Chapter 5 #3
Wyatt never talked about this blip in his life, but it happened.
One day, he was riding a horse; the next, he was riding a horse on a commercial for a major car company, all because the right producer came to his dad’s dude ranch with her girlfriends and hired Wyatt after watching him on a horse all weekend.
“A couple of years back, there was a Ford commercial for the latest truck. The one shot in the Arizona desert…”
He paused when Donnelly, for the first time all week, finally looked at him, his dark blue eyes riveted to his face.
Wyatt licked his lips, clearing his throat. “The one where the cowboy races on horseback with the truck. They ride up to the edge of a cliff and stop. The commercial was a whole production. It aired for the Super Bowl.”
“No shit,” Samuels said incredulously.
“Is it on YouTube?” Steph materialized out of nowhere, her phone out, already searching for the commercial.
Wyatt flushed, and the bartender appeared in time with his shot of whiskey and pitcher of beer for the table.
“Yeah, I think so.” Wyatt slammed back the shot of whiskey, the burning relief filling his mouth and slipping down his throat. He let out a hard breath from his chest and heard the song ‘For Whom the Bell Tolls’ on Steph’s phone as Samuels, Donnelly, and her crowded around the phone.
“You can stream that if you want,” the bartender said and pointed to the TV behind her.
Oh shit.
Steph pushed a couple of buttons, and the large bar screen lit up with a dusty picture of the Arizona desert and a beautiful all-black mustang horse.
The horse's muscles rippled in the orange glow of the dying sunlight. The song was slowly building as the camera zoomed in on a cowboy’s hands gripping the leather straps of her reins and straddling the horse.
His legs strained against his black jeans as he squeezed his legs around her, securing himself in the saddle beneath the restless beast, while simultaneously a black Ford truck revved to life beside them.
“That’s not you,” Samuels baited, but none of them looked away, except Donnelly, whose eyebrows arched in surprised amazement at him, before quickly returning to look at the screen.
A massive formation of thick gray storm clouds hung over the canyon, lightning flashing and sparkling in the distance, as the camera zoomed in on the truck and the cowboy, the cinematic picture depicting a race to the edge of the cliff.
The camera then focused on the cowboy, revealing Wyatt, his black cowboy hat tilted low, sweat already beading on his brow, and dust on his all-black outfit.
“Holy shit,” Samuels whistled.
“Well hell, kid,” Steph murmured.
Donnelly was quiet, and he tried his damnest not to look at him.
The mustang reared back on its hind legs and then galloped at full speed, not once jostling Wyatt on the saddle, who, with practiced ease, managed to hang on and hunker low on the horse, speeding straight toward the cliff.
The truck roared to life and chased after them.
They were neck-and-neck as the music amped up.
“Jesus, Lawson,” Donnelly breathed low and...
Fuck.
Wyatt’s belly clenched, instantly transported to their night together, feeling the way Donnelly’s ass clenched around him like a fucking fist as he thrusted wildly into him.
Fire ignited in his blood, and his cock twitched to life. Wyatt jerked off his beige cowboy hat, raking his fingers through his hair and steeling himself, trying to focus on the commercial.
The music and cinematography added drama as the truck suddenly skidded to a halt.
Dust billowed out beneath the black tires, spraying him and the horse from view.
Wyatt emerged from the cloud of brown and orange dust, and at the last minute, he came to a careening halt at the edge of the steep canyon cliffside, the dust from the hooves and the truck spilling around them, the lighting flashing.
Then the famous actor narrator says, “We build them fearless. We build them tough. Ford.”
The camera zoomed in on Wyatt as he led the horse back, covered in dust, passing the truck and tipping the brim of his black hat in appreciation for the race. Sweat glistened on his face as he smiled confidently and trotted off frame.
“Did you really do that?” Donnelly asked, stunned.
“The commercial?” he asked, unable to keep the teasing from his tone.
“The race…!” Steph cut in.
“If you’re asking if there was a stunt cowboy on set, no, there wasn’t. Just me.”
“Jesus Christ, kid. Bartender, I need a round of shots. Right now,” Samuels pressed. “That was by far the coolest shit I’ve seen all month. Possibly the best thing all year.”
“I don’t believe it,” Steph said with a dismissive wave. “Movie magic and special effects. That’s all. Besides, real cowboys don’t wear all black in Arizona. Heat strokes would be through the roof.”
Wyatt snorted and agreed with the last half of her statement. It was true, no sane cowboy would wear all black in the dry heat of the desert.
The movie magic part, she was wrong, because that was all his ability on horseback that created that shot. But he decided it was better just to let her believe that, rather than challenge her.
He had discovered over the years that no matter how much evidence he had, or how he said it, people believed what they wanted to believe. He saw it constantly in the ED. Patients stubbornly believe in whatever the internet tells them rather than the living, breathing, skilled experts in the room.
“I don’t care,” Samuels declared. “It looked cool. You want another whiskey, cowboy?”
