Page 4 of Stable Hand

Mr. Marsland stared at me for a long moment, then nodded. He stood and opened the glass door of the cabinet behind him, pulling out a large leather-bound book.

Okay, now we’re getting somewhere.

Marsland dumped the heavy-looking album on the table in front of me, making me jump, and opened the book to the first page.

I think I stopped breathing, though I didn’t know what I was looking at for several moments. When the meaning of the image began to come clear to my startled brain, I wasn’t sure I’d ever breathe again.

“That’s a— That’s a—” I stuttered, eyes flying up to Mr. Marsland’s sympathetic features and then back to the photo. My body was in full-blown DEFCON 1 mode. “I need to sit.”

“You are sitting.”

Horses. There were supposed to be horses. What the fuck was this?

I pushed the chair out and stood. I took off my cowboy hat and waved it at the desk, eyes wide and skin suddenly clammy. “What? I mean! That’s a…guy!”

Marsland nodded.

I took a step back and stared wildly into Mr. Marsland’s calm eyes, then glanced down at the photo again. I took a step forward and looked more closely. I glanced up at Marsland.

“I mean. Jesus Christ.”

“Breathe, Jensen.”

I took a breath and then another. I couldn’t stop staring at the photo.

“You okay?” Mr. Marsland asked.

Was I? I shook my head. “Sure.” I might never be okay again.

“You don’t look okay.”

I froze, realizing the impression I was making. Get yourself together. I swallowed and took a deep breath, then put my hat back on and sat down in the chair.

After a few moments, during which I stared at the photo in front of me, I nodded. “I’m fine.”

“I told you we don’t deal with horses here at the Braided Crop Ranch. What you’re looking at is a pony. A human pony. A man.”

Oh, my fucking God. “I mean, shit. I mean, is this what you do here?”

Mr. Marsland smiled an understanding smile. “And much more.”

“Holy fuck.” I was going to murder Mitchell! Why hadn’t he told me? But I knew the answer to that question. Because if Mitchell had told me the truth about this job, I would never have come.

There in the photo was a man. A beautiful, black-haired, blue-eyed man, about my age, naked except for scuffed, black Docs, a leather BDSM body harness, and a bridle with a silver bit spreading his red lips and white teeth. His muscled torso shone with sweat and dirt; his black hair stuck to his broad forehead. His arms were bound behind him, forcing his chest out. The man’s erection, contained in some kind of cage causing the flesh to bulge between the steel bars, jutted out.

Jutted out!

I started to hyperventilate.

“Let me get you some water,” Mr. Marsland said, moving to the door. “Connor, please bring Mr. Moriarty a glass of water.”

“Of course.”

Mr. Marsland resumed his seat and leaned forward, placing a calming hand on my shoulder. “Are you okay?”

No. I will never be okay again.

I nodded. I wouldn’t screw this up, no matter what might be going on here. I was open-minded. I could handle this. But, Jesus Christ.