Chapter 16 Acouple of weeks ago, all I did was eat, sleep, and breathe horses. Riding out daily here on Devil's Peak. Being around our team in the barn. Spending time training in Crimson Ridge. Leading groups on guided trail rides at Sunset Skies Ranch. I was a bareback bronc rider. My worldview came almost uniquely from a position in the saddle surrounded by the sweet, musky scent of horsehair and that lingering note of hay they carry everywhere with them. The chuffs, the snorts, and quiet rumbles. Feeling those deep, solid breaths beneath my legs and leaning forward to glide a palm over a long bowed neck, to exchange a few silent words with whichever horse I was riding. Now? I'm nothing more than a ghost of who I was before waking up in the hospital. I haven't left the house in almost two weeks. Endlessly long days have blurred into agonizingly torturous nights without sleep. I'm on a routine of painkillers and trying to keep myself from going out of my head, surrounded by nothing but quiet on top of this mountain. I'm caged in by self-loathing, feeling guilty as all hell that Raine has to do everything around the ranch. The guy can't stand me, and I don't blame him for using every scrap of daylight he can around here to stay as far away as possible. He's avoiding me, that much I know to be true. Having a knee that doesn't seem to want to heal, my recovery barely moving at a snail's pace, yeah, it's utter crap. I'm crawling out of my skin at the knowledge I can't just suck it up, walk it off, fucking cowboy my way out of this. The grim reality is that I'm not fully fit yet, and I can't help. All I'm good for is sitting around this house. Learned that the hard way when I tried to split kindling in an effort to actually do something useful with all this unwanted time on my hands. Discovered immediately that it was a shit show when swinging an ax above my head put so much pressure on my knee I was left doubled over in agony. I damn near bit my tongue in half trying not to holler with pain. One positive, if you could call it that, is that I can shuffle around the house more easily now. At least these days all I gotta do is be careful not to twist my knee and remember to favor certain movements over others. It's very much a walk in straight lines and make no sudden movements sort of existence. A fact that doesn't bode well for ranching, where the days are nothing but torque and pressure and brute strength for hours on end. Underneath all of that . . . all the confronting ways that I'm unable to do anything more helpful than wash dishes, clean the refrigerator for the hundredth time, and defrost meals, are fears of what my future might hold. I'm twenty-eight and certainly not getting any younger. It was already glaringly obvious to me that my body doesn't bounce as well as it used to in both competition and training. Researching my current injuries at two in the morning isn't exactly helping my state of mind. I really need to stop going down rabbit holes on knee injury forums, masochistically reading up on worst-case scenarios. I gotta stop willingly doing that to myself. Is this it? The acutely sharpened guillotine slamming down, severing me from the only good thing in my life? The moment when I have to accept my rodeo career has come to an undignified end? Whenever those thoughts start to roll around my brain as I'm struggling to find a moment of sleep, there's a deep-seated sense of dread that rises. Blackened fingernails claw at me, tempt me, whispering promises that I can make it all go away real fucking easily. One drink would ease all this discomfort. It'd help me disappear into that place where nothing fucking matters and everything feels good, and I don't have to worry about anything or anyone. But I'm determined not to give in. There's enough shame in my current circumstances, and a catalog of stupid past mistakes still haunt me. Do I want to add a relapse into old habits and shitty coping mechanisms to the top of that list? No. I want to be better. I want to prove to myself that I'm not that asshole anymore. I've also watched replays of my ride. The ride. Part of our training-for anyone in the rodeo world, no matter their level-is to watch ourselves back on video. Eight seconds go by in a blink. You're tossed around, doing your utmost to put everything into the tiniest fragment of a second while you're on the back of a bronc. All the micro-moments and infinitesimal details that contribute to a successful ride. That's why we gotta spend a fuck load of downtime watching it back. Play-by-play. Lock that shit in. Slowing it all down to observe what we could have done better, cementing those specific points into our minds. Seeing the way I got rag-dolled off the back of that bronc on the second buck is pretty goddamn brutal to witness. From multiple angles, in high-definition, I've seen myself hit the dirt and crumple. The side of my head colliding full force with the ground before my body goes limp. Lights out. Yeah, it's no surprise I didn't remember anything until much later at the hospital. The pickup riders were there within a heartbeat after I ate dirt. Medics rushed in, checked me over, got me upright and supported me to hobble out of the arena. Jesus, I even fucking waved to the crowd, which I have absolutely no memory of doing, but you can see it in the footage. My eyes were blank. Full space-cadet mode. Apparently, I'd been awake and talking just about the whole time my knee was being assessed. I was knocked out cold at first, but had gone through all the checks with the medical team and ambulance crew. Even had Chaos offering to ride with me to the hospital. To which I laughed, telling him to fuck off and win the event since I'd let him have a free ride to the top of the scoreboard this time round. I don't remember shit. Chaos and the others