Eighteen - A Motherfucking Order
EIGHTEEN
A MOTHERFUCKING ORDER
MY LEG BOUNCES so hard the bed shakes beneath me.
I press my phone on, check for new messages even though I’ve been clutching it the entire time and it hasn’t vibrated. The screen shines with colorful sweat beads. I turn it off again, wipe it on my thigh.
Then I get up, head over to the window. Yes, still night out—no changes there. Then I stride to the door—unlocked, and the latch still works. That won’t hold me back when it’s time.
To the window, then door again, then halfway, a sidestep to the closet. To the mirror inside it.
Jeans and hoodie, check. Sneakers too, double-knotted. Stomach? I pat it. Stomach okay—only had soup for dinner, but it was a solid amount. High on nutrition, low on the gonna hurt coming out scale.
I pat my jeans’ pocket. Mints for if I puke. Check.
Back pocket. Pen. Check. That’s the most important one.
I sit on the bed again. Check my phone again. No new notifications. I open the messages app. Did I read her message wrong?
Flight booked. ETA after dinner.
Just landed. ETA in 90 min.
That was eighty-two minutes ago.
Fuck. I’m really gonna puke.
No, I got this. This is just pre-competition anxiety, because she doesn’t even know why I insisted she’d come, in person and ASAP, no questions asked. It will pass when we’re at the in-gate, like it always does.
And by then, nothing else matters. Just the endgame.
My eyes snap to the nightstand. To the unfolded napkin and the last piece of orange sponge cake Momma slipped into my pocket earlier this morning. I take the rest directly to my mouth.
And I close my eyes and sigh.
Yeah, this is right. Everyone who knows horses knows there’s no stopping Cassian Vale.
And if they don’t, they’re gonna damn well learn it tonight.
My phone vibrates. Hand flies up, eyes stretch wide. New notification.
ETA 5 min.
My heart lurches into my throat. Shit, already? I spring off the bed, slip my phone into my back pocket, and rush to the door. Dark and cool out. Still no rain. Perfect.
I sprint to the corner room, skid to a stop, almost crash into his door. Rap against the wood, three sharp sounds. Nothing. I knock again, harder, the skin of my knuckles stinging.
“Eli?” I call, then press my ear to the door. Silence.
Shit. Shit—shit—shit.
Dammit, I should’ve checked where he was. Mom’s always punctual, I should’ve—
Nope. It’s done. Move on.
Where could he be?
Cafeteria? Too late. Riding? Too dark.
Stables. AP. Restless nighttime grooming.
The thought is an image. I’m running before it’s words.
I leap off the deck, send gravel flying behind me, then out of the courtyard. He’s gotta be there. Should I call him? Would he answer? Fuck, just run faster!
I pass two stable hands heading home. Pass Rey and Chuck chatting outside the cafeteria. They don’t matter. Can’t stop. I want to be there when Mom arrives. I want her to see.
My lungs burn. Legs and chest and skin. All of it.
Doesn’t matter. Nothing else.
The distance is taffy, half a step for every three.
The barn crawls into my vision, right ahead.
Door partially open, a slice of warm light spilling onto the ground outside.
I slow just enough not to crash through it, slide inside, keep going, walking in long strides so I don’t spook the sleepy horses.
Scanning, searching, until I’m close enough to AP’s stall.
And there he is. Brush in hand, his back to me.
AP’s head is lowered as he works, her eyes half-closed in contentment. The scene is so peaceful, so normal, that for a split second I almost lose my nerve. Almost turn around and walk back out before either of them notices me.
But Mom’s text. Five minutes. Less now.
I won’t lose shit. Not my nerve, not this moment.
Not him.
“Eli.”
He turns as I stop just outside the stall door. I was expecting the surprise on his face, not actual shock. But I’m breathless, wild-eyed, and probably flushed, so I get it.
It seeps away right after, though. His gaze flies back to AP, to the brush touching her flank. His knuckles are white around it .
“What’s—?”
“I need you to come with me,” I say, the words tumbling out urgent and raw. “Right now.”
His eyebrows draw together, confusion replacing careful neutrality. “Did something happen?”
“No. Not yet. I can’t—” I swallow hard, forcing my mind to slow down so I can form coherent sentences. “You’ll see. But you need to come. Please.”
I step into the stall, closer than we’ve been in a week, close enough to see the reddish halo on the white of his eyes.
And I know I put that there. I know that shine is not the same kind as a valley creek speckled in sunshine.
It’s cracked glass that’ll only get whole again with jagged scars and missing shards too small to glue back.
But I’ll try anyway. I’ll put it back together.
And I’ll keep it safe. So it doesn’t break again.
“We shouldn’t,” he says quietly. AP shifts next to him, sensing his tension.
My chest aches because I understand—of course I do. It hurt so much already; why drag this out? Why pretend it’s gonna end well if an end in itself means it’ll never be well?
I get it. But respectfully?
Fuck that.
“Please,” I say again, as softly as I can manage with all this rage in my chest, reaching for his hand. My fingers hover, trembling. “I need you to be there with me. Okay?”
He wants to ask. There where? Why? What’s going to happen? But he doesn’t, just places the brush on the stall divider after a beat. And then meets my eyes. And then takes my hand.
And keeps loving me. Just the way he always has.
His palm is warm, electric, a current through my skin that jolts my heart back to rhythm .
Mine. This hand. It’s mine.
Come take it from me. I dare anyone.
I squeeze once in a silent thank you, then tug him out of the stall, click its door shut.
“We have to hurry,” I say, already moving, pulling him along with me.
