and he was beginning to wonder the same thing. What was he doing here? He’d agreed with Tripp and Brandi that it could be good for him, but it sure didn’t seem so good for anyone else right now. Why on earth would anyone accept his ass there?
“It’s okay, Davey,” Tripp said. He’d been waiting by his truck when Scott arrived, and now stood at Scott’s shoulder in a show of support. “He’s here to work with me, not to make trouble.”
Davey’s eyebrows disappeared under the brim of his cream-colored cowboy hat, and he turned to his two buddies in surprise. All three looked back at Tripp like he’d grown a third head.
“After what he did to you? How can that be okay?” Davey puffed out his chest, which, because his shirt was unbuttoned to about midchest, effectively drew attention to thick, hair-covered pectorals and the tail end of a tattoo over one. Scott quickly averted his eyes. Fortunately, the men seemed too stunned by Tripp’s comment to have noticed what he’d been looking at.
Tripp shrugged. “Just is. There are two sides to every story, and everyone deserves a second chance.”
“And some dogs just need to be put down,” said the man wearing a ball cap and Gym Bear tank top to Davey’s right. Then he sneered at Scott, spit a chunk of tobacco out of the side of his mouth, and walked away. Davey and the third cowboy—who wasn’t wearing a shirt at all, leaving his tattoos and muscles on full display—gave Scott a disdainful perusal that said he’d been judged and found wanting.
Davey, who was about Scott’s height and size, took a step forward, and Scott met his gaze without challenge. All he could see there was distrust and contempt.
“You just stay clear of me, you hear?”
Scott nodded, dropped his eyes, and dug his hands into his pockets, fighting back the sudden urge to knock that look right off Davey’s face. But that was the old Scott. The one he’d been trying so hard to purge these past two years. It was getting easier, but this was the first time someone had gotten up in his face like that since, and it triggered an instinct he was still struggling to manage.
Scott heard their boot heels on the hard dirt fade as they walked away, but he didn’t look.
“They’ll come around eventually,” Tripp said, and Scott froze for a second when Tripp reached out and squeezed his shoulder. He swallowed back the old reactions that the minor confrontation with Davey had brought to the surface. Not having noticed, or ignoring it if he had, Tripp tipped his head toward the livestock pens. “C’mon, you’re going to help me teach some greenhorns how to rope and ride.”
Scott nodded and fell into step beside him. “Why are you doing this for me?”
Tripp stopped and turned to look him in the eyes, searching them briefly. “I know you’re the one who got me to the hospital that night. Took a while, but I remembered hearing your voice telling me to hold on. If you hadn’t done that, I don’t think I’d be standing here right now.”
Scott shifted his gaze over Tripp's shoulder to stare unfocused at the trees lining the rodeo grounds. “You’d still be riding bulls if I’d got there sooner.”
Tripp shook his head. “You can’t know that. You know as well as I do that every ride could be our last. But it’s neither here nor there. This is where we are now. Okay?”
Scott nodded, but it wasn’t okay. If he hadn’t turned the ringer off and answered his phone that night, things would have ended differently, and Tripp would still be competing. Maybe Scott would be too.
“Besides, I know a thing or two about having to live your life hiding who you are. Granted, I didn’t go to the extremes you did, but . . . I have to make a confession.” Now Tripp was the one looking away. He swallowed and then said, “I kind of used our friendship as a decoy. In the beginning. A sheep in wolf’s clothing, if you will.”
Scott huffed out a mirthless laugh. “So the added bonus of hanging out with the biggest homophobe on the circuit was that no one would ever question you.”
“Something like that, yeah.” Tripp grimaced.
“Huh,” Scott said, making sure to keep his voice monotone. “Guess we both had them fooled.”
Tripp stared at him for a long second, and then one side of his mouth lifted to form a crooked grin.
Scott couldn't help grin back, and in the brief moment that their eyes met and people and animals moved around them in the background, something passed between them. An understanding, a camaraderie Scott had never felt before because this time, it was coming from a place of pure honesty. This time, he was meeting another as his true self. He maybe couldn’t say it out loud—he hadn't moved beyond the abstract and attempted to experience what that meant—but the fact that he wasn't constantly fighting himself, and by extension the whole world, was a huge step in the right direction. And having Tripp stand there beside him, without judgment, without condition, meant more than he would ever be able to voice.
“What happened that night . . .” The saliva in Scott’s mouth was suddenly too thick to swallow, and he couldn't get the rest of his words out. He motioned between them.
Tripp shook his head. “That’s yours to tell, if you ever want to.”
Scott nodded. Took three attempts to clear his throat. “Thank you.”
"C'mon." Tripp resumed their walk toward the corrals. “I’ll introduce you to a few of the guys later. For now, work’s awaiting.”
Scott glanced around, and his gaze landed on four men near the chutes watching him with varying degrees of curiosity, indifference, and hostility. Three were sitting on the railing, one holding the reins to a horse, but the fourth man was sitting astride a bay quarter horse. That last one sent a little thrill racing up Scott’s spine and a flush of heat over his skin. The cowboy looked young, early twenties at most, and the way his hat shaded his face highlighted well-defined cheekbones and a slight pout to his mouth. He wore a red shirt that matched the reins-holding cowboy—which meant the two were probably pickup men—and a silver conch-covered belt matched the band around his hat.
Scott quickly looked away, forcing down the heat, and followed Tripp. He wasn't ready to acknowledge what that rush meant, and he sure as hell wasn't ready to act on it. Not when a distant urge to fight it still lingered.
Two thousand pounds of pissed-off beef, aptly named Shockwave, tossed around the man on its back like a ragdoll. But Tripp wouldn’t be dislodged. He clung to the spinning beast with an ease and confidence that belied the skill and athleticism—not to mention pure guts—required to compete at the professional level.
Sitting astride his best pickup horse, Fairgrave Flyer, near the chutes of the Santa Maria Elks Rodeo arena, Marty Fairgrave couldn’t suppress the smile that fought for freedom across his face.
It was a beautiful sight watching a champion at work.
It was a beautiful sight watching Tripp Colby at the top of his game.
Marty’s smile gained purchase as he recalled Tripp’s firm, bare butt bouncing before him while Tripp had hopped around the small bedroom of Marty’s travel trailer, pulling up his jeans and boots in a hurry to beat the rising sun earlier that morning.
The eight-second whistle blew, calling a clean end to Tripp’s money ride and Marty’s X-rated replay. Tripp dismounted Shockwave with enviable grace, landing upright but hard in the dirt. He stumbled forward a couple of steps before he got his center of gravity under him. It was textbook.
But as right as it was, it wasn’t.
Marty’s pickup partner, Bridge, pulled up beside him astride a stocky, bay gelding. “Where’re the fucking stooges?”
Marty scanned the arena, registering every player in crisp detail. The hair on the back of his neck rose to attention. His smile snapped into a frown. An ice-cold finger trailed down his spine.
The two bullfighters were still dicking around, showboating for the audience at the opposite end of the ring. They should have been paying attention to their job. They should have jumped in to distract the bull from the vulnerable rider. Instead, they looked every bit the clueless rodeo clowns they were colorfully dressed as. This wasn’t a fucking circus. And left alone, there was no way Tripp could reach the rails to get clear of the furious Shockwave, who had zeroed in on him like a missile.
