Page 5 of Just One Look

Jackson

“Why can’t you just admit he’s not as big an asshole as you originally had him pegged as?”

Pip asks, raking the corners of the stall.

I break up the old bedding and toss it into the wheelbarrow more forcefully than necessary.

“Ugh. Not this again. Go make yourself useful and get some new hay, will you?”

“Sure thing. But I think you doth protest too much.”

“And I think you doth bring up the guy too often. I’m starting to think you might have a crush on him.”

His chuckle rumbles out of him, and it’s such a striking contrast, hearing such a deep chuckle coming from someone as petite as him.

“I’m not the one with the crush. I’ve seen the way you look at him.”

“You’ve seen shit. I’ve deliberately been avoiding him, so I’ve barely even seen the guy.”

“A-ha. Exactly. Who goes out of their way to avoid someone unless they like him?”

I let out a low grunt because you cannot reason with the unreasonable.

“New hay. Now.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

He leaves with a shit-eating grin, and I get back to mucking out the stall.

Not that I’d ever admit it, but Pip might be right. In the week since his unexpected arrival and announcement that he’s taking over the sanctuary, Maverick hasn’t been as much of an asshole as I expected him to be.

In fact, he’s stuck to his word. Just like he said, he hasn’t made any immediate, major changes, something all of the previous owners did as their way of establishing authority by swinging their dicks around. Apart from a fancy new coffee machine in the break room and enhancing security around the perimeter of the property, the only major change underway at the center is happening on the second floor above the barn.

Maverick’s office.

A slew of contractors have been coming and going all week, hauling lumber and ceramic tiles and tins of paint up the stairs. The weird thing is there’s hardly been any construction noise. There’s an occasional thud and a faint hum of activity coming through the floor now and then, but overall, the workers have managed to keep the noise to a minimum. I wonder if Maverick directed them to work as quietly as possible, knowing loud noises would disturb the horses below in the barn. It would be a nice thing if true.

And just like he promised me, Maverick has stayed completely out of my way. Apart from his two quick site visits, both of which I observed from a safe distance, I haven’t seen him at all. He emailed staff, informing us he’ll be working from home until his office build-out is finished, which won’t be done until next week.

So, yes, Maverick Benson has managed to surpass the exceedingly low expectations I had of him. But it’s still early days. There’s still plenty of time for his true colors to come out.

Pip returns with fresh hay, and we continue mucking out side by side, shovels scraping and hay rustling as we move between stalls in easy silence.

Mornings are my favorite time of day. I love the routine of it. The familiarity of feeding and refilling water buckets, cleaning out stalls, grooming and checking on the horses. I may not have any clue what the rest of the day will bring, but there’s a consistency to this part of it that grounds me.

And the repetitiveness makes it easy to remember things like which horses are in which stalls and the distance to the tack room and wash bay. I’ll have to start holding on to little details like that more and more as my condition deteriorates sooner than expected.

“Wanna grab some more water and refuel our internal caffeine supplies?”

Pip asks, waving two empty buckets at me.

“Sure,”

I say, hoping that one of the items near the top of Maverick’s to-do list is getting running water in the barn. Hauling it from the rainwater tanks multiple times a day is not fun.

“When we come back, I can show you how to inspect hooves if you like?”

One reason Pip volunteers at the sanctuary is so we can spend time together. The other reason is that he loves horses and wants to learn more about them. Pip is the brother I never had, so I’m happy to teach him stuff.

He grins.

“That’d be awesome. Mind if we get coffee first?”

“Sure thing.”

The crisp morning air, filled with the scent of damp earth, hits my face as we step out of the barn and make our way to the break room, a converted shed that sits just past the paddocks. The sun hasn’t risen high enough yet to cut through the early haze. Dewy grass crunches under my boots as I take in the fields stretching out in all directions, the land rolling gently into pastures, where overgrown grass sways gently in the early morning breeze.

This place might be in need of some major TLC and proper management, but I can see past its current state. It has the potential to be something truly amazing, a world-class facility where animals are homed, rehabbed, loved, and properly cared for. I take a deep breath and soak in the tranquility.

“Okay. I’ll shut up about Maverick if I just hear you say it once.”

I glance at Pip with a deadpan stare for ending my tranquility sooner than I would have liked.

“Say what once?”

I ask as we approach the shed.

“That Maverick isn’t the world’s biggest asshole.”

