34. Stetson
THIRTY-FOUR
STETSON
May 31st, 2024
I need this stalemate to end between Gus and me. And by that, I mean I need to get over my shit. Gus has done nothing but be helpful and take my potentially bratty attitude in stride. Which seems so out of character for someone who most likely treats brats with punishment on their knees. As much as I crave that particular outcome, I need to end this before it comes to that.
I need to find peace. Before I do something stupid, like beg for punishment.
Stepping out onto the deck, I see Gus’s exposed back glistening as he heads back into the barn, full wheelbarrow in tow. It’s not heavy—only has hay in it—but his muscles still ripple with each step, each lift of his arms.
Am I drooling? Not off to a good start.
Shaking my head, I walk over to him, presenting a confident front I don’t feel. He pauses, sensing me, but continues doling out the flakes to his whinnying admirers. I watch him work, allowing myself only a moment to watch a particularly large droplet of sweat race across his back and disappear into the waist of his jeans.
Oh, to be a droplet of sweat.
Clearing my throat and tossing my braided hair over one shoulder, I tap my foot. I don’t know why it’s so hard to admit one’s fault, to ask for a truce when you’re the one who fired the first bullet—beg for forgiveness when you ache to commit the sin again. But it fucking is, and I can’t seem to get my mouth to move.
“Need something?” He doesn’t even turn around when he says it, and that only pisses me off more.
“No,” I reluctantly grit out, when in fact, yes, I came here to extend an olive branch.
Remember?
“Just needed to come take a closer look? Upon your closer inspection, I’m dying to know what you think.” He’s so unbothered, and my eye twitches.
“Unimpressive really.”
“Really?” He doesn’t sound like he believes me, and I can’t blame him. I don’t believe me, either.
But I refuse to admit such a stupid weakness to the enemy. “I bet Mateo looks—” His back stiffens, and he growls, the sound ricocheting through the dusty barn. The horse’s ears flick at the sound, searching for the threat, not realizing that the hand that feeds them is the scariest monster they may encounter.
But I know as much.
“Don’t you finish that sentence, Stetson,” I shiver at the way my name sounds mixed with his raspy growl. It’s delicious in the most sinful kind of way. I want to beg him to say it again, over and over.
“But what if—” He turns on me, his eyes searing into my skin.
“No.”
Rolling my eyes, I cock my hip to one side and blow a slow raspberry with my lips. Why?
Because I can’t seem to control my need to poke the beast.
“Ugh, fine. I’ll just call Dale later.” He doesn’t even twitch, his chest still like he’s holding his breath. “Relax, dude. I came here to see if you wanted to go to the local rodeo with me tonight.” There, I said it. No one can ever tell me I’m not a kind, charitable, mature person again.
His eyes widen a fraction, as if I’ve truly caught him by surprise, and that makes me smile—a full-face grin that only makes his eyes widen further. I like catching him off guard; it’s so rare that I do, like he watches every move I make and knows me better than I know myself. It’s annoying.
“Us, go to the rodeo together? I haven’t been to a rodeo in a few years,” he states, looking quizzically. “And I’ve never been to this rodeo.”
I roll my eyes again. “Oh, don’t lie to me now.” And his eyes narrow, confusion creasing between his eyebrows. He steps toward me, but I don’t wait to see where the hell that is going. I have to keep the upper hand, even if it’s only for a little while longer. “Be ready by six. You’re driving. I plan to get drunk.”
God, why does he always have to look good? Why must the world be against me and try my self-control at every turn when it comes to this man?
One hand on the wheel, the other resting along the headrest of the cab seat, he looks relaxed. But I know better. I know a beast prowls beneath the miles of muscular tanned skin, waiting to devour me. I shift for the hundredth time and he sighs loudly through his nose.
“You asked me out on this date, remember? Get comfortable.” He doesn’t take his eyes off the road, and I’m grateful. Ever since he mentioned this resembled a date, especially with my hair done up and my choice of clothes—my nicest jeans, a black tank top that clings to my annoyingly hard nipples, and long earrings tickling the sides of my neck—I’ve had a permanent blush staining my neck and face. I tried arguing with him, but I was rather unconvincing—to him and to myself.
“This isn’t a date,” I whisper, again.
