Page 31 of Maverick (The Bull Riders #3)

Chapter Thirteen

Maverick

When I get a call that the pipe arrives, I don’t tell her.

Isn’t that psychotic behavior? After the night in the gym, probably. I was unhinged with her. Absolutely unhinged. She makes me feel things that I can’t explain and they don’t fit into the neat boxes I’ve made for myself.

The civilized one I tried to make for myself when I met Sadie.

The isolated villain role I carved out for myself after her death.

With Stella, I’m myself. It’s uncomfortable. I’m not sure I like it. The wildness of it. The up and down. Sweet, hot, and rough, all at once.

A little bit too intense.

I let a week go by with the pipe, unwilling to not have her with me all the time. Then another week.

She doesn’t ask about the pipe either, to be fair to me.

She cooks for me sometimes. And in the morning, when I wake up, she’s there. Sometimes she makes coffee, sometimes I do. It’s nice to have someone in the house with me again. It’s nice to not be alone. It’s a strange thought. One I haven’t really fully let myself have until right then.

I don’t want her to go back to the cottage, though. I want her to stay here with me. Because having her here is…

Convenient. Well. That’s an asinine way to look at it.

She’s done so much for me, and I need to do something for her.

Everything with Frank is going great, and I love watching her ride him.

She’s so talented. That’s when I arrive at the idea to make her a picnic.

She’s really into that. I’ve noticed. She likes a cheese board.

She’s made several since moving in with me.

And the idea of making one for her is pleasing. The idea of making her smile is, too.

When she surprised me the other night with that dinner, I was stunned. Walking into that scene of domesticity was almost too much, and yet, it was the exact amount of too much that I want with her. That’s the problem. I’m greedy when it comes to Stella.

And it’s hard not to be.

I’m out of practice with being kind to another human being. I’m out of practice being with another human.

Full stop.

But she makes me want to try something different. At least within the context of this moment.

Of this time that we have. This time where I’ve lied to her to keep her in my house. Well, lied by omission. I’ve been told that’s still a lie.

I grew up with an addict, so to me, that was just a form of communication. Something I had to learn to be a little better with when I met Sadie.

And again, here I am reverting back to type. Another point in that column. But I can’t hold onto the fantasy that I might be able to change endlessly.

I am what I am. But I’m also currently making a picnic for the woman that I’m sleeping with.

Still, there’s a bit of villainy in that.

I go through the list of reasons why anything with Stella is a mistake. I do that once a day or so. And then I go right back to having her when and where I want. It’s amazing how comfortable you can get with doing the wrong thing.

But she wants it. She’s complicit in it. I comfort myself with that. I stand there looking at the cheese board that I’ve assembled – not something I’ve ever done before, I have to say – and I ask myself if I even really need the comfort.

Or if it’s enough that I feel satisfied.

It’s enough that I feel satisfied. It’s been so long. It’s been so many Goddamned years since I’ve felt satisfied on this level.

And maybe I never really have. That thought slugs me in the stomach.

I’m not really performing for Stella, though.

Because it has a set end time. I’m not trying to be somebody else, to put on a mask so that I can turn myself into a husband-shaped person, not that I did it on purpose.

Not that I tried to trick Sadie, or bait and switch her in any way.

I just kept thinking that eventually I would become the thing she needed naturally.

And that if I could perform it for long enough to get us there, it would just happen.

But it always felt like an effort. It always felt like work.

We always felt like work.

And people say that marriage is hard, so maybe that was always going to be the case.

I don’t regret my marriage. I miss it. I miss her.

None of that is a negative on Sadie. It’s just me.

Just then, the front door opens and breaks into my brooding thoughts. Stella rushes in, her cheeks pink, her hair damp with sweat, and all wild besides. “What are you doing?” She asks.

“I might ask you the same question.”

“I just had the best ride with Frank. He was incredible. It was perfect. I think that I could compete with him, and we could do amazing. Today it was just like we were one. Every move that I needed him to make he was just so responsive. So sure-footed.”

“That’s amazing,” I say. And it is. But I realize that right then it’s not so much about my goal of getting Frank anywhere, as it is about her joy and satisfaction in what she’s doing. It matters to me. It means something to me.

“But now back to you,” she says.

“I thought we should have a picnic.”

