Wade
Feeling like a semitruck had run me over, I hauled another bale of hay from the loft above the barn down into the open area below, listening for the heavy thud as it hit the ground.
After leaving Max and Stella’s wedding, I’d gone home and continued drinking, attempting to drown out the nightmares that would come when I inevitably closed my eyes. That left me fighting through a massive hangover this morning, and I didn’t even get much sleep.
Getting fucked up when you were cresting thirty wasn’t exactly my idea of a good time.
I couldn’t escape the nightmares. No matter what I drank, how much I drank, who I fucked, or what I did, the images of that night haunted me.
They lay in wait until I was on the precipice of sleep, dragging me under as my body finally relaxed.
I’d woken up every single night with searing pain scorching its way through my back, the scar beside my spine a physical reminder of all I had sacrificed.
But was it really a valiant sacrifice if I harbored so much animosity toward the person I had done it for?
I hauled the next bale of hay just a little harder, willing my body to wear down enough so that there was no consciousness left for my brain to conjure thoughts of the incident. I channeled my rage, pushing through the pain and exhaustion to get the day’s chores done.
“I thought your ma named you Wade, not Hulk,” a gruff voice called from down below.
Stripping the hat off my head, I ran the back of my arm across my sweat-slicked forehead before placing it back on. I tugged off my work gloves, tucking them in the back pocket of my jeans before climbing down the ladder from the hayloft to greet Pops.
“Just trying to get this hay moved since Max rode off on his white steed into the sunset with his bride.”
I didn’t mask my bitterness as the words exited my mouth, but nothing ever phased Pops. He stood firm, much like the enduring branches of the old willow that shaded the earth above my mother’s resting place.
He took every ounce of fury I’d given him over the last couple of months and weathered it with unflappable flexibility.
There wasn’t much that could break my pops, especially not the wrath I’d been throwing around. After all, he had put up with Ma’s smart mouth for over forty years.
“I’d say after the year they’ve had, they deserve a little bit of happiness,” he scolded, shooting a cutting look in my direction.
My scoff echoed through the barn before being swallowed up by the whinnying of horses and stomping of hooves.
“Yeah, well, good for them. Glad they get their happily ever after.”
Pops just shook his head, not bothering to feed into the terrible mood I’d shrouded myself in.
I brushed past him, heading toward the stables, shutting down the conversation.
I grabbed a hay bale as I went, hefting it onto my shoulder with practiced ease, not bothering with putting on my gloves, hoping the bite of the twine around the straw would quell the raging fire inside me.
There was a frustration in me that grew stronger as I hefted each bale, reminding me that lifting heavy weights was fine, but getting on a horse was forbidden.
The doctors had cleared me for lifting, but the way my spine would compact with each jostle in the saddle was too dangerous to chance.
I could use a drink.
I stomped into the stables, dropping the bale of hay outside the first stall.
My horse, Blackjack, slung his head over the gate and whined in protest, stomping his feet at the fact that I hadn’t yet given him attention.
I stopped to quickly scratch his long, jet-black ears and run my hand down his whiskery snout.
Blackjack had been a present from Ma and Pops on my sixteenth birthday. We had trained hard over the years, and there was a sacred bond between us.
It killed me not to be able to take him out for another ride. I had toyed with the idea of selling him to a rider who could give him the attention he needed, but the selfishness in me wouldn’t allow that to happen.
With one last scratch to his neck, I hauled the hay bale into his stall and turned back to grab another.
I’d taken over the daily chores while Max and Stella were on their honeymoon, leaving little free time for anything enjoyable.
They’d opted to take a family vacation to one of the beaches in South Carolina instead of something more elaborate. Neither Stella nor Max wanted to be without Charlie, and honestly, I couldn’t blame them.
But getting up each day at the ass crack of dawn to feed the horses, muck stalls, and then working a full day training wasn’t my idea of a good time. Coupled with the fact that I couldn’t take the edge off with a ride left me grumpy as fuck.
I felt Pops’ presence at my back as I bent down and pulled out a pocketknife, sawing through the twine holding the bale of hay together.
I didn’t bother making idle chitchat. Neither of us was very keen to talk about feelings, so we didn’t bother discussing what had me slinging hay around like it had done me wrong.