“Even if I want it to be?” He sounds so nonchalant, so certain of himself. And it’s nearly impossible to disagree with. Nearly. Instead of agreeing, or saying anything for that matter, I turn wide eyes to stare out the window. I’m staring so long and hard, my vision blurring, that I don’t realize we’ve parked. I’m snapped from my trance when I feel a warm thumb brush softly against the column of my neck, electricity sparkling across my skin, making me gasp.
The act is so familiar, like we’ve been here, and done this, a hundred times before.
I don’t look at him, I can’t, as I open the door and climb out. I will fucking jump him, right here in the parking lot, in the front seat of his truck, for everyone to see if I do. And the sick thing is, he would like it.
“Where ya headed?” he questions, far too close to my back for comfort.
I point directly ahead where a large tent sits, corralled together with makeshift panels and swaying string lights.
“Beer. Now.” He chuckles, but doesn’t argue. Instead, he slides a muscled arm over my shoulders, brushing my hair out of the way, his fingers lazily falling over my breast. I suck in a sharp breath.
But I don’t pull away.
Not when we get to the beer tent, not when Dale spots us—her eyes glittering and full of mischief—not when the rodeo starts and we both place our hands over each other’s hearts with a giggle as the National anthem plays. Because this does feel like a date, and as much as I know I should run from it, I. Don’t. Want. To.
“I love Broncs. They aren’t much different from the horses I used to work with in Colorado.” I’m babbling, but I have to fill the space between us before I say something really stupid. He shifts, looking down at me.
“Yeah, I suppose not. Sometimes, wild horses become the best broncs. There are some wild spirits that just can’t be broken.” I roll my eyes at his words.
“I never broke them. I like to think of it like giving them a purpose, a second chance, a way to funnel what they’ve been through into something positive.”
He stares at me, his face surprisingly knowing and kind, even impressed. “You should just sell the cows and start your own horse rescue.” I choke on the beer pressed against my lips and raise a brow. “What? I know you hate the cows, only doing it to prove to yourself you can because you’re irrationally stubborn. But that’s not where your passion is. And life is too short to not pursue your passions.” He leans in a little. “Take what you’ve been through and turn that into something positive.”
“Yeah, and how would I run a horse rescue on my own in a town where such a thing would probably be as close to an unforgivable sin as committing murder?”
He shrugs. “I’ll help you, of course. Take what I’ve been through and all that.” I just stare at him. He’s not serious, he’s not staying long enough for something like that to happen. He’s a wanderer, a nomad. I have to change the subject, or I know myself well enough: I will say just that—open a can of worms that will expose just how vulnerable I am.
“Think you’ll know anyone riding?” I ask him, my lips around my third beer. He shrugs, the motion jostling my beer- holding hand. I wave the bottle in the air between us. “Hello, trying to drink a beer here.” I tip the bottle to my mouth again, and his fingers flick out, causing beer to spill across my chest, the liquid funneling between my breasts. I watch the amber liquid disappear with a mix of annoyance and confusion.
Gus leans toward me, his lips pressed against my ear, and I close my eyes. “Oops. I can help you with that if you want.” Shivering, I shake my head.
“Augustus, you are such a shameless flirt.” He freezes, his lips still pressed to my ear. “What?”
“You’ve never said my full name.” I smile at that, and take another sip of my beer, not caring this time as some of it spills past my lips and dribbles off my chin. He hisses in my ear and then swipes his finger through the droplets. I watch as he licks his fingers, eyes impossibly dark as they watch me back. It’s pornographic.
The crowd erupts in applause, pulling both of our gazes back to the arena, and the guy jostling atop an especially large black horse. As he jumps from the horse’s back, throwing a black hat into the sky, I look back toward Dale with a smile. She’s smiling back, but it’s far too knowing for comfort.
“Where’s Mateo tonight?” I ask, hoping to deflect some of her attention. Her face falters, only a second, before she buries it behind a glass of her own.
Shrugging, she says, “I don’t know, we aren’t that close. Besides, I don’t think he’d come to something like this. Not high-end enough.” I nod, letting it go for now; she’s too distracted, peeling at the label on her bottle, to tease me anymore. But I can’t help but think she’s wrong. I believe this would be exactly the kind of thing he would come to if only to spend time with her. I don’t say that, of course. I don’t want to rock the boat too much.
Not tonight, anyway.