Chapter 20
GOOD WITH MY MOUTH
JOEY
Into the Mystic by Van Morrison
Morrison descends the trailer ramp and stands blinking in the midday sun, head high, ears turning like satellite dishes. I step down after him, lead rope loose in my hand, and press my palm flat against his forehead.
He leans into me, the weight of his head warm and solid against my chest, and for a second I close my eyes.
You’re going to be happy here. They’re good people. You don’t need me anymore.
I scratch the spot between his ears that always makes his lip twitch. He huffs once, soft, his breath warm on my wrist.
“Come on, handsome.” I give the lead a gentle tug. “Let’s go see your new place.”
Morrison walks through the paddock gate with his head high, surveying the Martinez property like he’s deciding whether it meets his standards. I hold my breath the way I do every time I hand one of them over to someone new.
Jesse holds the gate open, pressing himself flat against the fence to give Morrison room.
Mrs. Martinez has her hand pressed to her mouth. Her husband stands behind her with his arm around her waist.
“He doesn’t like being approached from the right side,” I tell them, running through Morrison’s quirks while he settles. “Not aggressive about it, he’ll sidestep. Give him a second and come from the left instead.”
Mr. Martinez scribbles on a notepad. “Got it.”
“And he loves peppermints. Like, embarrassingly. He’ll follow you anywhere for one.”
“A man after my own heart,” Mr. Martinez says, patting his shirt pocket.
Morrison drops his head to nibble the grass, ears swiveling at every new sound. I watch the tension leave his body in increments, the way his weight shifts from braced to resting, the way his tail starts to swish instead of clamp. He’s reading the place. Deciding it’s safe.
I nod toward the pasture gate. “I think he’s ready.”
We move to the fence line. Mrs. Martinez grips her husband’s arm. The wind pushes through the grass in long waves. Clouds have been stacking along the ridgeline since we arrived, dark at the base, but the sun still breaks through in patches, throwing gold across the field.
Mr. Martinez walks to the gate and swings it open. Morrison lifts his head, ears pricked forward. He stands still for a long moment, and then he moves.
He walks into the pasture, head low, cautious. Stops a few yards out, nostrils working the air. Then his head comes up. His ears pitch forward.
He looks back at me.
His dark eyes hold mine across the distance, and something passes between us that I’ll never be able to explain to anyone who hasn’t loved an animal back to life. Then he turns, and he runs.
He tears across the field with his tail streaming behind him, bucking, kicking, covering ground like he’s been saving it up for months. The bay coat I spent weeks brushing back to health shines as he moves, and the sound of his hooves on the grass is the only thing I can hear.
He runs like the whole world belongs to him.
Jesse’s hand finds the small of my back. I lean my head against his shoulder.
We say goodbye and climb into the truck. I catch myself looking back once at Morrison as he grazes beside a chestnut mare, already settling in like he belongs.
Jesse reaches for the radio before I’ve even started the engine.
“Absolutely not,” I say, swatting his hand as heavy metal fills the cab. I change it to classic rock. “This is good music. You know, the kind that doesn’t make your ears bleed.”
“Sounds like something a dad would say.” He presses a hand to his chest. “And by the way, I thought you liked my music.”
“Your music is the exception.” I pull onto the road, gravel popping under the tires. “You get a pass because I’ve heard you sing in person and it ruined every other male vocalist for me. Everyone else screaming into a microphone is noise.”
“That’s weirdly flattering and insulting to an entire genre at the same time.”
“It’s a gift.” I grin, eyes on the road. “The forums are wild about your voice, by the way. There’s a whole thread dedicated to it.” I flash him a smile.
“I don’t read those.” His neck flushes a light pink that crawls up into his cheeks.
“You should. Very educational. Lots of adjectives I didn’t learn in school.”
“Joey,” he warns.
“Ethereal was one. Haunting. Oh, and my personal favorite…”
“I don’t care what strangers on the internet think about my voice.” He reaches for the dial again and I block him. “The only opinion that matters is yours.”
I let him change the station.
The Red Vines from the drive up sit in the center console, half-empty. Jesse pulls one out and sticks it between my lips.
The road narrows as we climb back into the mountains, two lanes cutting through dense oak and scrub. Jesse sinks lower in his seat, one boot propped against the dash, fingers drumming to the music.
I can’t stop seeing Morrison’s face when he looked back at me.
The way he chose to run instead of stay.
Every horse that’s come through our barn has taught me something about healing, even though it looks different every time.
“We could do so much more of this. Not just rescue and rehoming, but actual therapy work. The horses learn to trust again while helping humans do the same.”
Jesse turns his head on the seat rest to face me, his hair ruffled by the open window.
“Have you looked into what it would take?”
I smile, loving how interested he is. “Some. There are different levels, like basic programs that focus on confidence building, all the way up to the clinical stuff that requires actual therapy credentials. It would mean more training, certification, insurance. Things that feel impossible when we can barely keep up with feed costs.”
“You’ll figure out a way. I happen to know how resourceful you are,” he smiles at me.
“It just feels like there’s so much possibility, so much more, ya know?”
His fingers pause their drumming. “You light up when you talk about it. Like you’ve already figured out exactly what you want to do.”
No one’s ever pointed it out to me like that, like it’s not a dream but a direction.
The first raindrops hit the windshield and I flip on the wipers.
The rain builds slowly, scattered drops thickening into a steady sheet until I can barely see the mountains ahead of us. I ease off the accelerator, settling into the rhythm of wipers and rainfall and whatever song is playing low on the radio.
Something explodes behind us like a gunshot. The truck jerks hard to the right and the trailer drags against me, pulling the wheel sideways.
