Unbridled (Unlikely Lovers)

by Brooks, Cheryl

  If he said Kira told him, Miranda was going to have a stroke. “Travis said that about Tabitha.”

  “Ah, that explains it.”

  Thank God.

  * * * *

  On Friday night, Travis had half a mind to fake a heart attack so he could spend the evening in the emergency room—perhaps even getting to see Miranda—anything to liven up a St. Patrick’s Day spent with Stuart.

  “Sure you don’t want to go out for a beer?” Travis asked.

  Stuart frowned. “We’ve got beer. It’s even Guinness.”

  “I know, but we could sit here watching TV and drinking Guinness anytime. We should be out wearing green and looking for leprechauns.”

  Scowling, Stuart settled back in his recliner, the one piece of furniture he’d hung onto in the wake of his divorce. “I’d rather stay home.”

  “You’ll never find a sexy Irish girl that way.”

  Stuart grunted and aimed the remote at the television. “I told you, I don’t want another woman. Ever. One was enough. Besides, women hate me.”

  Travis fought the urge to grit his teeth. “Women don’t hate you—although they’d like you a lot better if you’d quit acting like a pissed-off grizzly bear.”

  “Don’t you have a girlfriend now?”

  Travis grinned. “Yes, I do. As a matter of fact, I might have a wife pretty soon, and I have a feeling she won’t want to live here. If I move out, are you just gonna sit here watching TV for the rest of your life?”

  “Maybe. I’ll buy the house from you.”

  “You’re already paying me rent,” Travis noted. “I’d consider that as equity and give you a good deal.”

  “Fine. Tell me again why you aren’t out partying with this new girlfriend of yours?”

  “She’s working tonight, and I’m going over to her place in the morning. No point in being there all by myself.”

  Stuart responded with another grunt and began flipping through the channels. He’d settled in to watching something about sharks on the Discovery Channel before he finally spoke. “You’re really thinking about getting married again?”

  “Constantly.”

  Heaving a sigh, Stuart shook his head. “Good luck. I never intend to get into a mess like that again as long as I live.”

  “Famous last words,” Travis said with a snicker. “I’ll remind you of this moment when I’m the best man at your wedding.”

  “Ain’t gonna happen.”

  Travis popped open a Guinness and took a long drink. “Yeah, right.”

  * * * *

  Miranda groaned as Adrian wheeled the stretcher into the unit, bringing up the first drunk of the evening. Rick was about thirty, with short hair, a slender build, and a blood alcohol level that would’ve made St. Patrick proud.

  “He wants his catheter out,” Adrian said in an undertone. “I told him it was up to you guys.”

  “No problem,” Miranda said. “He’s awake enough to pee on his own.”

  “I would have peed for them downstairs if they’d given me a minute,” Rick moaned. “But they stuck that thing in my dick anyway.”

  “Don’t worry, we’ll take it out, but let’s get you in bed first,” Miranda said. “Lola is going to be your nurse tonight. We’ll see what she says.”

  Lola nodded her consent as Rick pulled back the sheet to check out the damage to his penis. “Oh, my God! Look what they did to it. Why’d they want to do that?”

  Miranda wasn’t sure which was funnier, his lack of modesty as he displayed the horrific thing that had been done to him, or the fact that he was wearing metallic blue boxers decorated with umbrella-toting yellow ducks.

  “The ER docs get a little impatient with guys who can’t pee on demand,” Miranda explained, doing her damndest not to laugh. “Believe me, the nurses would rather not do it.” She’d heard more than one nurse warn the doctor that if he wanted a particularly creepy guy catheterized, he would have to do it himself.

  Unhooking the catheter bag from the stretcher, she let the side rail down.

  Rick scooted over to the bed. “I would have peed if they’d just given me a chance. They shouldn’t have done that to him.”

  Adrian giggled as she rolled the stretcher out of the room. “Have fun, girls.”

  “Yeah, right.” Miranda pulled up the side rail and went and got a towel, a 10-milliliter syringe, and a pair of gloves. “Okay, Rick, let’s take this thing out.”

  He gazed up at her with grateful, bloodshot eyes. “Thank you. He’s never going to be the same.”

  “Oh, yes he will. We haven’t lost one yet.”

  “Will he still work?”

  “You’ll be able to pee,” Lola said. “Not for a while, though, because your bladder is empty.”

  “That’s not what I meant,” he said. “I mean will he still be able to fuck?”

  Miranda couldn’t help it. Despite sore ribs and the ethical dictates against laughing at one’s patient, she let out a giggle. “I promise he’ll be fully functional.”

