“No,” he says equably. “Everyone wants to ride horses.”
Ugh, I hate that he’s right. I’m a regular girl who loved ponies when I was younger. All of these horses look strong and beautiful. Emphasis on strong. Their muscles bulge from beneath their glossy coats. They’ll probably buck me off if I even try to get in the saddle.
They’re also very tall. “How would I even get up there?”
He grins, knowing he’s won. “You’ll step on my hands.”
“I’m going to fall off.”
“The most important thing about riding is that you have to trust the horse.”
“I thought the horse should trust me.”
“Absolutely, but that's only going to happen if you trust her first.”
I make a face at him, because the idea of trusting an animal that much larger and stronger than me makes me cringe. “I’m pretty sure I’ve already failed the lesson.”
A low laugh. “She’s more scared of you than you are of her. You're going to ask her to do scary things like walk into water or jump over something. She has to know you'll keep her safe.”
“I’m definitely not asking her to jump over anything. No jumping allowed.” I study the beautiful gray dappled mare, trying to see fear in her placid eyes. Nope, nothing. “Shouldn’t she do what I say? I thought that’s the point of the reins.”
“Only if you want her afraid. That means backing away or jumping too late.”
“How will she even know if I trust her? Will we do trust exercises?”
“Yes.” He produces a shiny red apple from his pocket and hands it to me. “Hold this on your palm with your hand flat. Don’t curl your fingers.”
“She’s going to bite me,” I warn, but I put out the apple anyway. The mare snuffles at my hand without taking the treat. She dips her head to considers the apple from the side. For a second it feels like she’s going to refuse the offer, and disappointment sinks in my stomach.
Then finally she takes it with a heavy bottom lip.
She crunches the fruit in a few slow chews, and the majesty of her clenches my throat.
“Wow,” I breathe.
“She's a beauty,” he agrees, not taking his eyes off me.
“Why wouldn’t she trust me? Has she been mistreated?”
“It’s too fucking common. A handler can be gentle or rough, respect a horse or run her into the ground. A horse will keep going until she falls over dead if you don't stop her.” She watches me from her dark eye, as if saying, that’s right. I would do that.
“That's horrible.”
“It's a big responsibility, having a horse.”
“How many do you have?”
“Right now? Ten.”
Ten animals who would run themselves into the ground for him. Ten who would fall over dead if he doesn’t stop them. “So you like responsibility.”
He laughs. “I like horses. The responsibility is the price you pay.”
The price he pays, like the money he pays me. It seems all of the things he enjoys cost him something. That’s a small consolation, because the things he enjoys cost me everything. “Can I ride her?”
He leans down and laces his hands together. “Step up this way. Grab the horn on the saddle and swing your leg over.”
I swing hard enough that I almost fall over the other side but I right myself. She feels a lot taller when I’m on top of her than when I was on the ground.
When I’m seated, he says, “Don't worry about telling her anything. She knows how to walk and where to go. Remember. You've got to trust her.”
Haven takes a step forward, and I jolt in the saddle. Another, and I almost fall out. On the third step I move my hips at the right moment. Only then do I understand what he means by trust. I have to move with her. This isn’t about being carried around. I’m not a passenger. This is an active form of trust, one that requires me to become part of her.
She moves into an easy gait, and I laugh in exhilaration.
Sutton makes a whistling sound, and the bay moves toward him. Haven stops in front of him, and he walks to the side of her. He reaches his hands up, circling my hips and helping me down. The ground feels unsteady after being on the horse for only a few minutes.
He’d been smiling before, but now he looks serious. “What happened to you?”
He means before I ended up on the street. My throat tightens. “My secrets are my own.”
“Ashleigh—”
“My little horse must think it queer,” I say. It’s a cheap shot, a feint so that he’ll stop asking what I’m not going to answer. “To stop without a farmhouse near.”
He’s everything stern and hard and frustrated, but he still completes the verse of the Robert Frost poem. “Between the woods and the frozen lake. The darkest evening of the year.”