There was no time to consider the consequences. No time to weigh the pros and cons, or proper protocols. Marty laid his boot heels to Fly’s sides and raced out after Tripp. Ignoring Bridge’s shout, he barreled into the path of what amounted to a runaway freight train.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, Marty knew what he was doing. Knew it was suicidal. It wasn’t his job as a pickup man to pull a cowboy from a bull ride, let alone a bullfight. Bulls were too dangerous and unpredictable for them to sidle up to and sandwich between like the broncos. Marty’s and Bridge’s job was simply to haze the animal out of the arena as quickly as possible, before it could cause any damage. But right then, all he saw was Tripp lined up for a brutal ride on the ends of Shockwave’s horns.
Not on my watch.
His pulse sped as time slowed in equal measure. His vision tunneled until all he saw was Tripp. All he heard was his own heartbeat and the pounding of Fly’s hooves. He leaned in his saddle as he closed in, and held an arm out. Tripp grabbed on, his hand seizing Marty’s forearm hard enough to bruise to the bone. Marty hauled Tripp off the ground and onto Fly’s back, galloping clear of Shockwave. The heat of Tripp’s body behind him, living and unharmed, was a heady comfort. A flash of black out of the corner of his eye told Marty how narrowly they’d escaped a horned broadside.
He pulled Fly up alongside the rails, and Tripp scrambled safely over the fence. Marty released a deep sigh of relief. Adrenaline still coursing through his veins, his muscles twitched as the panic released its hold. Turning his attention to Bridge, and the still-at-large bull, his lungs seized mid-exhale. Time froze in an intense, candid photograph—one of those “holy shit” moments that grace the centerfold of National Geographic. In this photograph, Shockwave bore down on him, too close. Bridge was right behind the bull, lasso suspended in the air mid-throw. The rodeo clowns—because they sure as hell weren’t bullfighters—were blurred in the background, desperately running to catch up.
Time for reaction was over. The only thing left for him to do was pray.
Yeah, holy shit.
Marty heard a distant gasp ripple through the audience like a gale force. He braced himself, but it still took a long, profound second for him to realize it wasn’t the wind bulldozing him and Fly into the unforgiving metal railing. It wasn’t the wind that caused the surreal sensation of disembodiment as the ground rushed up to kiss him.
And it wasn’t the wind that eclipsed the sun on a scream.
# # #
Thundering vibrations rumbled through the uneven earth beneath his back. Shadows flickered behind the red shades of his eyelids. Dust coated his throat and tickled his nose, and a light breeze carried mingling scents of leather, hot sweat, and livestock with it. Indistinguishable sounds teased his eardrums, rising and falling in pitch and volume and rhythm until they became definable. Concerned voices. Rapid hoofbeats. Braying cattle. Whinnying horses.
The last thing Marty remembered shot to the forefront of his mind and launched a scorching path of panic through his chest. His body tensed for flight, and his eyelids snapped open.
Pain came swift, sharp, and nauseating.
Blinding shards of unfiltered sunlight pierced his pupils and lanced straight through to the back of his skull. What felt like a thousand serrated knives stabbed mercilessly into his rib cage. He squeezed his eyes shut against the onslaught.
It hurt to breathe. It hurt to move. Hurt not to move.
Something large and solid hit the ground at his side with an ooph, quickly followed by a second, heavy thud. Rapid breaths puffed above him. Callused fingertips pressed against his neck, and a large hand gently brushed dirt from his face.
“Marty?” a deep, familiar voice pleaded. “C’mon, man.”
Marty tempted the heavens again and cautiously lifted his eyelids. The lancing pain he feared didn’t come. Bridge Sullivan and Kent Murphy—his best friends, practically brothers since grade school—were kneeling shoulder to shoulder at his side, their bodies forming a broad shield against the blinding sunlight. Equal parts worry and relief flashed in both pairs of eyes.
“You dumb son of a bitch.” The soft tone of Bridge’s deep voice belied the harsh words.
“What the fuck did you think you were doing?” Kent’s voice was tight, like he was struggling to hold back either crying or yelling. “Jesus Christ, Marty. You know better.”
Marty croaked out a rough, “I’m fine.”
“The hell you are.” Bridge pointed at Marty’s head. “You’re bleeding.”
“You going to pass out?” Marty teased.
“Shut up.”
Marty relaxed his eyes and feigned a smile. He couldn’t be too bad off if Bridge wasn’t heaving up his breakfast.
“How’s Flyer?”
“You’re fucking lucky, Smarts.” Kent lifted his cowboy hat and wiped at the sweat on his forehead with his shirtsleeve. “Bridge roped Shockwave just before he hit you so you didn’t get the full impact. Fly still got gored in the flank pretty good. It’s not too deep, thanks to the angle you got nailed at, but he needs a ton of stitches.”
“You won’t be riding him anytime soon,” Bridge added. “Won’t be riding any horse for a while, by the looks of things.”
“I’m fine.” Marty pursed his lips. It was his job to keep the competitors from getting hurt, not to get hurt himself. “Just need a minute to get my bearings.”
Kent shook his head. “Yeah, right.”
Marty ignored Kent and turned his attention to the crowd that had gathered, scanning for one face in particular. The face that mattered most, the one that still made his heart skip a beat more than a year since the first time he’d laid eyes on it. Familiar, concerned faces stared back at him, but not the one he needed. In a low rasp he asked, “Where is he?”
Bridge and Kent both scowled at him and sat back on their heels. They could have been twins.
“Guys . . .”
With a reluctant sigh, Bridge tilted his head to the side. “Prick’s standing back there.”
Marty followed the direction of his friend’s nod but still didn’t see who he was looking for. His chest felt heavy, his head began to throb, and his bones ached. Flyer was one of his best pickup horses, and he’d put Fly’s life—and his—in jeopardy. All because he’d fallen in love with a man who wouldn’t—couldn’t—acknowledge that he existed in public beyond the cursory post-rodeo thank-you.
Was he ever going to learn?
His breath caught sharply. There, at the outskirts of the small crowd, he found what he’d been searching for and locked onto a pair of piercing, light blue eyes.
Tripp stood with his hands buried in his pockets. His eyes were wide with fear and turmoil, lips pursed to a thin white line, body tense.
Please, Tripp.
With a determined expression on his handsome face, Tripp took a step forward. Paused. Then took another.
A cavalry of hope, bright and all-powerful, charged forward and forced the pain back into the shadows.
Tripp was actually coming to him. In public.
But just as Marty’s heart began to swell, Tripp faltered to a stop, and his gaze broke away. His face instantly transformed into the practiced blank mask Marty had come to loathe. The cold shock of that broken moment punched a hole into his chest big enough to drive a semi through. Marty’s internal army lost its hard-won ground, and every part of his body screamed in agony at its loss.
He closed his eyes and let the comforting earth suck him down.
“Move back, guys.” The unfamiliar, authoritative voice with a sharp accent interrupted Marty’s descent into oblivion. “Give the man some space here.”
Two paramedics dropped down beside him, replacing his friends. One of the men began pulling the tools of their trade from a brightly colored medical bag, while the other gently straightened his neck and cradled his head so he couldn’t move it. They efficiently went about assessing injuries and asking questions Marty wasn’t really hearing.
He opened his mouth to tell them he was fine. He knew where he was, what had happened, his name, the day—even if his head was a bit fuzzy. He’d get up—in a minute—and get back to work, but the words stalled in the back of his throat when fingers pressed lightly against his right side, and sharp pain flared across his torso. He winced and hissed a shallow breath, and his vision grayed out briefly.
“Sorry.” It was the paramedic with the accent. “No doubt you’ve got some broken ribs in there. We’re going to have to . . .”
The man’s voice faded as though it had been sucked up by some unseen vortex. He didn’t care. He needed to see if Tripp was still there, and turned his head sideways in its loose hold.
