Page 52 of Saving the Rain
That’s about the limit of what I’m prepared to divulge. So, I leave my phone in the kitchen and make my way out to the barn. There’s still one more scan I have to go through to fully confirm my prognosis for recovery. But considering the standard process from here on out for the kind of meniscus tear I’ve suffered includes surgery—well, my chest is already so tight I’m struggling to fully inhale the damp air. The skies hang heavy with the promise of rain, and as I make my way across the yard, all my thoughts are a mess of medical information and details I was given yesterday.
Christ, has it only been one day?
There’s no guarantee going under the knife will even do anything. Between the wait time to be seen, the recovery after the fact, not to mention the goddamn cost... what use is it gonna be? I’ve already got one eye-watering bill to cover from my brief stint in the hospital. That alone is enough of a reason to toss the idea of surgery in the trash.
As I approach the barn, my hands stay tucked into the front pocket of my hoodie. I’m still rocking sweats like it’s my only job. Putting on jeans feels too uncomfortable, too restrictive on my movements. At least soft, stretchy fabric accommodates my knee, and I’ve been relieved to note the swelling hasn’t been anywhere near as bad by the end of the day lately. I’m in a weird state of limbo, where I need to build my range of motion back up, to regain strength and stability, while also beingcarefulall the goddamn time. Ultimately, I’m havingto face a future where my knee will always potentially have a nagging dose of low level pain going on.
If there’s one place I want to be right now, it's out here with the horses. I can’t survive another day being stuck inside that house, and now that I’ve been given the green light to be back at work—even if not actually getting in the saddle—I can drive a vehicle, which means I’m able to do what I gotta do up here. A truck and a tractor are better than nothing. It just means I won’t be able to do any of the other trail guiding work or rounding up cattle on horseback.
I’m not sure what I’m gonna find when I set foot inside the barn and get amongst the stalls. Is he here? Raine has successfully avoided me since ourmomentlast night.
Even just briefly revisiting thoughts of him and us and what in the hell happened... well, my heart does a kick. My stomach swoops, and I’m thrust right back in midst of that sensation, frozen in that hallway, trembling out of my skin with desire.
Yeah, if there was ever a doubt in my mind about enjoying being with men, I’ve certainly answered that question with an enthusiastic explosion of my cock. The kind of toe-curling, life-altering orgasm I’ve never experienced before.
Why the hell did it have to come as a result of pumping my length against my stepbrother’s? What the actual fuck was I thinking, begging and pleading with him like that?
And the worst part to all of it is that I don’t think I’ve managed to go more than five minutes without going back over everything since he walked away. I’ve been stuck replaying loops of all the details. Fixating on what it felt like to have that with him last night. I’ve got to somehow rewire my brain to not keep fantasizing about his cock, to not keep running through memories of smooth, warm skin pressed tight against mine. Slickness coating us in the temptation of wanting more. God, it was so good—too good.
What I need is to keep myself busy. To be occupied in a way that can hopefully take my mind off the overwhelm and onslaught of inappropriate thoughts and feelings where Raine is concerned.
His truck is parked outside, so he’s still here. The guy issomewhereon the ranch, but fuck if I know what he’s doing today. It’s not likewe’ve talked much at all since he brought me up here after the accident, and well, he clearly hasn’t changed that tune since I fisted his dick and whimpered.
What a pretty thing you are when you blush for me.
Holy fuck. Those words hit me square in the chest, leaving me damn near staggering at the memory. I’m a bareback bronc rider. I’ve never had any interest in being consideredpretty. That’s the type of thing you say to someone who is soft and feminine, right? But apparently, my cock is untrustworthy as all hell because that one word tipped my world on its axis. It’s been a struggle not to find myself bricked up for hours on end just thinking about how it felt to have his wicked words dancing in such close proximity to my mouth.
A quick glance around the barn confirms he’s not here, and Winnie’s stall is empty. The sort of detail that should be a relief, and yet I realize while strolling further inside that maybe I was kinda sorta hoping to catch sight of his dark, scruffy hair. At least having time to myself should give me time to disappear into work. Grooming. Mucking stalls. Water. Bedding. God knows there’s plenty that needs to be done, and while it feels a little awkward at first, after being so lethargic for a while, I’m quickly absorbed by mundane tasks that somehow feel... amazing.
Routine and muscle memory and lungfuls of chilled air. Running through the motions eases something that has been left hanging, teetering on edge and awkwardly untethered within my chest since I woke up in the hospital ward.
Working soothes my frayed nerves, and pretty soon, I’ve spent an hour or so making my way through the stalls. Being around the horses reminds me just how much I’ve missed their odd little quirks and personality traits. Stamps and snorts and whinnies give me a soundtrack while I dote on them. Being cooped up in that house and unable to come out here each day like I’d usually do took more of a toll on me than I necessarily realized.
What raises a little glimmer of something warm and comforting inside my chest is that the longer I work, the more my knee holds up to everything without too much irritation. Yeah, I can’t exactly do a fucking ballerina pirouette, and I’m not gonna be dropping to crankout a set of burpees in the middle of the barn, but I can lift saddles and bend down to sort out horse feed. I don’t know how I would have coped if this had felt too challenging or painful. For now, there’s a sliver of something that feels a little bit bright, and a lot like I can hang onto that feeling.
Maybe it’ll be ok after all.
I’m in the middle of grooming Peaches when I hear hooves clipping and boots scuffing from the other end of the barn. The sound makes me freeze mid-brush-stroke, because I don’t goddamn know how this is gonna go.
How is Raine likely to react after what went down?
Will this unexpected meeting, this bumping into each other without warning, be the moment he loses his shit at me?
The guy couldn’t scramble away fast enough last night. While I don’t exactly blame him—I mean, I was left damn well reeling with the aftershock myself—he’s a volatile sort of creature. The cold light of day might bring about a different perspective on things, rather than the quiet assessment he leveled me with while scrubbing one hand over his stubbled jaw. The kind of shift in thinking where now he’s angry as all hell and lets me know exactly how much of a fucked up piece of shit I am for landing us in this mess.
My eyes squeeze shut, and I drop my forehead against Peaches’ soft neck. Hanging out, as if this horse will hold the answers to my misguided dick and ridiculous, absolutelyno-go-territoryinterest in my stepbrother.
Winnie’s stall is down the far end of the barn, by the outer doors, but they come closer to the tack room at this end. With each step they draw nearer, I feel like my heart is trying to scale the back of my throat, like a prisoner attempting to escape my mouth. Should I make a noise, cough, talk to the horse... anything just to alert him to the fact I’m here?
Raine might be good at maintaining a cool exterior now, but the guy used to fight all the time when we were younger. He had a temper. I still remember all the black eyes and purpled, swollen cheekbones. The split lips and blood-stained t-shirts.
I’m struggling to get a handle on this, because if there’s one thing Ihave no idea how to be, it's a man who apparently really likes the feel of another man’s cock and definitely wantsmore. It’s a terrifying prospect that he’s the person who has unlocked that particular, startling insight into myself, while also being someone who probably wishes I was never born.
Jesus. I really am such a screw-up.
I hear him moving around with Winnie as he removes her saddle, and his voice rumbles low as he shares words with her that I can’t quite decipher, yet my ears strain to catch what he might be saying.
Help me, I’m so pathetic. This crush—or whatever the fuck you call developing an unhealthy fascination with seeing your stepbrother’s cock erupt cum all over your fist—is surely a one-way ticket to a shattered nose.