I hear my dad’s voice in my head: Don’t panic, don’t overcorrect, feel the road beneath you. I grip the wheel firmly, guiding us toward the shoulder while checking the side mirror. The trailer’s riding low on the right. Probably a blown tire.
Jesse’s boot drops from the dash. He checks his mirror, then mine, and braces one hand against the dashboard. I bring us to a safe stop on the shoulder, hazards flashing while the rain drums against the roof.
“Well,” I say, cutting the engine. “That was exciting.”
He stares at me. “I don’t know if I should be scared or impressed.”
“How about both?” I stare through the windshield at the downpour. “I guess we’re changing a tire in the rain,” I sigh.
By the time I slide under the trailer to locate the spare, we’re both soaked.
“What can I do?” Jesse calls over the rain.
“Grab the jack from the truck bed!”
He comes back holding the jack in his hand like he’s never seen one before, but I can’t stop staring at how his shirt is molded to his chest in distracting ways.
“You’ve never changed a tire before?” I take the jack from his hands.
“Ever heard of roadside assistance?”
I shake my head, laughing. He helps me position the jack and holds the spare steady while I work the lug nuts. The rain keeps coming, turning everything slippery, and muddy, but I don’t mind. Today was a really good day and a flat tire is not going to ruin it for me.
Twenty minutes later, I tighten the last lug nut and step back. “Done.”
“Impressive,” he says, rain dripping off his jaw.
“My dad taught me in our driveway when I was sixteen. Said every girl should know how to change a tire.”
“My dad taught me how to play Van Halen’s ‘Eruption’ solo,” he says, and I roll my eyes but I can’t help laughing.
I tip my head back and let the rain hit my face. It’s warm for a mountain storm, and after hours in the truck it feels incredible, like the whole day is washing off my skin.
Jesse watches me with an expression I can’t quite read.
“What?” I wipe the water from my eyes, grinning.
“Nothing.” But he’s smiling, the kind that reaches his eyes and makes him look like the boy I remember from summers on the beach. “You just look happy.”
“I am happy.” I shove his shoulder. “Even with a blown tire and a useless co-pilot.”
“I’m not useless.” He cocks an eyebrow. “You said I was good with my mouth.”
“You should put it use then.” I pull him into me.
He kisses me hard, sweeping his tongue against mine and making sure I know exactly how good he is with his mouth. I can feel his heartbeat where my hand rests against his chest, steady and fast.
Then my fingers curl into his wet shirt, and gentle stops being enough.
“Jesse,” I gasp against his lips. “We’re getting soaked.”
He doesn’t stop. His mouth trails along my jaw, finding the spot behind my ear that makes my knees buckle. My hands fist in his wet shirt, pulling him closer.
Fuck it. I’m already drenched.
His body cages me against the truck, one hand tangled in my wet hair while the other skims down my side. I reach behind me for the door handle, fumbling with the latch until it gives. We tumble into the back seat, his hands never leaving my body as I pull him down with me.
The bench seat gives us barely enough room, and when Jesse’s weight settles over me, I pull him closer. Steam fogs the windows immediately.
I grip the hem of his shirt and pull the fabric over his shoulders. His skin is hot against my cold palms, and when my hands slide over his chest, he drops his forehead to mine and exhales like I’ve knocked the air out of him.
“Even soaking wet and covered in mud,” he murmurs against my mouth. “How are you this beautiful?”
“You’re really working for this, huh?”
“Give me a break, Joey. It’s true,” he says, pulling my shirt over my head.
His mouth is hot against my collarbone, the curve of my neck, the hollow of my throat. I arch into him. Every time we’re together I want more than the last time, and I’ve stopped questioning it. Jesse makes me reckless, and I like who I am when I’m reckless.
He pops the button on my jeans and I lift my hips to help push the wet denim down. I reach for his belt, fumbling with the wet leather until he takes over and kicks his jeans off.
“One of these days,” he says, gripping my hips and holding me firm, “I’m going to fuck you in an actual bed.”
“You snuck into my bed two nights ago,” I say, pulling him back up to my mouth.
“That wasn’t this.” He groans into the kiss. “That was me on my knees for you. Different thing entirely.”
He pushes inside me and I arch off the seat, my nails dragging down his back. He groans against my neck, low and wrecked, and I wrap my legs around him and pull him deeper.
The rhythm is urgent, graceless, the truck rocking beneath us. I dig my heels into his back and he drives deeper, and harder. He kisses me and it’s messy, all teeth and breath and need.
“Oh God, Jesse.” I gasp against his mouth. “Make me feel this tomorrow.”
He groans like I’ve broken something in him. He pushes up above me, head angled against the roof and grips my hips. The angle causes him to drive deeper, rougher, his eyes locked on mine.
“The fucking mouth on you.” His voice is rough. “You wreck me, every single time.”
My chest tightens and coils low in my stomach, winding so tight I can’t breathe.
I’m right there, right on the edge, and his hand slips between us, and the second he touches me I’m gone.
I come so hard I can’t see, can’t hear anything except his name tearing out of my own throat.
My thighs won’t stop shaking. He follows seconds later, burying himself deep, my name spilling from his lips.
We stay like that, breathing hard, clinging to each other while rain drums against the roof.
“That was…” I trail off with a breathless laugh. “Wow, Jesse. You’ve successfully foaled me.”
He blinks. “What the fuck does that mean?”
“It means my legs are doing that baby-horse thing.” I make a wobbly motion, grinning at his confused expression. “I think you might need to drive home.”
He bursts out laughing, the sound filling the small space. “Did you just make that up?”
“Uh huh.” I giggle at the look on his face.
“Joey, you’re my favorite person,” he says, still laughing. “Crazy, but still my favorite person.”
No one’s ever called me crazy before. I think I kinda like it.