Scott Gillard, the biggest homophobic prick on the circuit, was standing at Tripp’s side. Scott laughed. Tripp smiled. Scott clapped Tripp on the shoulder, cast an impassive look at Marty, and walked away.
Tripp turned back to Marty. His shoulders slumped infinitesimally along with his mask. Feet rooted to the ground.
“Easy there.” The paramedic who’d been holding his head strapped a c-collar around his neck to prevent him from moving again. “Let’s make sure everything works before you go ripping up the dance floor, okay, cowboy?”
Marty would have laughed at the attempted levity any other time, but right now all he felt was an agonizing rawness clawing out his insides. He understood now, but that didn’t make it hurt any less. Didn’t make what had to happen any easier.
His heart seized mid-beat and splintered in his chest. Or maybe that was broken bone digging into flesh. Either way, the result was the same.
He barely registered Bridge telling him that he and Kent would meet him at the hospital, or the oxygen mask that had been secured over his mouth, or the hands that slid under his body and carefully rolled him onto his side to work a hard backboard under him. Straps tightened over his chest and legs, foam blocks immobilized his head, and cold bit into his back.
But it didn’t matter.
He stared up at the spotless blue sky, drifting on the sensation of weightlessness for a brief moment when the paramedics lifted and settled him onto a gurney and then rolled him into the waiting ambulance.
A face edged into his blurring line of vision, words were spoken in a calming tone, but none of it registered. He closed his eyes and burned the last image of Tripp into his memory: the lean, defined frame of Tripp’s body, the strong curve of a jaw shadowed with day-old stubble, the slight bend and bump in the bridge of a nose that had been broken more than once. The full, pink lips that had kissed him so passionately, bright eyes that had stared at him with heated desire, and jet-black hair that felt like silk sliding through his fingers. The mental keepsake would be all he’d have after today.
The ambulance doors closed resoundingly on Tripp, on their relationship, and on Marty’s heart. Warm liquid slithered down his temple, and he vowed that would be the only tear he’d shed. Darkness wrapped around him, pushing out sound and thought, and blessedly, the pain of broken bones and shattered dreams.
Let it Ride #2
Prologue
The lips on his were firm, demanding, and sent a blazing fire raging to every corner of his body. Calling it a kiss was too simple for something packed with such intensity, something so far beyond Bridge’s imagination but also everything he’d always wanted. He opened his mouth, and the invitation was accepted with impassioned fervor. A tongue pressed in, slid alongside his, wrapped around it, and teased it out. And hell if that didn’t turn him on even more. He angled his head to deepen the kiss, to take more, give more, burn more. Noses bumped, a stubbled chin rasped across his, and a deep groan vibrated between them, heating the blood pounding through his veins.
The fire grew, branding his skin from the inside out, burning deeper, and he wanted more. So much more. He pulled the solid body in his arms tighter against his chest until hot, sweaty skin slid against his equally hot, sweaty skin. Dense muscle rolled and flexed under the caress of his hands, hairy legs wrapped around his, pulling him closer until their hard groins met. Every rocking motion and press of flesh had him shaking uncontrollably from the ecstasy of loving and being loved so fully and so freely.
“Bridge.”
The familiar voice whispered his name like a prayer. Deep, resonant, and wholly masculine. And like a can of gasoline tossed into the core of a bonfire, it ignited an orgasm that exploded through him, stealing his sight, his hearing, his breath. But what really sent his heart stampeding blindly for escape was the name he shouted in the throes of passion. A name that continued to bounce off the walls of his bedroom.
Eric.
Bridge’s eyes snapped open, and he stared hard at the ceiling while the faint, bittersweet odor of cum tickled his nostrils and his chest rose and fell in double time. His heart continued to pound as the fading remnants of the best wet dream of his entire life left him feeling more than a little unbalanced. A dream featuring a man—and not just any man, but one man in particular. Eric Palmer, the paramedic he’d met on the rodeo circuit the previous season who’d become fast friends with Bridge and his two best friends since childhood and fellow rodeo men, Marty Fairgrave and Kent Murphy. Eric had been on his mind too often over the past months . . . and as far more than just a friend.
He sucked a ragged gulp of air. “Oh my God. I’m gay.”
It wasn’t the first time he’d questioned his sexuality, but it had been a long time since he had. He’d fooled around with a guy in college because he was the typical horny kid and sex was sex. Plus, it was all part of the college experience, right? So, why not? He’d also been a little curious about what it would be like and had to admit it had been one of the hottest blowjobs he’d ever received.
But then Silvie DeSantos showed up on campus. He’d fallen madly in lust with her at first sight and decided he must be straight and that had been the end of it.
Until now.
“But . . . I like women,” he said aloud, closing his eyes to recall the first day he’d seen Silvie, only to snap them open again when his mental vision filled with Eric’s smiling, handsome face. The strong jaw, high cheekbones, and straight nose were wholly masculine, yet striking blue-violet eyes outlined with thick, black lashes and those full, red lips softened his features, making him the most beautiful man Bridge had ever seen. He definitely liked that face—and apparently everything else that went along with it. And he did like women, but then it dawned on him he hadn’t really noticed any since he’d met Eric back in the spring when Marty had been injured and Eric had been the on-site paramedic.
Now that he thought about it, he’d always admired an attractive man, too, hadn’t he? He’d never been afraid of what anyone would think if he complimented a man. Human bodies were simply beautiful, and he’d always let his appreciation be known. He freely showed affection to the people he cared about, too. Shit, how many times had he kissed Marty and Kent? And in public? Granted, it was only cheek bussing and generally not in big crowds, but still, most men didn’t do that to other men. Certainly not the rugged cowboys he worked with on the rodeo circuit.
But Eric . . . that man had tweaked something inside of Bridge from the moment they’d met. Had called up a desire for something he’d thought had been nothing more than a one-time youthful curiosity. And the more time he’d spent around the man, the more he realized how much he enjoyed his company. Looked forward to it.
He turned to stare out the window as the first hint of sunrise bled into what would be a clear day—deep oranges and warm yellows faded into a full spectrum of blues, steadily swallowing the darkness of night.
He inhaled slow and deep, holding his breath for a three beat before exhaling just as slowly, and then he kicked off his bedclothes and looked down at himself. Maybe he wasn’t really gay. Maybe he was . . .
“Bisexual, then?” He half expected his dick to stand at attention and answer him. But the member in question lay semi-erect against his thigh, somewhere in that orgasmic afterglow of having just had really great sex . . . Only there hadn’t been any real sex going on.
Okay, so maybe he needed to run a little test. He plumped the pillow under his shoulders and shifted on the bed, opening his legs wider, and then took another breath to focus himself on his mission.
“Women?” His voice sounded firm and determined, and he stared hard at his crotch while picturing the last woman he’d been with, Diana. She was a barrel racer from Northern Cali. Tall, fit, sharp as a whip, and could bend in more ways than any body should. Bridge Junior gave a halfhearted throb of enthusiasm. Okay, there was interest in the fairer sex.
“Men?” He shifted his mental image to an extremely attractive cowboy he’d once tried to set Marty up with, before Marty spilled the beans about his then deeply closeted boyfriend, champion bull rider Tripp Colby. His cock throbbed again, still not quite ready for action so soon, but definitely just as interested in the rougher sex.
If the idea of being with both a man and a woman appealed, then that made him bisexual, right? But he had one more question to ask. He sighed, preparing himself for an answer he already knew. “Eric Palmer?”