check in as much as possible. I appreciate it, but also fucking hate it at the same time. What's left for them to say? Sorry, you couldn't hold on for eight measly seconds? The mother hen that he is, Brad has told me I should consider coaching, depending on the outcome of my scans. Keeps reminding me that I'm apparently a natural with people and horses or some crap like that. Which is all well and good, but honestly, I feel like I not only lost my place on tour that day but my sense of direction. The thing I'd been working toward and fighting so hard to get a second chance at, now seems to have slipped outta my fingers. On top of all that, I lost my lucky stone. It feels like a sign. It eats away at me, like some sort of bacteria decomposing leaves on the forest floor. Gradually wearing away the evidence that anything else was ever there, and now all that's left is the hollow reality that Kayce Wilder is nothing without rodeo. I'm still wallowing in my misery-for-company state when I limp my way into the bathroom and start filling the tub. As I wait for the water to take its sweet time, I make my way back along the hall to the kitchen to fetch my phone off its charger. Every time I come in here, there's a lingering imprint on my mind of that night. Unfortunately for me, I'm stuck inside this house, inside my head, and as much as I don't need to be stewing on it, I've got a goddamn giant problem. I can't stop thinking about that night. Can't avoid the imprint on my brain and my body of how it felt to be pressed against Raine. To feel his chest muscles beneath my palms when I had to steady myself against him like that. The way his big hands wrapped my forearms, supporting me, seeming content to let me linger there until I got my legs under me. Raine didn't shove me away, and I don't know what to do with that information. As I swipe up my phone and yank out the charger, I'm determined to keep my eyes off the spot where the midnight incident occurred. Except that doesn't do jack shit to help me because my attention drifts to the windows overlooking the yard, and fuck my life, just as I glance up, Raine is walking across the gravel, leading one of the horses. The sight of him-jeans, boots, weatherproof jacket, and horse reins in hand-is somehow arresting, like I've never truly stopped in my tracks and appreciated the sight of a cowboy at work before. And then I see it. My eyes lock on the tiniest of details, but it's one that tips my world off its axis all the same. He's got his cap on backward. As soon as I notice it flipped around, my stomach swoops in a dramatic swan dive. A fluttering occupies my chest, and oh my fucking god, this cannot be happening. Fuck my miserable life; I've definitely got worse Daddy issues than I thought if seeing him wear his cap backward leaves me feeling a certain way. Just like that night, when my fingers dug into his strong chest far longer than they should have, I turn on my heel and disappear to the other end of the house. Moving as fast as my stupid knee will allow. By the time I've bolted to safety inside the bathroom, steam rises to coat my cheeks, burning with shame. Surely I need to pluck my eyeballs from my skull, because, hell no, I did not just look at him and feel butterflies. Wrestling out of my t-shirt and sweats, tossing them into the hamper, I'm both pissed off and weirdly, confusingly horny. I've taken to having baths in my sorry state. Lowering myself into the water feels nothing like being a rough stock riding rodeo stud, and a whole lot like a Victorian Lordling suffering from some unknown malady. Basically, I hate it. I hate that I can't rely on myself to do normal shit like stand in a wet, tiled shower. My body isn't trustworthy, and that makes my blood curdle with distaste for my own uselessness. It's a special kind of embarrassment to endure, and it's all thanks to my mistake. What the fuck was I thinking? I know better than to get on a bronc when my head isn't in the right place. Even worse than all that, is the fact I'm reclining in this stupid oversized bathtub, floating like a fish in a tank, and my cock is heavy and semi-erect on my lower stomach. It sits there, defying my grumbling protests to stand the fuck down. And the longer I stay like this, with the swollen crown sticking out, and my length flinching and twitching as it fills, the more ashamed I feel. Not for the impending situation-the guarantee that a soak in this bath is gonna end up in me jerking off-but for the deeply depraved core of a thought, the root of this horribly erect problem. A moment's weakness, a shadow which has managed to slip past the barricade inside my mind. Now, here I am, with a rapidly thickening cock, and the reason that motherfucker is demanding attention is because of my stepbrother. What in the actual fuck is wrong with me? Is it the meds? The concussion? Did I smack my head so hard my wires have fractured apart and then fused together in a messed up, deeply troubling arrangement-one where I'm left fighting the urge to relieve this insanity? There is no way in hell I should be fixating on Zeke Rainer, or his obsidian gaze, or how his rough touch might feel cupping my jaw. None whatsoever. This is some prime-time, trash TV, reality show level of bullshit. I let my head thud back against the lip of the bath as a groan bubbles up. With fists curled at my sides, I'm clinging tooth and nail to the moral high ground of not touching myself . . . not yet, not so enthusiastically. Except it's pathetic and futile because my dick is right there, only inches from my palm, and as much as I wince at the reality of my dick-compass pointing in the wrong direction, I'm not gonna be able to retreat to my bedroom looking like a wounded creature with a cock bobbing and slapping against my abs while determinedly at full-mast. This is