I roll my eyes, but he persists.

“Just say it once, and then I’ll drop it.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

“Fine.”

I push open the door to the break room and motion for Pip to go in first. As he saunters past me, I grudgingly admit.

“Very early indications seem to potentially indicate that Maverick may not be the world’s biggest asshole.”

Pip stops and whirls around abruptly, his eyes bulging. I stare at him for a moment, then peer past him to where Maverick is fiddling with the shiny new coffee machine. An adorable blond-haired kid is propped up on the counter next to the machine.

Maverick pauses whatever he was doing and lifts his head, looking in our direction. A smirk rises on his lips as he folds his arms across his chest and crosses one leg in front of the other. Pip only comes up to the base of my neck, so it’s full eye contact with my new boss.

Nowhere to hide.

Nowhere to run.

No way to take back what he’d just heard me blurt out.

The little kid eases himself onto a chair propped against the counter, jumps off it, and races toward us. He extends his hand into the air, all puffed red cheeks and big smiles.

“Hi. I’m Sammy.”

Pip leans down and shakes the exuberant boy’s hand.

“Hi, Sammy. I’m Pip. And this is Jackson.”

“Hey, man.”

I give an awkward wave.

I like kids; it’s just that I never know how to act around them. I’m hoping once my sister gives birth and I get some uncle practice, I’ll become less awkward.

“And how old are you, Sammy?”

Pip, who is in his final year of studying early childhood education at Silverstone Community College, clearly has no such problems. He’s a natural with kids.

“I’m four.”

Sammy sticks up his pudgy fingers and points to them as he counts out.

“One. Two. Three. Four.”

“Wow. You’re almost five,”

Pip remarks enthusiastically.

Sammy rolls his big blue eyes. “I know,”

he says dramatically, like five is super old. I can’t help but grin. He moves around Pip and tilts his head back, giving me a once-over.

“You’re Jackson?”

“I am.”

Sammy grins.

“Uncle Kick keeps saying your name lots!”

Maverick lets fly with a string of expletives and dashes over to us, scooping his nephew up over his shoulder.

I smirk.

“Uncle Kick, hey?”

“It’s what I used to call him when I was a baby,”

Sammy supplies, even though he’s dangling over Maverick’s broad shoulder.

“I can say Uncle Maverick now, but Uncle Kick says he likes me calling him Uncle Kick, so I do.”

I run a hand over my chest and smile ever so sweetly, enjoying Maverick’s cheeks turning a shade of pink.

“He talks ’bout you every day with my dad.”

“Does he now?”

The blush on Maverick’s cheeks spreads like wildfire, turning the color of ripened cherries.

“He’s getting mixed up,”

he offers, holding on to Sammy tightly as he shifts from foot to foot.

“I saw a documentary on Michael Jackson. That’s who I’ve been talking about. Not”—his blue eyes travel up and down the length of my body—“you.”

“Yeah, right.”

Sammy giggles, and Maverick digs into his side until the little boy is squealing with laughter.

He lowers him onto the ground and crouches in front of him.

“We’ve spoken about not playing with people’s phones. Now it looks like we’re going to have to have a chat about not listening in on other people’s conversations, aren’t we?”

Sammy looks suitably chastised, dipping his head.

“Sorry, Uncle Kick.”

“Hey, I have an idea,”

Pip says to Sammy with a clap.

“I’m dying to see how Uncle Kick’s office looks. Want to take me for a tour?”

Sammy’s big blue eyes brighten.

“I’d love to.”

“Assuming that’s okay with Uncle Kick, of course?”

Pip tries not to smile as he uses the way-too-cute moniker.

The muscle in Maverick’s jaw twitches, like he might be a little unsure about trusting Pip with his nephew.

“It’s fine,”

I assure him.

“He’s working toward his associate degree in ECE and is great with kids. Sammy will be safe with him.”

“Oh, okay. Great.”

Maverick gives me a quick, grateful smile, then turns to Pip.

“Thanks. I’ll be up in a minute.”

“Cool.”

Pip lowers to the floor.

“Jump on, Sammy.”

Disbelief crosses Maverick’s features, and I don’t blame him. Despite his small stature, Pip is way stronger than he looks, and he’s able to scoop Sammy onto his shoulders and piggyback him effortlessly.

“Bye, Uncle Kick. Bye, Michael Jackson.”