He didn’t need to apply any effort to conjure up an image of the sexy paramedic with the sharp New York accent. The man was there in his thoughts 24-7, whether Bridge liked it or not. It had been a few months since the regular season had ended, and with Eric living more than two hours away in Redding, Bridge had only seen him a handful of times for beers and pool with friends. But his face was as clear in Bridge’s mind as if he were looking into those unique violet-colored eyes right now.
A slow but determined pulse pushed through the length of his cock, and another chased it. Then another, and the pace quickened.
Yep. Definitely perking up now.
He glared at his dick and fisted his hands in the sheets to keep from touching himself. “You realize you’re getting hard for a man, right?”
Junior responded to his accusation with another eager pump of blood, growing more insistent with each pulse. Greedy bastard.
Bridge barked out a laugh, and a surprising wave of relief washed through him, as if a weight he hadn’t known he’d been carrying had lifted. “Well, hell.”
Yes, he’d questioned it when he was younger. Yes, he’d once fooled around with a man and enjoyed it. But then a woman had captured his interest, so he hadn’t given the whole sexuality thing much more thought after that.
And then along came Eric Palmer, bringing all those questions back to the surface. Only this time, he’d found his answer, and it came without any doubt. Maybe he was gay, maybe he was bisexual, but neither label mattered. Labels were too damn limiting to be set in stone anyway. It was what it was. Like the steady tick of the grandfather clock at the end of the hall and the gentle stirrings of the waking ranch outside his window as the sun’s rays crept over the ledge and spilled onto the floor. Life had its own plan; folks just had to learn how to ride it or get bucked off.
Man or woman didn’t matter. Marty liked men, Kent liked women, and Bridge apparently liked both.
But Eric was the one he wanted above all others, and for whatever reason, that felt all kinds of right.
He let his head sink back into the pillow and closed his eyes, giving his imagination free rein to run with Eric on its back. He took himself in hand and stroked slowly, picturing Eric tugging on him, Eric’s mouth with those plump, red lips sucking on his balls, Eric looking up at him with desire in those amazing eyes. And that was all it took. A few more quick, hard pulls, and his second orgasm of the morning rolled through him.
He threw an arm over his face, absently wiping cum off his action hand onto his stomach, and started laughing.
“Shit. I’m Eric-sexual.”
Pulling Leather #3
Most people had already cleared out, and there were only a few vehicles and equine rigs remaining. Those who wanted to revel a little longer with friends they wouldn’t see again until next season. Finally, a lone form appeared from behind one of the rigs, heading his way. Through narrowed eyes, he tracked the reason he was trying—trying so hard—not to blow up and destroy everything in his path.
Tripp Colby, a man he’d been good friends with for the last three years, a fellow bull rider he’d come to think of as a brother, a man he thought he could trust, turned out to be one of them. A fucking homo. And he’d had to find out about it secondhand.
How could that be true? How could he have not known? Tripp didn’t look gay, and he sure as hell didn’t act gay. Nothing about the cowboy was anything short of “macho manly man.” He couldn’t reconcile that with being gay in his mind. Which meant it had to be a lie. A sick joke. That was the only explanation that made sense.
Except that he’d read the breaking news on the Professional Bull Riders website, when he’d bolted to the nearest internet café to confirm the hushed rumblings he’d heard all day. He’d read it in Tripp’s own words, right there in flickering black and fucking white. Gay. No wonder Tripp had avoided him all day. Scott had never been one to hold back his opinions as to what made a man, and it sure as hell wasn’t two of them doing each other.
But the ultimate betrayal came when he’d read on and learned Tripp’s father had owned that fucking useless center in North Carolina. Did Tripp know Scott had been there? That they hadn’t been able to fix him?
Cure the gay away, my fucking ass.
Cold sweat spread over his skin, and his pulse quickened. What if Tripp knew and had told someone?
Scott twisted his hands over the steering wheel. No, Tripp wouldn’t do something like that. Not if the cowboy had been hiding.
But now, because he and Tripp had hung together for so many years, people would think he’d known about Tripp all along. That he was the same way and just trying to cover his tracks with antigay rhetoric.
Because that’s what you’ve been doing, isn’t it?
Shut up!
What if people thought the two of them were . . . involved? He shuddered, and his stomach roiled. Jesus, how many times had he thrown an arm over Tripp’s shoulder like buddies did? Now people would read that differently. They’ll know . . .
Tripp glanced up then, and the flash of fear that crossed his face told Scott he’d been spotted where he was sitting, parked across the road. Fucking son of a bitch.
The driver’s door of Tripp’s truck faced the road—and Scott. A box camper blocked them from view. When Tripp came around the side of his truck, looking like he was just going to get in and leave, Scott jumped from his own vehicle and stormed across the short distance between them.
“Is it true? You a cocksucking faggot?”
Tripp flinched. His shoulders dropped slightly, along with his gaze, but then he stared Scott in the eye, stuck his chin out, and rolled his shoulders back. Proud and defiant. “I’m gay, yes. We going to have a problem here?” The determination in his voice was clear. Tripp wasn’t about to back down, and Scott fought a tiny flicker of unwanted admiration. No way was he going to give any props to someone like Tripp.
“Yeah, we’re going to have fucking problem,” Scott ground out. “You were like a brother to me, but if I’d known—”
“I haven’t changed, Scott.”
“The hell you haven’t. What you are is disgusting. Just like my da—” Scott swallowed the word, refusing to show his shock at having almost blurted out his deepest secrets.
Tripp lifted an eyebrow. “Yesterday I was your brother, and today I’m disgusting? I’ll tell you what’s disgusting—” Tripp took a step closer, his fists clenching and nostrils flaring “—intolerant homophobic assholes like you who toss people out like trash because of their own fucking insecurities. People whose own lives are so fucked up they can’t just let others live in peace. People who hate because of ignorance and fear and blind religion.”
“You’d better step off, Tripp,” Scott bit out, the words knife-edge sharp. Heat flushed through his body, and his muscles trembled with the need to hit, to hurt . . . to dominate.
“Or what?” Tripp took another step closer, close enough for Scott to see fire snapping in those ice-blue eyes, close enough to feel the turbulent charge of energy sparking between them and send a rush of blood southward. “You going to show me how much of a man you are by kicking my ass? Come on, then. Show me what you’ve got.”
Yeah, he’d show Tripp what he had, all right. Show him that what Tripp was, that being gay, wasn’t right. He grabbed Tripp by the front of his shirt with one hand and fisted the other, hauling back to deal a hard blow. But somewhere in the split second between thought and execution, wires disconnected, his groin tightened. Instead of his fist connecting with Tripp’s jaw, his hand relaxed, opened, and snaked around the back of Tripp’s head, yanking him forward. Their mouths and chests crashed together hard enough to force a surprised grunt from Tripp. Or from himself, he couldn’t quite tell. Either way, the sound triggered the release of something primal from depths he didn’t know he possessed. His only thought was to own Tripp. Force him to submit. He moved his lips over Tripp’s in a taking that was too brutal to be called a kiss, but the need was too powerful, too consuming to fight.
A kiss.
What in the holy fuck! Scott Gillard did not kiss men.
And definitely did not get a hard-on for them.
Everything in his body seized—sharp and painful—at the horrifying realization. He shoved Tripp away so hard they both stumbled backward, but Tripp’s boot heel caught on a rock, and he went down on his back with an oof. His chest heaved, eyes wide, mouth hanging open.
“The fuck?” The words were breathy, the shock obvious, but the sound still caused another spike of traitorous desire to pulse into Scott’s groin.