17
Ashleigh
The afternoon gives way to dusk. I wake up with a contentment written on my bones. I want to lie in this bed forever—and that terrifies me. This isn’t my bed or my house. I belong on the streets. Being comfortable here will only make it harder there.
Sutton slumbers next to me, a heavy mass of muscle and heartbreak. He doesn’t stir even when I slip from the bed. He reached for me so many times, had sex with me in so many different positions. Somehow I liked every single one of them. He made me come so hard I saw lights behind my eyes. I didn’t know that would be possible. Not for any woman; definitely not for me.
I look at the bristles on his cheek and the curve of his ear. He’s not mine.
I’m a substitute for the bodies he’d rather be fucking.
In the living room I find his phone, which isn’t locked. I order an Uber that’s fifteen minutes away. And I dig into his wallet for the money he promised.
Thirty minutes.
That’s how long it takes from my last glimpse of Sutton to the first sight of the sugar factory.
“Ky?” The word echoes back to me. He doesn’t usually go out so early.
Sugar gives me an imperious meow that shames me for how long I’ve been gone. There are three different rat carcasses, each torn open and buzzing with flies. My stomach turns over. What a way to come home. This isn’t home. No. Sutton’s house is a home. This is a sad parody.
I climb the roof. “Ky?”
Nothing.
Maybe he went out early to look for a customer. Except he doesn’t usually go out when he’s flush with money. Maybe Mr. Monopoly came back for another round. Except he usually only comes once a month. The back of my neck prickles with warning. Ky could be anywhere in the city, perfectly safe.
It doesn’t feel right.
I head back down to the street, determined to find him. There’s a club a few streets over. Well, it’s more of a warehouse with bass. Sometimes Ky comes back from there smelling like pot.
The bouncer stops me, giving me an interested full-body glance. “You working?”
My cheeks flush. He’s made no secret that he wants to fuck me. And that he’s willing to pay. Which means it’s just that obvious what I am. God, my hair’s still bed-rumpled. I probably smell like sex.
“Not tonight,” I manage to say, hoping I sound casual about it.
He doesn’t move from the middle of the door. “How bad you want to get in?”
Oh God. Is he going to make me do something with him? He must sense my desperation, because I really do need to get into the club. It’s the only place I know where Ky might be, and every instinct I have is screaming that he needs help. “Bad,” I whisper.
“Let me see your tits.”
My skin prickles into goose bumps. I feel hot all over and then freezing cold. “My—”
“I just want to see them. That’s all.”
I stare at this man, who would have seemed handsome in any other context. He’s clearly muscled and well groomed. He could have a woman the regular way, couldn’t he? I don’t even know what the regular way is. Champagne glasses and little Yorkies eating Wagyu beef? That isn’t normal.
My stomach clenches, and I glance to the alley.
“Nah,” he says, reading my thoughts. “It’s too dark to see. Besides, if I got you back there, I’d want to do more than look.” His voice turns gentle, coaxing. “All I want is a little glance.”
Trembles run through my arms like little earthquakes. I reach for the hem of my emerald green shirt and lift—slow, slow, slow. I’m not wearing a bra. Then my breasts are exposed to the night air.
He sucks in a breath. “Yeah.” His voice sounds thicker. “Those are nice.”
I stare straight ahead, at the patch of black fabric on his shirt, not meeting his eyes. I start to lower my shirt but he stops me with a rough sound. “A little longer, baby girl.”
It feels like I’m someone else, watching this woman lift her shirt for a stranger. Standing in the street where anyone who turns the corner could see. Of course no one will turn this corner. It’s a rough part of town and an illegal club. On a Tuesday. Which means he could drag me into a corner and—
A rough palm cups my breast, and I jump. “You said you were only looking.”
“Calm down,” he says with a pointed squeeze. “One touch. Not like I’m the first one.”
“But you said—” Tears prick the back of my eyes, and I feel foolish for believing him. Or for believing anyone. Isn’t the world full of liars? I learned that early. How could I forget?