so many levels of wrong. I'm the worst newly fledged gay man-or whatever it is that I am-because I clearly can't be trusted with these sorts of feelings. I'm sorry, everyone; I let the team down in spectacular fashion from the second I burst out the chute, because my attention is fixated on the wrongest of wrong men to be lodged inside my horny brain. Why can't I be getting hard to memories of the guy I kissed? Why isn't that the secretive, passionate moment making my dick ache and my balls feel heavy with need? Why do I want to know the textured glide of Raine's fingertips mapping my muscles . . . his mouth going places on my body I've only ever explored with fumbling, awkward prods of my fingertips? Jesus. My dick jerks, a heavy thump landing in my balls as soon as that idea crosses my mind. I'm weak, and I give in. Spitting in my palm, I wrap my hand around the wet length of me straining for relief. The moment my fingers curl around the hot, smooth skin, I shudder and fight against the noise that threatens to escape. Casting a furtive glance at the door to make sure I did, in fact, close it behind me-my eyes slam shut. This feels way too fucking good, too fast. Heat is already surging through my groin from the first second my hand starts to move. Yet, as awesome as it feels to be stroking myself with this added slickness, I can't bear to watch. Thanks to the source of this throbbing situation in my fist, it's clear as day . . . I'm deeply messed up. It gets worse the faster my hand glides from root to tip, and my heart rate kicks up several notches. I'm not lost to the allure of a slick pussy to sink into, nor am I turned on by imagining a feminine mouth sucking me down. No. The scene my brain has settled on is so wrong. I'm back in that kitchen, late at night, with my palms flattened over his chest. The scents of him wash over me, masculine and tinged with soap as his dark hair hangs slightly wet and tousled over his forehead. That short-cut beard coats his strong jaw, and hooded, dark eyes capture my own. I work myself harder, pressure building along my spine, with the need, oh god, the feverish urgency for what comes next. I feel it racing forward, the dryness in my mouth heralding a nervous anticipation. There's no pain as I sink to my knees, and he lets my hands slide down his stomach. He's not stopping this. My touch is fucking ravenous, tracing every firm, solid inch of his torso beneath that thin fabric. If my blood could scorch to flames right now, it would. I'm chasing the stroke of my fist, subtly shifting my hips beneath the water. God, he's so imposing and silent, looking down on me as I settle between his feet. Raine watches my face with darkened eyes, and I swallow thickly beneath that quiet judgment. His cock presses against the front of his sweats, forming an impressive outline. As hard as my heart is hammering right now, as nervous as I feel, I want this so badly. Jesus Christ. A choked noise echoes around the silent bathroom, the only other sound comes from water sloshing gently against the tub, because this is dizzying to let myself think about. I'm tugging rougher, faster, more urgent now as I allow myself to fully fantasize about a guy for the very first time. I've never done this before, never jerked off while putting myself in the position of being with a man, and oh my fucking god, it's my stepbrother I'm imagining being on my knees for. It's the biggest asshole I know who I'm imagining reaching out to cup my face. He flicks his eyes in silent command, and I hastily drag his sweats down. The massive goddamn length of him bobs in my face, and I'm so eager, it should be embarrassing. I lean forward, wrapping my mouth around him, and suck down. It's blurry, a fragment of my imagination pulling on memories of having my own dick sucked and how good that felt and transferring that to what it would be like to be the one lapping and running my tongue along his length. My fist tightens, my hips lift, and I'm so close. The tingling sensation extends from my groin down to my balls, and a flash like lightning zaps to the base of my spine. In my dirty little forbidden fantasy, Raine strokes my hair, and I don't exactly know what he's saying, but it doesn't matter. Sparks burst behind my squeezed-shut eyelids, blood thunders in my ears, and my fist pumps my cock, desperately seeking a release. Is he gonna spill down my throat? I think he is. My teeth dig into my bottom lip as I imagine what he might taste like, how he might let out a satisfied groan as he comes. That's the thought-of how pleased he might sound when he unravels-that shoves me over the edge. My balls draw tight, and my chest damn near explodes at the same time as my cock does. Gasping, panting breaths leave my lungs as cum shoots forward. Thick, hot ropes land on my stomach, splashing up my chest, coating my fist, and I swear I'm gonna float right out of this bathtub. Heady, overwhelming relief floods my veins as my strokes slow. It takes a moment to focus. Peeling open my eyes, I gradually find my bearings. Holy fuck. Rejoining reality, I'm met with the evidence of my illicit trance I'd fallen prey to. Cum streaked over my damp skin, my hand still wrapped around my length, also slick with my release. It leaves me momentarily struck by how much I enjoyed that sordid daydream. Followed by an even deeper dread that this is incredibly dangerous territory to be entertaining thoughts of. In no world should I be shooting cum like a fucking rocket while fantasizing about my stepbrother's dick. Certainly not at all, and definitely not because it felt good to imagine how the weight of him might fill my mouth. I've got to get my shit together. And no matter how upended I am sexually, I've got to find myself something, someone-anyone else-to fixate on. Because this can never happen again.