Scott took another step backward, dragging the sleeve of his shirt over his mouth with enough force to abrade the skin, and then spat. He scanned the area quickly to make sure no one had seen whatever the fuck that was just happened. He could barely hear over the deafening pulse pounding like a stampede in his eardrums. The ground under his feet felt unstable, as though it was titling sideways and he’d fall off any second. “Swear to God, one word and I will make your life fucking hell. You’ll wish you were never born. You get me?”
Tripp nodded, shock now replaced with confusion and something else Scott couldn’t—wouldn’t—identify. “Got you.”
Scott stared down at Tripp, hands fisted, heart racing, and something long since dead inside him poked its head out. Fuck. “No,” he whispered. He would never let that part of himself exist.
He turned back for his truck, his mind a confusing chaos of images and words and feelings flying by at such hyper speed he couldn’t grasp a single one. In a stupor, he climbed into the cab and floored it, aware of the gravel and dust kicking up from the side of the road, but not even realizing that he’d caused it.
And then he was staring at himself in the mirror on the wall of a dingy bar bathroom he couldn’t remember walking into. Hell, he couldn’t even remember driving here or how much time had lapsed since he’d left Tripp on his ass in the dirt.
He studied his reflection, looking for the difference to show in some way. It didn’t, but he knew it was there, lurking in the shadows like a predator, waiting for a crack in his shields so it could slip through and deal its fatal blow. He knew it was there as surely as he refused to acknowledge it.
He took his hat off, ran a hand through his hair, and met his eyes in the mirror, searching them for that thing inside that had somehow found a pinhole to slip through when he’d confronted Tripp. His gaze dropped to his mouth. Tripp flashed in his mind. That fucking kiss. He’d wanted to beat the shit out of Tripp, but instead he’d kissed him, and he didn’t know why.
Yes, you do.
His vision clouded around the edges, closing in. Rage boiled up in his veins and exploded with his fist punching his reflection in the mouth. Glass shattered into an intricate spiderweb, shards fell into the sink below, and red streaks stained the fragments.
Nothing changed.
Pain didn’t register. Release did not come. Answers remained staunchly elusive. Anger still bubbled in his blood, but a growing sense of defeat held it below the surface. This fight had been going on too long for him to not once gain the upper hand. He’d only managed to ignore it, hold the inevitable at bay, but he’d never been able to eradicate it. And now . . . now he was just exhausted from a lifetime of fighting a losing battle.
He looked down at his hand, flexed and curled his fingers, but felt nothing. Mindlessly, he turned on the water, watching the blood on his knuckles dilute from red to pink to clear. The water may have been cold or may have been hot, but he couldn’t tell which. If he weren’t seeing it sluice over his skin, he wouldn’t have known it was running at all. He turned off the tap, pulled enough paper towels from the dispenser to wrap his hand in a makeshift bandage, and then went back out to the bar without looking up at the mirror again.
“Black and tan,” he told the bartender when he sat back down at his stool. The bartender eyed him for a second, then nodded and silently went about filling Scott’s order. Now would be a good time for a cigarette, if I smoked. Scott’s phone buzzed in the back pocket of his jeans. There wasn’t a single person on the planet he wanted to talk to right now. Retrieving the phone, he turned it off without looking at the caller ID, and then tossed it facedown on the bar.
“Looks like you could use a little something extra,” the bartender said, placing a tequila shooter, a lemon slice, and saltshaker on the bar beside the beer.
“Yeah. Thanks.” Scott pulled a couple of bills from his wallet and placed them on the bar top, but the bartender handed them back.
“This round’s on the house, man.”
“Thank you,” Scott said but pushed the money back toward the man and added a few more bills. “For the bathroom mirror.”
The bartender nodded. “Fair enough.” He scooped up the cash and then left Scott to his drink and his thoughts.
He tried to pick up the glass with his bandaged hand, but a sharp stab of pain had him pulling back. Why the fuck didn’t he beat the shit out of Tripp instead of a goddamned mirror? That’s what the lying cocksucking asshole deserved. Just like what his father had deserved for leaving Scott and his mom to wallow in poverty—for another man. But he hadn’t dealt that blow, either.
Because you’re the same.
No! I am not like them!
He shot back the tequila with his good hand—the bartender had given him the top-shelf stuff—and held the glass up for a refill.
The barkeep was about the same height as Tripp, and his hair was longer but just as jet black. His eyes were brown rather than blue, but the resemblance was enough to spark a visual recall of his earlier confrontation with Tripp. Except this time, he was wrapping his arms around Tripp, pulling him closer, kissing him . . . his hands in Tripp’s hair . . . hips rocking together . . .
And why was he still thinking about that fucking kiss? Thinking about what would have happened if Tripp had reciprocated?
You know why.
“Fuck.” Could that stupid voice in the back of his head not shut the fuck up?
Scott squeezed his eyes shut, dropped his head into his uninjured hand, and a near sob escaped his mouth. I don’t want this.
“There you are, you son of a bitch,” Billy hollered. He crossed the bar to where Scott sat and pulled up the stool beside him, while Kevin stumbled into the stool on Scott’s other side. Fellow bull riders and cohorts, they’d shared more experiences than he could remember, from rodeo to women to getting drunk and bar brawling. Friends or not, they were the last people he wanted to deal with right now.
“We’ve been trying to get a hold of you, asshole,” Kevin said. “Why aren’t you answering your phone?”
Scott frowned and picked up the phone. He couldn’t remember turning it off, but the screen was black. He turned it back on and quick scroll through recent calls showed he’d missed seven calls from the two of them.
“Didn’t notice,” he said, his voice flat and completely devoid of emotion. He also hadn’t noticed almost three hours had passed since his confrontation with Tripp.
“You missed out,” Kevin said and grinned.
“Round of Jack here.” Billy smacked his hand on the bar surface, earning a quick scowl from the bartender. Then Billy elbowed Scott in the ribs and leaned in slightly. “We got him, man.”
A tickle of unease lifted the hairs on the back his neck. “Got who?”
“That faggot, Colby,” Kevin jumped in. The bile rose up the back of Scott’s throat.
“Yeah,” Billy said. “We saw him drivin’ and followed him till he stopped for gas—”
“Then we took him out back and taught him what a real man is,” Kevin finished, a note of pride in his voice. “We tried calling you ’cause we knew you wouldn’t want to miss out.”
“Fuck, you should’a seen it.” Billy beamed, and Scott’s stomach flipped. Yes, he was pissed—furious, even—and he’d wanted to kick the shit out of Tripp too, had found him to do just that, but when it came to it, he hadn’t been able to. Tripp had been a good friend to him over the years. He liked Tripp. Not like like, but . . . Maybe he always knew Tripp was hiding something. Maybe he felt a connection with Tripp he couldn’t quite define—or didn’t want to—but instinctively knew was there. He still couldn’t line up all the pieces in a way that made sense to him, but at the end of the day, if he’d wanted Tripp hurt, he’d have done it himself.
Scott stared hard at the drink in front of him and forced his voice to remain unaffected. “How’d you leave him?”
“Who cares?” Kevin said.
“Yeah, one less freak in the world,” Billy added.
Red clouded Scott’s vision, and he clenched his jaw tight, fighting back the urge to drill both these assholes into the ground. No matter how angry he was, no matter how much he hated his dad for destroying their family, and now Tripp for being one of them too, he didn’t wish them dead. His stomach churned, and his throat tightened at the sickening realization: it was his fault. If he’d answered his phone, he may have been able to prevent Billy and Kevin from doing anything.