He squeezes my nipple, and pleasure shoots through my body. I feel sick. Horrified. How could this feel good? Only now do I understand how thoroughly Sutton has ruined me. Before this I didn’t know what great sex was like. My body had no idea that pressure on my nipples led to orgasms. There’s no way that I could come for this man—I feel cold inside. But my body doesn’t know that. It’s well trained by Sutton’s mouth and hands. By his cock.
This is what Ky meant when he said it was harder to come back. It wasn’t about the soft bed or the great food. It was about the sex—because Sutton made it feel real. I bet Mr. Monopoly does that, too.
The bouncer’s hand drops. He gives me a nod that I interpret as, Go ahead and cover your tits.
I shove down my shirt, feeling queasy with humiliation.
“You come see me later,” he says, still sounding turned on. “I got paid yesterday, and I’d love a round with you. I’ll take it easy, I promise. Won’t rough you up or anything.”
He doesn’t wait for a response but stands to the side, and tears climb down my cheeks as I duck my head and brush past him. Strobe lights and heavy bass hit me like a fist. I wipe my face with my arms. Bodies are draped across dirty cushions on the floor, most of the people already stoned out of their minds even though it’s still early. I suppose anyone who needs to work tonight will show up later. These people are the ones who already earned their money the night before.
I search through them, wondering if I’d even recognize Ky with the distorted lights. Breaks in the music reveal moans and rhythmic thumps. Someone’s having sex in one of these corners.
Deep in the back I finally find Ky. He’s by himself—or as close as you can come in this place. Somehow he’s got a two-seater couch to himself. There are track marks on his open arm. His mouth is open, as if he’s sleeping. Except he’s not. His eyes are open.
He’s dead.
For a terrible moment he seems dead—cold and clammy and unmoving. Then his eyes focus on me, and he snaps alert. “Ashleigh. Hell. Hell. I thought you were dead.”
I’m almost hysterical with worry, with the emotional seesaw of seeing him this way and wondering if he’d overdosed before I could find him. “I thought you were dead, you big dummy.”
That makes him laugh, a wild and raucous sound. He’s high as a kite. “When you didn’t come home for two nights I thought some sick fuck had driven you out to the woods and killed you.”
“So you decided to come spend all your money on a freaking needle?”
He squints at me. “Were you in the woods?”
“Close enough,” I say on a sigh. “Come on. Let’s get you home. You’re going to feel like shit tomorrow. And you won’t get any sympathy from me. I’m the one who’s gotta clean up the rats.”
18
Sutton
I wake up in the middle of the night with a start, becoming aware in an instant, certain that I’m alone in the house. My heart’s made of lead while I check the bathroom, the kitchen, even the goddamn front porch, as if she might be swinging with her toes on the scarred wooden boards. Even the crickets are quiet at this hour. The world feels ungodly silent. I step out into the grass and look up, wearing jeans and nothing else. The dark sky leans down on me, as if filled with water, heavy and threatening.
When I go back inside I find my phone on the breakfast table, set neatly beside my wallet, and a note written on a Post-it. I took the money you promised. It continues on the back. Left some for Uber. I stare at the loops as if her handwriting can somehow tell me about her soul.
Why the hell do I want to know about her soul? I don’t. I wanted sex from her and I got that. Plenty of sex. A truly ridiculous amount of sex. I climaxed so hard I had a goddamn stroke.
The only reason I feel bereft now is… that I’d have given her a bonus. It’s not nearly enough money, what I promised, what she took. And I’d have given her a ride back myself. The whole thing would have felt demeaning and cheap, but hell. It’s not like waking up sad is any better.
“Why didn’t you wake me up, Ashleigh?”
The Post-it note doesn’t answer.
Because she didn’t want to say goodbye, asshole. This isn’t the standard morning after. This is a paid service. Except I know she didn’t think of it like that. I didn’t, either.