He nodded as the bartender lined up the shots. Steph and Samuels were busy bickering about what to order Williams when Donnelly casually leaned toward Wyatt, voice low and directed only to him. “You actually rode that horse to the edge of the cliff, didn’t you?”
He swayed a little bit closer, voice equally low. “What do you think?”
Donnelly’s eyes darkened, searching his face, before dipping briefly to his lips.
Wyatt licked his bottom lip, stomach tightening in anticipation. Donnelly let out a hard breath from his nose and abruptly sat up, creating distance between them just in time for Samuels to line up two shots in front of Wyatt and Donnelly.
Samuels proceeded to shove two shots in front of Donnelly.
“Two?” Donnelly asked, face pinched in a frown.
“Aw, c’mon, live a little. Besides, it’s not like any of us are working tomorrow.”
“I am,” Steph said, and knocked on the bar top with her knuckles. “Don’t care. Let’s drink.”
“Somebody hand these to Williams!” Samuels shouted and passed the two shots of whiskey through the crowded bar.
This caught a few people's attention, and Samuels raised a loud "congratulations" over the crowd, which was met with a shout of appreciation.
Samuels took his first shot, followed quickly by the second. Steph mimicked him and Donnelly hesitated, but not Wyatt. He knocked the two shots back and felt the warmth heat his insides and calm his nerves as he let his knee brush against Donnelly’s beneath the bar top.
Donnelly's shoulders stiffened.
“C’mon, Donnelly!” Samuels yelled.
Donnelly’s jaw twitched beneath his brown, gray-speckled beard, and finally downed the first shot.
Wyatt watched his throat work as he swallowed, his knee rubbing against his.
He waited for him to move away, but he didn’t.
He shot back the final shot and sighed, hand scrubbing over his lips and beard, looking almost resigned. Defeated even.
Wyatt, blaming it on the heady warm bar and the buzz filtering through his system, reached beneath the bar top, making sure no one was watching as he slowly slid his hand down his own leg, before reaching for Donnelly’s, his fingers gripping his upper thigh.
The muscle was strong and hard beneath his touch, and he released a breath.
Fuck, it felt good touching him again.
Donnelly briefly closed his eyes, his elbow on the counter. One hand rubbed his face while the other cradled his beer.
“How did you do it?” Donnelly asked, his voice rough and laced with something… needy.
Sweet Jesus.
Wyatt slowly moved his fingers in a swirling pattern on the inner lining of Donnelly’s jeans, head tilting to the side. “Do what?”
“Riding to the edge like that…” Donnelly’s strained tone was music to his ears. He was getting to him.
Thank fuck.
“Plenty of years of practice.”
“But that was dangerous.”
Wyatt nodded, “That horse and I worked together a lot. She was one of my dad’s staple horses for the ranch. It’s trust that makes somethin’ like that work. She trusted me, and I trusted her. That’s why we caught each other at the very end.”
He watched the tension around Donnelly’s shoulders and felt the weight he carried, wondering how his shoulder was doing.
“It helped that the horse was older,” Wyatt continued, letting his voice drop.
“More sure of herself, confident. Had I chosen a younger one, we would’ve gone flying off into that fuckin’ canyon.
Riding a horse like that—more mature, more experienced, but still willing to take a risk occasionally—is my favorite kind of ride. Addicting, even.”
Donnelly’s jaw clenched fiercely, and Wyatt flicked his fingers upward, touching the stiffness trapped against the denim of his jeans. His pulse slammed to a halt. He was as hard as a cinderblock.
It took everything not to lean forward and rake his hands through that beard and capture those delicious lips one more time. Wyatt’s cock was damn near leaking in his jeans.
“You were movin’ really well the first half of the week,” Wyatt breathed. “You weren’t in as much pain. But you are now. I can…” his fingers opened up and over the tented bulge, “…take care of you. All you gotta do is ask.”
Donnelly’s face hardened in an instant. “Let go,” he murmured.
The rejection was swift and stinging, more so than he cared to admit. Wyatt hesitated and then nodded, leaning back into his barstool and retracting his hand discreetly.
The bartender was in front of Wyatt then, “How many glasses for your pitcher, cowboy?”
He swallowed down his hurt pride and pulled out his wallet, “Four, please.”
She nodded and reached beneath the counter, pulling out the glasses as he placed the cash on the counter and stood. He could withstand a horse bucking away his hand or a patient flinching at his treatment. But Donnelly knew what he could give him, and he still retreated.
Frustrated, he grabbed the pitcher and the stacked glasses and was walking away when Donnelly’s voice stopped him.
“Lawson,” he said firmly.
He stopped, eyes locked with his.
Donnelly hesitated, looking surprisingly uncertain.
Wyatt smiled blandly. “You have a good night, Dr. Donnelly.”
He spotted Steph watching them, sipping a beer, eyebrows arched at Wyatt.
He shrugged innocently and strolled over to the booth where Reyes and the others were, reminding himself of his place in the hierarchy.
Making passes at his captain, after a night that he clearly regretted, was a mistake.
It didn’t matter that his body responded differently.
Except it did matter.
And Wyatt could think of nothing else the rest of the night.