And why the fuck did he care so much?
Because you’re the same.
The bartender lined up three shot glasses on the table in front of them, and the look he gave Scott drove the nail of unexpected guilt a little deeper into his gut. He pushed back and stood abruptly.
“Gotta go.” He pocketed his wallet and phone, diligently avoiding eye contact with anyone.
“What? Dude, what about shots?” Billy said.
“Yeah, man.” Kevin chimed in. “We gotta celebrate.”
Scott shook his head, still not making eye contact. “I, uh . . . got a date.”
He bolted from the bar before they could say anything more. His heart pounded hard in his chest and loud in his ears, and a sense of urgency had him running for his truck while grabbing his phone and pressing Tripp’s number at the same time.
“C’mon, c’mon,” he chanted as he hopped into the truck and cranked the ignition, but the call went to voice mail. He pulled out onto the road, guessing at which direction Tripp would have gone. It wasn’t like he could go back into the bar and ask the guys for details without arousing suspicions.
He drove for what felt like hours, but was probably only half of one, when he finally spotted Tripp’s truck at a travel station. Pulling around to the back of the building where the guys had said they’d hauled Tripp, he didn’t see anything at first. But there, against the wall and half behind the dumpster, was a lifeless body lying in an awkward huddle.
“Jesus Christ.” Scott slammed the truck into park and ran to Tripp, dropping down at his side. His face was swollen, bruised, and bloody, his left leg at an unnatural angle, and who knew what other damage he’d suffered internally. Scott felt for a pulse, and cold sweat broke out across his skin when he couldn’t find one. But then a faint bump against his fingertips sent a rush of relief through him. Tripp was alive, but barely. And he’d stay that way if Scott could get him to help fast enough.
He ran to his truck, backing it up as close to Tripp as he could get, and then gathered all the blankets and jackets he had from the back of the cab. He dropped the tailgate and threw everything onto the floor of the box.
Very carefully, he gathered Tripp in his arms and carried him to his truck, placing him on the makeshift bed. He bunched up the sides to help keep Tripp from moving too much while he drove.
“Hang on, Tripp.”
Half an hour later, Scott was pulling out of the emergency parking lot. He hadn’t gone inside, hadn’t given anyone any info, just shouted from the doorway that a man needed help. Nurses and attendees had responded quickly, and while they were busy attending to Tripp, Scott had taken off.
Not even three blocks from the hospital, he had to pull over at the side of the road. He dropped his head to the steering wheel and closed his eyes. He couldn’t take much more of this day. Hopefully Tripp would be okay. That he himself would be okay was doubtful. Not after that kiss and the realization that this constant, exhausting fight against his true self was futile. “Fuck. Fuck-fuck-fuck.”
Chapter 1
“You can do this, hon.” Brandi leaned across the cab of his truck and squeezed his thigh. The gesture was supportive, encouraging, and he needed it more than he’d ever admit. She smiled before sitting back in the passenger seat. “Take as long as you need. I’ll be right here.”
Not for the first time, he wondered why he couldn’t have fallen for Brandi Saunders. She was perfect, the one person who truly knew him—and all of his secrets—and still stood by him. People had thought she was a regular girl he visited on the tour, a favorite buckle bunny, but she was never a regular girl. It had served him well to let people think they were more, and they had crossed that line once early in their friendship but realized pretty quickly that wasn’t a road they were meant to follow. The reality was, and always had been, that they were more like brother and sister.
“Thank you, Bran.” He forced a smile he wasn’t feeling. “I don’t know what I’d have done if you hadn’t been there for me.” Following the incident two years ago, he’d slid into a tailspin. After the big-ass cherry on his wake-up call—being arrested on suspicion for Tripp’s assault—he’d reached out to her for help. He’d refused to see a therapist, but as a clinical social worker for a nonprofit mental health center, she had the skills to guide him through his haze of confusion and self-hate and bring him back to life—his true life.
“Good thing you have me then, isn’t it?” She gestured toward the ranch house they’d parked in front of. “Now go.”
Easier said than done. He turned back to the house that Tripp Colby shared with Marty Fairgrave. He knew it was an important part of his recovery process, but fuck. Now that he was here, how was he supposed to look Tripp in the eye, knowing he could have changed the course of that night? Or face Marty, with all the shitty things he’d said to the man over the years?
“Stop.” Brandi reached across the console and cupped his chin, turning him to face her. “I see what’s going on in your head. You need to do this and you can do this. Okay?”
He nodded, then covered her hand with his and pulled it to his lips to kiss her palm. He hated feeling so off-kilter, but she gave him a kind of strength he’d never known he needed.
Which promptly about-faced when he looked back at the house to see Marty standing on the edge of the front steps, foreboding and unwelcoming. Scott sucked in a deep breath and held it for a three-beat before slowly releasing. This had to be done. Whatever Marty and Tripp had to dish out, he was more than willing to accept. Wasn’t like he deserved a second chance, or would be forgiven, but he had to make the effort. If for nothing else than his own peace of mind.
He turned to Brandi. “I couldn’t do this without you.”
“Yes, you could. Eventually.” She gave his hand a gentle squeeze, then let go and pulled an e-reader from her bag on the floor. “Now go. I have a love story to finish reading while you’re doing your thing. They’re just about to have sex.”
He groaned and rolled his eyes. He really did love her.
He carefully placed his cowboy hat on his head, and then with another deep breath, opened the door and stepped out into a warm California afternoon. He fought the urge to fidget, stick his hands in his pockets, pull his hat down to cover his eyes . . . or turn tail and run back home as fast as possible.
Marty’s expression didn’t change, but a hint of curiosity churned in the depths of unusually hard, flinty eyes.
Scott stopped a few feet from the bottom of the steps, and the front door swung open. His breath caught in the back of his throat when Tripp stepped out . . . using a cane.
After his meltdown following that night, Scott had disappeared from the rodeo world completely, but he’d looked up all he could find on Tripp once he’d finally come to accept who he was. He knew the injuries Tripp had suffered had cost him his career as a professional bull rider, but to actually see it . . . If Scott had been paying attention, if he’d truly been a real man then, he could have prevented the severity of it—or maybe all of it. And no, the irony in that was not lost on him.
Tripp stopped beside Marty, and Marty slipped his arm around Tripp’s waist, defiance and warning on both their faces.
“What are you doing here?” Tripp said, his voice hard and tight.
Scott lowered his gaze to the base of the bottom step and then looked up at the couple on the porch: at Tripp who had been like a brother, at Marty, one of the best pickup men on the circuit who’d once saved Scott’s life at a rodeo, even though he was an asshole. They were good men, strong men, and neither had deserved any of the shit he’d dished out over the years.
He shouldn’t be here.
He glanced over his shoulder to find Brandi not reading as she’d said she would but watching him. She nodded her head, giving silent support. Scott took another deep breath, turned back to the cowboys whose feet he bowed at, and removed his hat.
“I . . . uh . . .” He cleared his throat, swallowed hard, and looked Tripp in the eyes. “I came to apologize to you. For that night. For what happened and what it cost you. I just wanted you to know I’m real sorry about that. If I could, I’d go back and change things so it never would have happened. And . . .” He slid his gaze to Marty. “I also wanted to apologize for being a first-class homophobic asshole to you for so long.”
The way both men stood so still, staring at him like they could skin him in three seconds flat, made him want to squirm, to run. He shifted the hat in his hands and dropped his gaze. “I don’t expect forgiveness or nothing, and I’m not asking for it. I just wanted to come here in person and tell you how sorry I am for everything, and if I can help it, I won’t let something like that happen to anyone else.”