And with that, they’re off. I glance at Maverick. There’s a genuine affection in his eyes as he watches them leave.

“Sammy seems like a great kid,” I say.

Maverick smiles.

“He’s a firecracker, that’s for sure.”

“Firecracker, hm.”

I tap my chin.

“Help me remember, is that a Michael Jackson song or not?”

His smile fades, but not entirely.

“Kid definitely lacks a filter.”

True. And while I could press Maverick on the little nugget Sammy dropped about him talking about me to his brother, I decide to spare him any further embarrassment.

For now.

“What was that about him playing on your phone?”

Maverick rolls his eyes and heads back to the coffee machine.

“He changed my ringtone last week to Ginuwine’s ‘Pony.’”

I snicker, following him.

“Why did he do that?”

He goes back to twisting the machine’s controls.

“He said he picked it because he knew I liked horses, and a pony is a baby horse.”

I nod a few times.

“That’s actually pretty smart.”

“And because the start of the song sounds like someone burping.”

A soft laugh escapes me, which I quickly mask with a fake cough.

“That’s quite funny.”

“It is. He also said he wanted to cheer me up because I’ve been sad lately, so it was kinda hard to be mad at him for that.”

Maverick’s breath hitches, as if realizing what he just said.

“Want a coffee?”

he asks, a frown settling on his forehead.

“Uh, sure.”

“How do you take it?”

There’s a gruffness to the way he asks that probably has to do with his embarrassment over accidentally letting something personal slip, but my mind interprets the question in an entirely different context. One where we’re both naked, and Maverick is hovering over me, staring at me with the same level of intensity he’s currently aiming at the coffee machine.

Again with these crazy thoughts. Where the hell are they coming from?

“Black,”

I grunt, running a hand through my hair and stepping away to put some distance between us.

Maverick nods, remaining fixated on the machine.

“Sugar? Cream?”

“Nope. Just black.”

Like your soul.

Last week, I wouldn’t have hesitated to get that little jab in.

But now, it doesn’t seem right somehow.

Which is annoying.

And confusing.

And completely unacceptable.

Because while Maverick may be getting off to a good start as my boss, and it’s clear he’s a great uncle, we are not friends. And I cannot let myself think otherwise.

As the saying goes, the road to hell is paved with good intentions. I’ve been disappointed by new owners more times than I care to recall. I’m not falling for it again. Yes, I believe he wants to do a good job and turn this place around. But I’m not getting my hopes up. Once reality sinks in, and the bills start piling up, and the never-ending to-do list keeps growing, he’ll give up. All the others have.

Why would Maverick be any different?

“Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty.”

I reach the chain-link fence that borders the staff parking lot and run the numbers back in my head. Twenty-two steps from the barn to the patch of rough grass where I take a sharp left, and then thirty steps through the muddy ruts to the lot. I tally it up, repeat it a few times aloud so I remember it, and add it to the ever-growing list I’m compiling in my head.

I was diagnosed with retinitis pigmentosa when I was Sammy’s age. It’s a rare genetic eye disease that slowly destroys the retina. It usually starts with trouble seeing at night and in dim lighting conditions and then, over time, leads to progressive vision loss and eventual blindness. The prognosis for most people is that they will likely become functionally blind sometime in their forties or fifties.

I’d come to accept that. It wasn’t great, obviously, but at twenty-four, your forties and fifties feel like ages away. I planned on dealing with it when the time came and, in the meantime, prayed that a treatment would be discovered before I reached that age.

And then this past New Year’s Eve, doing my favorite thing in the world, watching the Silverstone fireworks, my vision went a different kind of blurry. I put it down to too much wine, but when I woke up the next day, it wasn’t better. A dull ache took up residence behind my eyes, flaring up every time my eyes shifted, especially when I focused upward.

I told Clancy, and we booked in to see my ophthalmologist. After an extensive round of exams, scans, and visual field testing, the reason for my blurred vision and eye pain was discovered.

It caught us both completely off guard, and I’m still trying to come to terms with it. I swore Clancy to secrecy because if my sisters find out, it’ll be over. They’ll worry and fuss, and I’ll never hear the end of it. I need time to mentally prepare myself for what’s coming before telling them.

“What are you doing?”

I jolt at the sound of Maverick’s voice and clutch my chest.

