Chapter 22
A weeklater and my ass and thighs still ache from that first time riding with Poppy. I’ve been practicing every day since, usually in the evenings once Wade’s slipped inside for dinner and Kip’s available. The stiffness that hardens my limbs the moment I get myself pulled up on his back always lingers for the initial few minutes but then fades to nothing by the time we’ve begun to really move. If only my muscles would begin to grow used to the new movements and stop making me feel so old. The recovery time is cruel.
I’m certain it doesn’t help that I can’t stand for longer than thirty seconds without feeling light-headed and tasting chalk either. My sinuses are congested to high heaven, the world around me sounding dull through the throb in my ears. Fire rips down my throat with every pathetic swallow, to the point I’ve started spitting on the dirt outside the stables to avoid feeling the pain.
It came out of nowhere. I went to bed last night feeling fine and woke this morning to . . . all this. Getting sick has never been a concern for me. I could count on one hand the number of times I’ve fallen ill over the past few years, and even then, that’s being generous. It’s fitting that this fucking place would break that streak, as it has a habit of meddling in every other aspect of my life.
Johnny’s been mother henning me all day, following me around with a sick bag in his hand regardless of my lack of vomiting. He’s the one who blabbed to Eliza about me and had her rushing out of the house and toward the stables at the crack of dawn with a container of steaming chicken soup. I took it without complaint and drank the container dry, leaving only the chicken and vegetables left sitting on the bottom.
My stomach is still full with it, and every move I make has it swishing around uncomfortably. I breathe in through my nose and lean against Sky’s pen, not surprised to see her still inside.
Brody’s back in Calgary, the recording of his new album having started back up. Nathan filled me in on the state of Swift Edge last night, including the new artist that was signed this past week and the three album deadlines that I should have been there to sign off on. It should have been me telling Brody to get back in the studio. None of this sits well with me.
Anna takes the horse out often in the afternoons, but in the early hours of the morning, Sky’s here with me. She has a different energy to her than Kip does. He’s a brute who loves attention more than he appears he should, but Sky is a needy, vocal thing. I feel bad that Kip has to listen to her talk all night long.
Honey is a mix between the two. She doesn’t get out often, far less than Sky does. From what I’ve seen, the only people who ride her are Poppy and one of the trainers I’ve seen a few times over the past week I’ve been working in the stables. The trainers haven’t paid much attention to me, and their lack of interest is relieving. I prefer to work in silence.
An almost blond-coloured muzzle with a white stripe down the middle butts into my shoulder, nudging me forward. Hot breath fans my skin when Sky pushes against my neck, and I answer her sudden interest with a tired, pained groan.
My head swims, fragments of thoughts suddenly drifting away before I can grab them. I lean further against the pen door, my legs weak and shaking.
“I’m gonna sleep,” I tell Sky before my knees give out, and I slide down the door. My ass hurts when I fall to the ground, hay padding some of the impact.
She neighs a reply, a grouchy one.
I let my eyes fall shut, my skull rattling with the pulse in my temples. “Be quiet, Sky.”
Finally, there’s quiet. Johnny will be gone for a while longer, off working on a task from Renner. Nausea ripples through me, but I force it down, ignoring the way my hot skin flushes with cold. I’m so tired. I need a nap. I’ll be better when I wake up.
A loud bang forces my eyes open. I cough, my lips ripping apart. They’re crusted, and I cringe. Cotton fills my mouth no matter how many times I try and summon saliva.
“You look so much worse than Johnny said.”
My stomach flips. Poppy’s voice is a blade with a dull edge. A threat without the follow-through of pain. I shut my eyes again.
“How long have you been laying here?” A hand brushes my forehead, fingers cold enough I flinch at the shock of them. “You’re flaming hot.”
“Are you coming on to me?” I rasp, my brows scrunching in confusion at how I sound. Like someone tore my voice box out and shredded it before jamming it back.
It sounds like Brody did before he took his break from music.
My fault.
“No, I am most certainly not coming on to you, Garrison Beckett. But maybe if you hadn’t been ignoring my texts for the past week, I’d be giving you a different answer.”
The snark has me shrinking back, too weak to stand up for myself. I’m too tired to try and argue my piece. I should have texted her back. Should have spent every night with her this week fucking her on every surface in her tiny home instead of ignoring my urges.