I grab the wallet and keys and shove them in my pocket. I’ll go after her. The app says she was dropped off at the Den, but I should check on her. I should make sure she’s okay. I should…
I should leave her the hell alone. Jesus.
When would it end? Never. I’d pretend I was doing it to help her, but in reality I’d just install her in my house as my personal sex slave. I’d be the laughingstock of Tanglewood, like she said, but I don’t give a shit about that. I swore I’d never be like my father. Panting after Christopher. After Harper. Now Ashleigh. Do I fall in love every six goddamn months? I always knew he fucked a lot of women. I never realized that he may have actually loved them all.
Slowly I pull the wallet and keys out of my pocket. Toss them onto the table.
I’m not goddamn Mother Teresa to help people on the street. And I’m not going to be a man who takes advantage of her. That leaves me with no rights to her whatsoever.
“Fuck,” I mutter, running a hand over my face.
The irony is that there are only two people I could talk to about this who’d understand. Both of those people are currently on their honeymoon in Bali.
I wonder what Harper told her in the steeple. Don’t think about Ashleigh.
The sun exhales a dim light for hours before dawn. I walk the length of my fence in boots and jeans, no shirt, trying to connect with the land. I used to love every blade of grass, every grain of dirt. Every molecule of air. I still do, but it feels a little emptier somehow. As if Ashleigh gave a piece of herself to the trees and the animals and the earth. Now that she’s gone, they don’t know what to do.
High-pitched squealing tells me that it’s feeding time.
I catch my sister as she’s coming out of the pigpen. There are at least six Mayfair bastards in Tanglewood—men with that inherited anger and blue eyes. Whitney’s the only girl that we know about. She came to live on the ranch a few years ago. A straw hat sits on her head, ready to shield her freckles when the sun comes out. “She leave?” she asks.
“Did who leave?”
A snort. She heads back to the barn, and I follow at a slower pace, feeling like a lazy bum. The fact that I pay Whitney well doesn’t make it any better. “You’ve been holed up at the house with someone.”
I watch as she prepares the
large bottle for the calf. “Someone underweight?”
Sometimes a calf needs to supplement nursing with the bottle. “Chess won’t tolerate it.”
“Hell. Let me talk to her.” Chess is a finicky cow, but I can get her to nurse. She’ll kick and bite, until I stroke her gently, until I coax her to let the calf drink. She’s got the milk already. It’ll make her feel better to let it go.
“You were busy with your guest, and I figured that was fine, considering the timing. Besides, it won’t hurt the calf to drink from the bottle.”
“Give me a minute. I’ll get her out of the stall and—”
“Don’t.” Those blue eyes flash, a mirror image of mine. “Not everyone wants to be a mom, Sutton. You should know that as well as anyone. So don’t bother convincing her of anything.”
I wait while Whitney fills the bottle and puts on a large nipple. There’s formula, if we needed it, but Chess has never minded humans handling her. It’s the calves she minds.
When we get to the pen I corral the calf myself. It’s my way of saying sorry for whatever the hell I did to piss off Whitney. The calf vibrates in my hold, whether from excitement or fear, I don’t know. “Shhhh,” I say, making the same sounds I’d make for Chess. I run one hand along her flank. “You’re okay.”
Whitney doesn’t meet my eyes as she bottle-feeds.
“Are you going to tell me why you’re ornery?”
That upturned nose and wide eyes make her look young, even if her hands are chapped from hard work. She looks as young as she did when we were both in grade school. She had a crush on me, back then. Until someone finally clued her in that we were most likely step-siblings. Then she got so embarrassed she didn’t speak to me for a year. We reconnected as adults, and she takes to the horses as well as me.
“I’m not jealous,” she finally says.
“Well. Okay then.”
“I’m wondering about this girl, though. If she knows that you’re… unavailable.”
“You mean, does she know I’m in love with someone else?” Two other people, to be exact. Most people don’t know about Christopher, though. Only Harper. “She knows. She came to the wedding with me.”
Broken and Beautiful Page 15