We run—not as fast as I did coming here, but fast enough that our feet kick up gravel and dirt, that our breaths come in short puffs that crystallize in the cool night air. Past the vet building. Past the cafeteria. Into the main office.
“Cassian, where—” Eli starts, but I just shake my head, grip his hand tighter.
“Almost there,” I pant as we reach the main entry room, unlock the front door like I own the place, and step out again. Into the white dirt parking lot, glowing under soft floodlights. Into the entrance to Riverlight and the only road leading here.
And turning onto it, headlights emerging from the darkness, is a car.
A few more steps outside, and we finally stop, waiting, both breathing hard from the sprint. Eli tugs at my hand. I look at him, and he asks his silent question. I answer with a smile and a brush of my thumb over his. Just as the SUV pulls up beside us.
The back passenger’s door opens before the car has fully stopped and the engine cuts off.
Mom emerges directly into a stride—straight from the airport, hours from here, judging by the wrinkles in her yellow blazer.
Still an aura of expensive perfume, though, mixed with the tension in her frown, and heels that could double as icepicks.
“Cassian, what’s going on? Is it Ruin? Is he injured?” Her eyes flick briefly to where my hand is still firmly clasped in Eli’s. Then up again, inspecting my irises for drugs or whatever else before asking me a silent question too. I don’t answer. Because that’s not why I called her here .
This isn’t the time for her to ask what I’m doing. This isn’t where she pulls on a lifetime of knowing what will put me back on track.
Because this isn’t her track. It’s my track.
And this…is a motherfucking order.
“I’m done,” I tell her, and I have to fight an actual laugh about to explode out of me. “I’m done,” I say again, just to hear it better, to feel it more.
Mom just blinks, then squints a bit, head tilting. “Done with what, exactly?”
“The brand.” The words come so easy, I loathe all the seconds it took me to get here. “The Perfect Riding Machine. I’m done pretending. That’s not who I am.”
Her expression shifts from confusion to concern, the PR wheels already turning behind her eyes. “Sweetheart, you’ve been through this before. Ruin’s debut is close. This is just the pressure—”
“It’s not.”
Her hands stick up, palms open, like she’s trying not to trigger a wild animal into pouncing. “You’re having some kind of breakdown. It’s perfectly normal. We can adjust your schedule, bring in Dr. Orellana—”
“No.” I cut her off again. “A breakdown implies a failure. This is the opposite.”
“Oh, so it’s a success?” she asks, smirking like I’m being ridiculous. That’s fine. “You’re done with the brand you’ve been building your whole life, and you call it a success?”
“Yes.” A statement. Simple. “Because I didn’t build shit.
I just worked my ass off, doing what I was told.
” I won’t call her out on this. Because she wasn’t the only one, and I’ve been an adult for a long while now.
I’m at fault too. “But that’s not who I am.
And here, in Riverlight...” I squeeze Eli’s hand.
He matches the pressure. “Finally, I found out who that is. ”
“And who is it, pray tell?” she asks, crossing her arms.
“Someone who sits with scared kids after they fall. Someone who might actually enjoy teaching those kids, maybe judging junior events, I don’t know.
” The ideas just popped into mind out of nowhere, a dozen others following.
“But I’m telling you right now, I’m sure as hell gonna find out.
” Eli’s hand tightens even more around mine.
I don’t look because I don’t want to cry yet.
“And if the brand can’t accommodate that, then we need to change the brand. ”
“Of course. We can definitely do that,” Mom says, but I know how things work, and I know her mind, how she thinks. She’s been managing me for twenty years, plus six more before that.
And that’s a lifetime that goes both ways.
So I add, “Not after the Olympics. Not in a few years, Mom. Now.”
A beat of silence, and then Mom laughs, a sharp, disbelieving sound. “That’s impossible. Do you have any idea how many contracts we’re bound by? How many sponsors are counting on your performance at the debut and after? The—”
I let go of Eli’s hand so I can step over and grab both of hers. “Mom,” I cut her off again. “I promise, I get what you’re saying. Everything.” A pause. A smile. “I just don’t care.”
Her head shakes like I’m mad. Yes, I am. Finally, I am. “Cassian. The media commitments alone—”
I nod, because I do understand what I’m asking. But it’s not an ask, and I need her to understand that too.
“I don’t care what has to be done,” I tell her. “I am the brand, and this is what I need.”
She’s not getting it—I can see it on her face. Or rather, she is, but it makes no sense. Like I’m a stranger that took the shape of her son and is making a mess of his life.
And I’m not gonna lie, it stings. Stings even harder when she yanks her hands from mine and takes a step back.
Her hard stare turns into a glare, and then it instantly locks over my shoulder. Onto Eli.
“You’re that needy you let a pretty smile distract you from your goals, your purpose in life?
” She’s grasping at straws. I know it, and she does too, because her voice is off, a pitch too high, too uneven.
“Is this what you want to become? A has-been mucking stalls for an anti-social stable hand who won’t even show his face in public? ”
My spine rattles. What did she call him?
No. No, how dare—
“Ma’am, I’m neurodivergent, not anti-social,” Eli says, stepping forward, shoulders squared next to me. And taking my hand in his again. “Also, with all due respect, I’ve trained horses for kings—plural. Don’t need your approval.”
I gawk at him. That was so hot, holy shit.
Can men drip between the legs? Because fuck.
“We’ll discuss this when you’ve come to your senses,” Mom snaps, and seconds later, a car door slams shut. I don’t look, eyes still on him.
The SUV’s engine roars to life. Tires crunch and spit gravel as it speeds away and onto the asphalt. But I’m not watching it go.
I’m done wasting time on what empties me out.
I’m ready for what fills me up.