A horse whinnied in the distance, a bee buzzed past his face, and the silence stretched. He flicked his eyes up quickly. The couple didn’t look like they were going to tear him apart anymore, but now their expressions were blank.
“Okay. Well. I’ll be on my way then.”
“What happened?” Tripp stepped forward as Scott was about to turn away. “You disappeared for two years and now here you are, apologizing on my doorstep.”
“You guys remember Brandi?” He waved his hat in the direction of the truck. “She helped me come to terms with a few things about myself. See the error of my ways, so to speak. Now I’m trying to be a better person, live a truer life, and make amends for all the grief I’ve caused others.”
“You were a hard-core asshole, Scott,” Marty said. His voice was stony, but his expression had softened. “How can we believe you’re for real here?”
Scott stared him dead in the eyes. “Would the old Scott be on your doorstep of his own accord, offering apologies?”
A small smile tipped up one side of Marty’s mouth. “Point taken.”
Silence fell between them again, thick and weighty.
“Well. That was all I really had to say. So . . .” Scott glanced out at the land Tripp and Marty shared—Marty’s family ranch in Bridgeport was an impressive spread—but he didn’t really see it. “I’ll just be on my way then.”
Tripp and Marty nodded, and Scott turned to leave. A bead of sweat trickled down the side of his face. Why did the truck feel like he’d parked it twenty miles away rather than twenty feet? The longer he walked, the farther away it seemed. Emotions he couldn’t pin bounced around inside his chest: relief that he’d said his piece, disappointment that he hadn’t been forgiven, jealousy at the easy way they stood together, loneliness at the nothing he had in his life to look forward to.
“Scott,” Tripp called just as he’d reached the truck. He stopped, fighting down a rise of hope. He knew he deserved nothing less than hatred, apathy at the very least, but deep down, he couldn’t deny he’d hoped for at least a hint of forgiveness. “Why don’t you come and work with me on the gay rodeo circuit?”
Scott blinked. Gay rodeo? Him? That was . . . He didn’t know. His brain stalled out, and an odd panic nudged at his senses.
Marty snapped his gaze to Tripp, eyebrows raised. “What?”
Tripp placed a hand on Marty’s hip. “Trust me, okay? I think it will be good for him.”
Marty’s pose, the expression on his face, his eyes, everything softened when he looked down at Tripp, and then he smiled, and a little spike of jealousy poked its head out. Shit, what was wrong with him? Self-acceptance was still a struggle sometimes, and he was a long way from wanting anything like what Tripp and Marty had—just seeing two guys together still made him uncomfortable. So why the touch of green now?
Tripp turned back to Scott, his voice kind and smile welcoming. “They don’t have as many events as the pro tour, and a lot are out of state, so I work with them, and the PBR on off weeks. What do you say?”
Scott swallowed. “But . . . I haven’t even been on a bull in two years.”
“Not to ride. To work with me. I teach bull riding at the rodeo schools on both tours, and I also work with the PBR to promote awareness and acceptance for all cowboys, regardless of orientation. I think it would be good for you to spend some time in the boots of those you’ve been spitting on for so many years. Maybe also help make others think before they spit.”
Scott had to admit the idea of getting back to the rodeo appealed, but to work with a bunch of gay men? Him? They’d probably string him up and quarter him the first day. Just for kicks. “Thank you, Tripp, but I’m not sure that would be a good idea. I have a feeling the old Scott is all people are going to see.”
“Which is more reason to show them this new one, isn’t it? That if a hard-ass prick like you can turn it around . . .?”
“He makes a great point.” Scott started at Brandi’s voice right beside him. He hadn’t realized she’d left the truck and joined them. He glanced over at her, and she smiled back. The glint in her soft blues eyes told him he’d better accept the offer if he knew what was good for him. And he did. A mad Brandi was the last thing he wanted to deal with, but this might be a bigger step than he was ready for.
Scott looked back at Tripp. “Thank you, but I’ll need to think on it.”
“Please do,” Tripp said.
Chapter 2
“You okay?” Brandi asked as they bounced down the long drive from the Fairgrave Ranch, dust lifting into the sky in their wake.
Scott thought for a moment, taking stock of the last half hour. “Yes, I think I am.” And he wasn’t just giving her lip service. He felt lighter somehow, having taken a much-needed step forward and been offered an olive branch. That was so much more than he could have ever hoped for, and was far more than he deserved. That Tripp would extend an offer like that to him only proved how much bigger a man Tripp was, and had always been. It had been a humbling moment, and even if he never accepted the offer, he would always be grateful for that quick acceptance.
“You should honestly give it some thought,” she said. “About joining Tripp.”
“Do you really think that’s such a good idea?” Scott slowed to a stop at the end of the drive before turning onto the gravel road and starting the long trip back to Cupertino. “I can’t imagine too many people there would be all that excited about having me around.”
He couldn’t deny how much the idea appealed. He’d missed the rodeo circuit and deep down would love to get back on it, but people would remember and expect the old Scott. He wasn’t that person anymore—most of the time, anyway. Would they even accept who he was now? The real Scott Gillard? He doubted it, especially after the way he’d treated people for so long, letting his own internalized hate and anger bleed out to everyone around him. If the boot were on the other foot, he’d just as soon not have anything to do with himself, either. No matter how much he may have changed.
“Maybe you should try giving people the benefit of the doubt,” she said. “They might surprise you.”
Scott shook his head. “No. The cowboys on the gay circuit will hate me for being the homophobic prick I was, and the cowboys on the straight circuit will hate me either for being . . .” He swallowed and glanced out his side window at the passing landscape. “You know . . . that way now. Or for what I did to Billy and Kevin. It’s a no-win situation.”
“People will react how they’ll react. You can only control how you respond to them,” she said. Her voice had taken on that warm, supportive professional tone she used when she slipped into therapist mode. “And you did the right thing by turning in Billy and Kevin. Anyone with half a brain can see that.”
“I doubt Dex will ever see it that way,” he said. With the added charge of a hate crime on top of their assault, and the loss of Tripp’s career due to the attack, Billy and Kevin were still in prison and would likely be there for a few more years. Dex, Billy’s younger brother, had been none too pleased.
“Again, you can only control your own actions and reactions.”
“How am I supposed to react when they start calling me the same things I’d called others? Or if they decide the world would be better off without the likes of me in it?”
“You know how, hon.” Her voice softened—therapist out, best friend in. “We’ve been working on that for months now. You have a solid handle on your anger, you know how and when to walk away, and you can defuse a situation before it escalates.”
Could he? Yes, they’d spent a lot of time working through his anger issues and strategies to manage it. He did feel he had a pretty good grip on it, wasn’t as fast to anger as he used to be, but then, he’d been keeping a pretty low profile since his meltdown, and away from situations where he’d lost it in the past. He’d even rented his ranch, leased out his horses, and moved into Brandi’s house. It had been her request, but he’d never told her how grateful he’d been for the offer. Living alone, with his chaotic thoughts and dark memories, was driving him over the edge. He’d stopped eating, started drinking, and more than once eyed the shotgun locked in a glass cabinet in his den. He didn’t know if he’d have pulled himself out of the fugue on his own, or actually opened that gun cabinet, but Brandi had saved him from ever finding out.
The worst of it was behind him now, and he probably should have moved out a year ago, especially since he had a perfectly good house of his own in Stockton, but he hadn’t felt ready to be on his own yet. The plan had been that he’d stay there for a few months while he got himself sorted, but it turned out sixteen years’ worth of anger and dangerous, destructive thinking took a fair bit longer to correct.