I just needed to get through these chores, get through my training session, and then get back to the house so I could crack open a bottle and wash away the day.
Maybe I’d call up one of the buckle bunnies stored in my phone that lived close enough and get in a quick fuck. Nothing helped quell rage better than fucking out your feelings.
As I stood up straight, tucking the small knife back in the pocket of my jeans, a twinge of pain shot through my back. I hissed through my teeth, clamping them shut to fight off the burning sensation in my scar, as I waited for the fiery tendrils to recede.
It had been six months since the incident, and I still got residual shots of pain if I twisted wrong or stood up too fast. The bullet had nicked my lower lumbar, causing a chip of bone to break off.
During the surgery, they had done their best to remove any fragments left behind, but they said there was a possibility of minuscule pieces causing scar tissue to build, and I’d get little pains here and there.
Essentially, what they’d told me, in layman’s terms, was that I’d feel the pain of being shot in the back for the rest of my fucking life.
I’d have to deal with debilitating pain no matter how much physical therapy I did, how many surgeries I had, or how much I tried to fight it.
I’d have a constant reminder of the night my life had changed and the fact that I wasn’t ever going to be able to do the thing I loved most again.
“You okay there, son?” Pops asked from his seat on a wooden bench near the tack room, legs kicked out in front of him in relaxation.
Why he hung around the stables after he’d opted to retire from hard labor made no sense. But, truthfully, not much Pops did made much sense.
“Just fucking peachy,” I gritted out, not bothering to look up. I massaged my scar, helping break up the pressure until all that remained was a dull ache.
“You know—”
“Good morning, handsome Daniels men!” a sing-songy voice echoed through the stables. I groaned, not wanting to deal with Ray’s sunshiny bullshit this morning, especially hungover.
She waltzed through the barn doors, all spitfire and sass, patting me on the chest as she passed by.
I turned my head skyward and internally counted to ten to keep myself from saying or doing something stupid.
I did my best not to stare at her heart-shaped ass as she walked through the stables toward where the horse she often rode was ready to be tacked up for the day, but the way her jeans curved over her hips and molded to her legs had me adjusting myself discreetly.
Even if my brain kept saying no, my cock kept saying yes, please.
As if she could feel my eyes boring a hole in her back, she looked over her shoulder at me, flicking her hair behind her as she winked.
I rolled my eyes, feigning indifference, but the truth was she could have worn a feed sack and I would have thought she was the most beautiful woman in the room.
Unfortunately for me, Ray knew how to press my buttons, and she loved watching me squirm.
Trailing behind her, her sister Isabella, Izzy for short, stopped to pat me on the shoulder in solidarity.
Izzy was everything Ray wasn’t. She was still stunning in her own right, but she was tall, lean, and vicious. She knew the dangerous game that Ray and I had been playing over the years and was highly team “fuck and move on” as she liked to call it.
I had been training Izzy for the greater part of five years now, after I retired from the rodeo circuit.
She was only fourteen months younger than Ray but had been spared the parenting nuances that came along with being the oldest. Ray had taken the brunt of those responsibilities, and it showed in her protectiveness over her siblings.
Izzy was wild, sometimes a little reckless, and it absolutely benefited her when she was competing, but sometimes I wondered if it translated into her personal life a little too much.
She was a champion barrel racer, having numerous buckles and sponsorships to her name. She had trained under another rodeo star previously, but when I’d opened my training business, she had gladly jumped ship to help me get my feet off the ground, and I was thankful to her for believing in me.
She was a natural on her horse, Oakley, and had the winning streak to prove it. She had been on the circuit at the same time as me but was young and still had quite a few years of racing left in her. She rode hard and played harder.
Eventually, that lifestyle would catch up with her, but I hoped that with enough influence from Ray, she wouldn’t end up broken like I had.
“When you’re done staring at my sister’s ass, I’d like to run through some drills in prep for December.”
For fuck’s sake, that girl had no filter. I was used to barrel racers being a little crazy, but Izzy took it to another level. She could pal around with the best of the guys and never blink an eye at their crudity.
Yep, today was about to be fucking fantastic.