She looks… She looks at me like I just hung the sun up in the sky.

Her eyes are glittering, that same flush of pleasure is there in her cheeks.

I’m not sure if anyone’s ever looked at me like that before.

But they haven’t looked at me like that in a long time.

And now I’m old enough to know how rare it is.

To know how much I don’t deserve it. And she’s young enough to still believe big.

In me. For this moment to mean something, to matter.

It’s why this is such a volatile combination. Why, on my part, it’s a really fucked up decision.

But God, I need it. It’s like balm for a wound I didn’t even know was there.

Yeah, I’m wounded. Wounded by the loss of the one woman that I ever loved, and that’s fair.

But I wasn’t aware of this. I’m so comfortable being the villain.

I didn’t realize what it might mean to have somebody look at me like I’m the hero.

I clear my throat. “I noticed that you like cheese.”

She walks into the kitchen and scampers toward me, wrapping her arms around mine and stretching up to kiss me on the cheek. Her cheek is damp with sweat, and I like it. “Who doesn’t like cheese?”

“Some people don’t.”

“I think in those cases, usually the cheese doesn’t like them.”

“Well, not everybody likes it in the particular way that you do.”

“And you noticed.”

“Yeah,” I say. I’m tempted to downplay it, but it gets stuck in my throat.

“I’m going to go change. Because you look too nice for me to be in sweaty breeches.”

She vanishes, and I stand there, chest sore for a moment before I get to packing up the basket. Before I choose a bottle of wine and a couple of glasses and get everything ready to go.

By the time I finish up, she comes down the stairs. She’s wearing a flowy, lilac dress that skims her curves, the fabric ethereal, flowing with her every movement. She’s like an angel, and God knows I don’t deserve angels in my immediate vicinity.

My chest feels so tight I can barely breathe around it.

“Let’s go.”

“Where are we going?”

“To one of my favorite spots.”

I drive her out to the barn, and then I get my horse out, which I haven’t even really introduced her to yet.

“This is Jake,” I say. The black gelding with the blaze down his nose is spirited.

Always has been. But I know she’ll appreciate that.

She smiles and presses her hand against Jake’s nose, then rests her forehead against his for a moment.

I feel it in myself. The way that she quiets this animal.

The way that she greets him with all his wildness. It’s basically what she’s done with me.

I push that thought to the side.

I’m in a strange, introspective mood. Maybe because I decided to lie to keep her with me. Maybe because it’s making me do these things for her, to keep her happy, to justify my decision.

Or maybe it’s just because I’m hungry. Because there were so many years where there was no one with me. Where nobody touched me. Where I didn’t let myself be touched. And now I’m drunk on it. An addict craving my next fix every single day.

This is my failure, I suppose. This is where I don’t succeed at not being my mother.

Because I want this directly injected into my veins. I don’t want to turn away from it. Even if it’s bad for me. Even if it’s bad for her.

“We’re going to ride him up the mountain.”

“Together?”

She looks baffled and delighted by this.

“Yeah. Some guys might give you a ride on the back of their motorcycle. I figure I’ll put you up here on my horse.”

“Do you know why I love it?” she asks as I pull her up and she scoots in behind me, wrapping her arms around my waist.

“Why?”

“Because I’m always too experienced to ride with anyone else.”

“And you like it for that reason?”

“Yeah. I don’t have to be the one who knows everything. I don’t have to be the one in charge. I don’t have to be the best.” She rests her cheek against my shoulder blades. “I can just be with you.”

Her words make my chest clench so tight I can barely breathe. “Come on,” I say through gritted teeth.

I urge Jake up the trail, and she clings to me as we take off at a fast pace. Because she is experienced, I know I don’t have to take it easy. And I don’t. We go flying up the trail, and then I turn a sharp left and carry us through the fields.

She laughs, and I feel it vibrate through me.

Her laughter, her joy , is like an aphrodisiac. Medicinal as it fills me. Fuels me.

I’m taking her to one of the far corners of the property. Next to a wide, still pond, where there are often animals that come down to drink.

It’s good to be cautious here, but I’m not afraid of any of the wildlife. I just have a healthy respect for it. And somehow I know that Stella would feel exactly the same way. I can see the way that she is with animals. With nature, with the land.