But I don’t just want to sleep with her anymore. Not completely. Riding with her broke something inside of me. I crossed some boundary that I hadn’t realized I’d been toeing. Space was supposed to force me back over it. But no matter how far I push, I can’t move. She has me in shackles.
“I’m sure you’ve kept yourself busy,” I reply weakly.
Poppy’s warm vanilla scent settles over me, and I breathe in deeply. She palms my cheek, the stubble I couldn’t bring myself to shave this morning. “Would you be upset if I did?”
“No.” It’s a brutal lie that I wish was the truth.
“Liar.”
“It’s rude to call a sick man names.”
A soft, breathy laugh. It warms my cold, flushed skin. “Can you stand?”
“Can try.”
Her hand falls from my cheek, and I swallow my complaint. A steady arm slips around my back, fingers threading through the belt loop of my jeans, and then we’re moving. I sway, my knees still too damn weak to carry all my weight as she heaves me into a standing position.
“Why are you here?” I croak, the world too bright when I force my eyes open.
She leads us through the stable, taking too much of my weight but refusing to let me try and walk by myself. “Eliza called me.”
“Why?”
“Johnny cares about you more than you realize. He’s been keeping tabs on you today, reporting to Eliza. You must have looked bad enough during his last check that he decided to intervene,” she explains.
“He shouldn’t.”
“Shouldn’t care about you?”
“He has no reason to.”
No clouds cover the sun as it blasts down on us, making my eyes burn. Poppy leads us out of the stable and toward the small red car parked on the dirt road. I risk a look further down the road and see Johnny standing with another ranch hand, both of them watching me. Johnny doesn’t hide his concern the way he should. Concern is a weakness he should avoid while he can.
“You’re too bitter for thirty years old,” Poppy states.
I don’t have it in me to ask how she knows how old I am. Knowing Johnny, he probably told everyone himself.
“Just let me help you into the car so we can get you in bed. You shouldn’t have even been working today. You’re lucky you didn’t hurt yourself,” she scolds and leads me toward the car.
I keep my mouth shut as she settles me against the back door and quickly opens the front one. Moving before she has a chance to shoulder my weight again, I fold my body into the car. It’s a tight fit. I have to pull my knees up to keep from jamming them into the dusty dash.
She glares disapprovingly at me, reaching for my seat belt. I lift a weak arm and lay my hand over hers, shaking my head.
“I got it.”
“Are you always this stubborn when someone is trying to help you?”
“I don’t know. Can’t say I’ve had this type of help in a long time, honey,” I answer far too honestly.
Poppy’s glare softens. My first instinct is to tell her to drop it, but when she curls her fingers around mine and squeezes, I shut my mouth. The pain in my body fades as she takes our joined hands and uses them to pull the seat belt over my body and click it into place.
“That changes today. You’re coming home with me, and as long as you allow me to, I’ll take care of you.”
Our fingers are still intertwined, her cheek so close to my lips that if I pressed forward an inch, I’d taste her blush. I want her to look at me, to back up enough I have the chance to taste her lips as well, but it’s like she’s stalling, half in the car, leaning over my torso.
“You don’t have to do that, Poppy. I can take care of myself.”
Her hand falls to my thigh, the hold steadying her when she pulls back. Sharp brown eyes meet mine, a frustrated shine in them that strokes something inside of me. Something that aches to feel the full burn of her flames.
One touch from her and I’m growing hard in my jeans, the sickness that’s feeding off me seeming to momentarily fade, replaced by savage hunger. It’s been too long without being inside of her, feeling her shake in my arms, beneath my tongue. The space I put between us has only ramped up those cravings, made them painful to ignore.
I don’t notice that I’ve dropped my stare to her mouth until she rolls her lips, the corner of them twitching.
“You’re the only man I’ve ever met who gets horny when I’m upset with him,” she says.
Blinking, I drag my eyes back to hers. I clasp my fingers around the hand she has on my thigh and leave it there. It’s so much smaller than mine but just as strong. Maybe even stronger.
“You’ve only known boring men, then.”
“I’m not so sure they’d be happy to hear that.”
“I don’t care,” I deadpan.
A small smile breaks free, and I swallow at the beauty of it as she slips her hand out from beneath mine and leans out of the car.
“I think we both know that you do.” She doesn’t have to explain the double meaning in her words. I couldn’t miss it, even with my mind half functioning.
I care more than I have in a long, long fucking time.