“I know how much you miss it,” Brandi said, her voice softer. “Rodeoing, bull riding, traveling. That’s who you are. Everything else is secondary, and that’s what you need to learn and for people to see. You could be a positive role model for someone.”
Scott barked out a strangled laugh. “I’m an asshole!”
“Were. Show ’em who you are now, because I know that guy, and believe it or not, he’s kind of likeable.”
He had a chance to get back into the scene, and hell, he needed that, but a role model? Unlikely. Maybe she and Tripp were right and this could be a good thing, though, for him to show he’d learned his lessons and was making amends. If he could, then others could too.
Scott sighed and turned to meet her sky-colored eyes. Never having been able to hide what he was thinking from her, Brandi smiled and lifted his phone out of the center console, giving it a waggle. “Call Tripp.”
Chapter 3
“What the hell are you doing here?”
Scott sighed. Not even clear of the parking area at the Morgan Hill grounds—the site of his first-ever gay rodeo, though today was the schooling that preceded rodeo weekend—and already someone recognized him as the homophobic asshole he used to be. He slanted a quick glance in the direction of the voice. He didn’t recognize the three cowboys behind him, nor did he know which one had spoken, but it didn’t matter. That was exactly the reception he’d expected, and he was beginning to wonder the same thing. What was he doing here? He’d agreed with Tripp and Brandi that it could be good for him, but it sure didn’t seem so good for anyone else right now. Why on earth would anyone accept his ass there?
“It’s okay, Davey,” Tripp said. He’d been waiting by his truck when Scott arrived, and now stood at Scott’s shoulder in a show of support. “He’s here to work with me, not to make trouble.”
Davey’s eyebrows disappeared under the brim of his cream-colored cowboy hat, and he turned to his two buddies in surprise. All three looked back at Tripp like he’d grown a third head.
“After what he did to you? How can that be okay?” Davey puffed out his chest, which, because his shirt was unbuttoned to about midchest, effectively drew attention to thick, hair-covered pectorals and the tail end of a tattoo over one. Scott quickly averted his eyes. Fortunately, the men seemed too stunned by Tripp’s comment to have noticed what he’d been looking at.
Tripp shrugged. “Just is. There are two sides to every story, and everyone deserves a second chance.”
“And some dogs just need to be put down,” said the man wearing a ball cap and Gym Bear tank top to Davey’s right. Then he sneered at Scott, spit a chunk of tobacco out of the side of his mouth, and walked away. Davey and the third cowboy—who wasn’t wearing a shirt at all, leaving his tattoos and muscles on full display—gave Scott a disdainful perusal that said he’d been judged and found wanting.
Davey, who was about Scott’s height and size, took a step forward, and Scott met his gaze without challenge. All he could see there was distrust and contempt.
“You just stay clear of me, you hear?”
Scott nodded, dropped his eyes, and dug his hands into his pockets, fighting back the sudden urge to knock that look right off Davey’s face. But that was the old Scott. The one he’d been trying so hard to purge these past two years. It was getting easier, but this was the first time someone had gotten up in his face like that since, and it triggered an instinct he was still struggling to manage.
Scott heard their boot heels on the hard dirt fade as they walked away, but he didn’t look.
“They’ll come around eventually,” Tripp said, and Scott froze for a second when Tripp reached out and squeezed his shoulder. He swallowed back the old reactions that the minor confrontation with Davey had brought to the surface. Not having noticed, or ignoring it if he had, Tripp tipped his head toward the livestock pens. “C’mon, you’re going to help me teach some greenhorns how to rope and ride.”
Scott nodded and fell into step beside him. “Why are you doing this for me?”
Tripp stopped and turned to look him in the eyes, searching them briefly. “I know you’re the one who got me to the hospital that night. Took a while, but I remembered hearing your voice telling me to hold on. If you hadn’t done that, I don’t think I’d be standing here right now.”
Scott shifted his gaze over Tripp's shoulder to stare unfocused at the trees lining the rodeo grounds. “You’d still be riding bulls if I’d got there sooner.”
Tripp shook his head. “You can’t know that. You know as well as I do that every ride could be our last. But it’s neither here nor there. This is where we are now. Okay?”
Scott nodded, but it wasn’t okay. If he hadn’t turned the ringer off and answered his phone that night, things would have ended differently, and Tripp would still be competing. Maybe Scott would be too.
“Besides, I know a thing or two about having to live your life hiding who you are. Granted, I didn’t go to the extremes you did, but . . . I have to make a confession.” Now Tripp was the one looking away. He swallowed and then said, “I kind of used our friendship as a decoy. In the beginning. A sheep in wolf’s clothing, if you will.”
Scott huffed out a mirthless laugh. “So the added bonus of hanging out with the biggest homophobe on the circuit was that no one would ever question you.”
“Something like that, yeah.” Tripp grimaced.
“Huh,” Scott said, making sure to keep his voice monotone. “Guess we both had them fooled.”
Tripp stared at him for a long second, and then one side of his mouth lifted to form a crooked grin.
Scott couldn't help grin back, and in the brief moment that their eyes met and people and animals moved around them in the background, something passed between them. An understanding, a camaraderie Scott had never felt before because this time, it was coming from a place of pure honesty. This time, he was meeting another as his true self. He maybe couldn’t say it out loud—he hadn't moved beyond the abstract and attempted to experience what that meant—but the fact that he wasn't constantly fighting himself, and by extension the whole world, was a huge step in the right direction. And having Tripp stand there beside him, without judgment, without condition, meant more than he would ever be able to voice.
“What happened that night . . .” The saliva in Scott’s mouth was suddenly too thick to swallow, and he couldn't get the rest of his words out. He motioned between them.
Tripp shook his head. “That’s yours to tell, if you ever want to.”
Scott nodded. Took three attempts to clear his throat. “Thank you.”
"C'mon." Tripp resumed their walk toward the corrals. “I’ll introduce you to a few of the guys later. For now, work’s awaiting.”
Scott glanced around, and his gaze landed on four men near the chutes watching him with varying degrees of curiosity, indifference, and hostility. Three were sitting on the railing, one holding the reins to a horse, but the fourth man was sitting astride a bay quarter horse. That last one sent a little thrill racing up Scott’s spine and a flush of heat over his skin. The cowboy looked young, early twenties at most, and the way his hat shaded his face highlighted well-defined cheekbones and a slight pout to his mouth. He wore a red shirt that matched the reins-holding cowboy—which meant the two were probably pickup men—and a silver conch-covered belt matched the band around his hat.
Scott quickly looked away, forcing down the heat, and followed Tripp. He wasn't ready to acknowledge what that rush meant, and he sure as hell wasn't ready to act on it. Not when a distant urge to fight it still lingered.
Cover artist by day, author by night, L.C. Chase is a hopeless romantic, free spirit, and adventure seeker who loves hitting the open road just to see where it takes her. When not road tripping or writing about beautiful men falling love, L.C. can be found designing book covers featuring said beautiful men, drawing, horseback riding, or hiking the trails with her goofy four-legged buddy.
L.C. is a two-time Lambda Literary Award finalist for Pickup Men and Pulling Leather; an EPIC eBook Awards winner for Pickup Men; an EPIC eBook Awards finalist for Let It Ride and Long Tall Drink; Bisexual Book Awards finalist for Let It Ride; and an Ariana eBook Cover Art Awards winner. She also won an honorable mention in the 2012 Rainbow Awards for Riding with Heaven.
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EMAIL: authorlcchase@gmail.com
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