Booted (Trails of Sin 3)

The bottle of whiskey waits beside him, his fingers twisting the cap off, on, off, on. The universe might be telling me we can help each other, but all bets are off if he turns into a drunk.

“You don’t want that.” I kneel in the V of his spread legs and sit back on the heels of my boots.

“You have no idea what I want.”

“I know what you don’t want.”

He bumps up the brim of his hat and shoots me a withering look.

“You don’t want the nightmares.” I fold my hands on my lap and meet his glare head on. “Or the memories. The constant itch to look over your shoulder. The pain.”

His eyes flash.

I lean in. “The things you carry today will strengthen you tomorrow.”

“Don’t preach your hippie bullshit to me.”

“I’m a grown-ass woman, and I’ll preach whatever the fuck I want to whomever I want.”

The muscles in his face tighten, and his entire body goes motionless, breathless. I brace for a mean insult, a whip of rage. Men like him don’t respond kindly to defiant women.

“Damn,” he whispers, and the tension leaks from his shoulders.

“What?”

“You’re so extraordinarily beautiful it pisses me off.”

A startled thrill jolts through me. “That’s the strangest compliment I’ve ever heard.”

“It’s the only one you’ll get from me.” He shoves the hat back down on his forehead. “Fuck niceties and social pretense.”

That’s the kind of attitude that’s bred within the concrete walls of a heartless, oppressive system, where men are caged and deprived of love, respect, decency, and humanity.

“It’s okay, you know.” I tilt my head. “To be uncomfortable around people.”

His nostrils pulse.

“You won’t be able to avoid interaction forever,” I say. “But I can promise you one thing.”

His deep green eyes find mine.

“You’ll survive it.” I bend over my lap, resting elbows on my thighs with my head down. “No matter how uneasy it makes you feel.”

I don’t know if I’m saying the right things, if I’m getting through to him or helping him at all. I have only his silence and what it’s telling me.

My grandmother used to say, Your tongue will keep you deaf. Maybe I’m talking too much?

I fall still, gaze on my lap, prepared to listen. Or wait him out for however long it takes.

Minutes whisper by, and neither of us moves or speaks. At least he isn’t drinking, the whiskey seemingly forgotten at his side.

I let my eyes close, tracking the sound of his breaths. As I lose myself in the entrancing rhythm, something stirs my hair. The current of movement races up the strands and tingles my scalp.

My eyes open, and my breath catches.

He’s touching me, his fingers sifting through the long black curtain that drapes my arm.

I don’t twitch or blink, afraid he’ll stop. But when my gaze lifts to his, he withdraws his hand.

“You can touch me, Lorne. If I don’t like it, I’ll tell you. That’s what people do.”

“I’m not like them.”

Them? The men I’ve bedded? Society as a whole?

“No, you’re not,” I say. “The average man hasn’t watched the brutal rape of his sister or spent his adult life behind bars for a crime he committed out of love and protection. No one has felt what you felt, perceived, experienced, or examined the things you have. No one will ever know you or truly understand, until they run their fingers through your soul. But you need to let them. Someday, you’ll let someone in.”

He meets my eyes, his expression guarded, giving nothing away.

I’m running my mouth again, and who am I to give advice about letting someone in? My heart is an island, completely disconnected from the world and anything that might hurt it. I know how to seduce. I know how to fuck. I know how to redirect the focus, the pleasure, and all thought to anyone’s emotional damage but my own.

His eyes shift to the stall behind me. I glance back at the white and brown dappled palomino stallion they call Captain Undies.

When I stayed here with John, his sons took Lorne’s horse out every day. Captain hasn’t been neglected, but I imagine he misses Lorne.

“Have you ridden him?” I ask.

A blank wall crashes over his face.

That would be a no.

I stand and head into the tack room. Loading my arms with gear, I walk back to Captain’s stall, lead him into the walkway, and saddle him.

“What are you doing?” Lorne’s voice scuffs with disinterest.

“John used to make me tack his horse, the lazy cunt. But he never let me ride.”

He stares at me, emotionless.

I shrug. “I was his whore. Nothing more.”

His eyes harden before lowering to the dream catcher necklace on his wrist. “You’re not taking Captain out.”

“Nope.” I cinch the straps and adjust the noseband. “You are.”

“Not tonight.”

“You hear that, Captain?” I glide a hand along the horse’s strong neck. “Lorne would rather pout than give you a proper run. Maybe it’s time to find a new friend. A man who’s willing to dip into his soul and remember what calls to him. The wind in his face, the freedom on your back, the feel of your strength between his legs, the sound of your loyal heartbeat—your gifts should be appreciated.”