“Fuck. You scared me.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

I squint to see him in the waning light. The shine of his expensive-looking shoes. The black pants that hug his muscular legs. The tailored fit of his burgundy dress shirt that strains as it tries to contain the broad span of his shoulders. He’s so sleek and polished, with not a hair out of place at the end of the day, while I reek of horse shit and am caked in dirt.

He takes a step toward me.

“What were you doing?”

“Nothing. Just…”

I scratch the side of my sweat-dampened neck.

“Talking to myself. I do that sometimes.”

“Okay.”

“What are you doing here?”

I assumed after our run-in in the break room this morning, he and Sammy would head back to his place. I hadn’t seen either of them around all day.

“Came to check out my office. It’s almost finished.”

“Right. And where’s Sammy?”

“With his dad. I was babysitting until Wagner returned early from his business trip. He’s probably forcing him to eat all sorts of grilled and oven-baked healthy foods to compensate for all the sugar I loaded the kid up with.”

I huff out a breath. “Uh-huh.”

“My turn to ask you a question.”

I rest against the fence. It’s getting dark, and I can’t make out details without better light. That was the first thing to go. The first of many more to come.

“Wasn’t aware we were having a conversation,”

I say gruffly.

Maverick chuckles, low and deep, and the sound stirs something in my groin.

“Where do you go for lunch?”

“Excuse me?”

“You never have lunch here. You always leave. Just curious where you go, that’s all.”

“How do you know I go anywhere? You haven’t been here all week.”

“I got security cameras installed at the front gate.”

“So you’ve been at home spying on your staff through CCTV cameras?”

“No, I?—”

“Let me guess, you lounge around in a robe, smoke a cigar, and drink whiskey while petting your hairless cat?”

One side of his lips quirks.

“Do you want to picture me wearing a robe?”

“What? I…no. I just…”

I shake my head and blink a few times, getting annoyed at myself that the more I try not to think of him in a robe, the more my head fills with an image of him wearing one of those fluffy white robes. He tugs at the sash with theatrical flair, a roguish grin on his lips, before peeling the robe off one shoulder at a time, revealing a spectacular torso lined with nothing but muscles, more muscles, and then some abs for good measure. Ginuwine’s “Pony”

starts randomly playing suddenly, the burpy intro part, and Maverick drops the robe. It pools at his feet as he starts gyrating seductively, running his hands all over his sexy body like he’s a Vegas stripper. His eyes never leave me, my hard cock pulsing in my briefs, and holy shit?—

What. Is. Wrong. With. Me?

“Jackson?”

His voice snaps me out of whatever fucked-up rabbit hole my mind dragged me down. He’s staring at me like he’s waiting for me to say something.

“M-my grandfather’s,”

I stammer.

“Excuse me?”

“I have lunch with my grandfather every day. That’s where I go.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Maverick grins, almost a little sheepishly, and for a moment, I wonder if maybe I wasn’t the only one who got sidetracked.

Not that it makes an ounce of difference.

It doesn’t matter if Maverick is a rich, entitled asshole or the nicest guy in the world. It’s completely irrelevant if he actually is a semi-decent boss. Or a loving uncle. Or that my overanalytical, undersexed brain keeps conjuring up all sorts of X-rated scenarios featuring him in the starring role.

None of that counts for shit.

I already can’t drive at night, there’s a permanent migraine behind my eyes, and the muscles in my neck and shoulders are so strained it feels like I’m permanently carrying a bag of feed across them.

In addition to retinitis pigmentosa, at the start of the year I got diagnosed with optic neuritis, a condition where the optic nerve, which transmits visual signals from the eye to the brain, is inflamed. It explains the intermittent blurriness and why my central vision is starting to weaken.

The constant dull headaches I’ve been experiencing were a head-scratcher for my doctor since it’s not usually a symptom associated with either condition, but since I have both, Dr. Ward said that in rare cases like this, weird shit can happen.

And while she was hesitant to provide an exact timeframe, having both conditions means I won’t lose my vision sometime in my forties or fifties as I expected. It’s highly likely I won’t be able to see the New Year’s Eve fireworks this year.

At best, I’ve got a few months of vision left. I can’t allow myself to get distracted by anything or anyone. I have to stay focused and keep counting, keep mapping, keep memorizing to give myself the best shot of being able to function independently when I lose my sight.

Maverick taking over the sanctuary is going well so far. He’s sticking to our deal, and we’re giving each other a wide berth. He does his thing. I do mine.

And that’s exactly how it has to stay.