  “Oh, good,” Rick said with a sigh. “My penis is my best friend. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to him.”

  While Miranda had always assumed most guys felt that way about their dick, she’d never heard anyone actually say it. Lola collapsed against the wall, helpless with laughter.

  After pulling down his shorts, Miranda put the towel underneath his penis, deflated the balloon that held the catheter in place, and pulled. When it didn’t come out, she rechecked the balloon to assure herself that it was completely deflated. It was. She tugged again.

  Nothing happened. Apparently, whoever had catheterized him hadn’t used much in the way of lubricant.

  “Hold on, Rick. This might hurt a little.” She gave it another firm tug, and his dick stretched out like a Chinese finger trap before the catheter finally slithered out.

  Rick sighed with relief, gently fondling his penis before tucking it inside his shorts and snapping the fly.

  When Miranda pulled up his T-shirt to hook him up to the heart monitor, she found more surprises. Two nipple rings and a navel piercing.

  Lola gaped at him in disbelief. “Why would anyone want to pierce their nipples?”

  Rick grinned and wiggled his hips. “It gives me a rush.” He ran a finger up his arm. “Did you see my new tattoo?”

  Just what it was a picture of, Miranda couldn’t tell from that angle, but it appeared to be better than most, and was certainly an improvement over the World War II type that looked like a kid with no artistic talent whatsoever had been doodling with a Magic Marker. “Very colorful.”

  “Thank you. I think it’s beautiful.”

  Chuckling to herself, Miranda went out to check the orders on his chart. When she returned, Rick was on his feet at the side of the bed with Lola standing next to him, holding him up. He’d dropped the rubber ducky boxers, revealing a furry little butt and balls that swung between his legs as he rocked back and forth, trying to coax urine out of a sore dick and an empty bladder.

  “Come on, you can do it,” he urged. “Poor little guy. Why would anyone want to do that to you? Come on, now. Poor little guy.”

  Lola looked like she was going to split a gut. Miranda doubled over on the bed, shaking with silent laughter.

  “Poor little guy,” he said again. Looking up at Lola, he added, “I love my penis. He’s my best friend.”

  “I’m sure he is,” Lola replied gently. “But right now, I think he just needs some sleep, and so do you.”

  “Okay,” Rick said with a yawn. “I’m going to bed now.” Leaving his boxers on the floor, he crawled back into the bed, collapsing onto the pillow with a sigh. “Can my girlfriend stay with me?”

  “Sure,” Miranda said. “I’ll go get her.”

  As it turned out, there was no need to fetch her, for she came around the desk as Miranda left the room. “Go on in. He’s fine, he just needs to sleep it off.”

  “Yeah,” she said wearily. “He always does.”

&nb
sp; Lola came back to the desk, apparently deciding against attempting to complete the eleven-page admitting assessment until Rick was a bit more sober. “At least he was more fun than the usual drunk,” she said. “Poor little guy.”

  * * * *

  Travis had already fed the horses and was waiting on the porch when Miranda got home the next morning. After a hug and a kiss that made her forget all about drunks and catheters, he made her an offer she couldn’t refuse. “Why don’t you get ready for bed while I fix us some breakfast?”

  “Sounds fabulous.” After changing into her nightgown, she climbed gratefully into bed just as Travis carried in a tray. She told Travis the “poor little guy” story while they ate, pleased that for once, she had someone there who could truly appreciate the humor.

  “He was actually talking to his penis?” he asked.

  “Yeah. He was certainly one of our more entertaining drunks. Most of them are obnoxious pains in the ass.”

  “Sounds like you had a lot more laughs than I did last night. Stuart seemed determined to have the least amount of fun possible. Honest to God, he’s getting worse instead of better.”

  “Could be he’s going through another phase in the recovery process.”

  “Maybe. I just wish he’d hurry up and move on to the next one. I hate to leave him there alone in the evenings, but he’s kinda depressing to be around. I’d much rather be here with you.”

  “I’d rather be with you too. Lunch with Christina wasn’t a bit of fun. She’s still pining over Mark. She asked me to talk to him, and I did, but I haven’t had the guts to call her back yet. He’s getting married.”

  “I’m sure she’ll love that.”

  “No shit. Guess I should get it over with.” Yawning, she sank back against the pillows. “I’m kinda surprised she hasn’t called me.”

  Travis gathered up the empty plates and set them on the tray. “Don’t worry about it now. Get some sleep.” Leaning over the bed, he gave her a sweet, bone-melting kiss. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

  “Thanks, Travis. Have I told you how much I love you and appreciate you and how glad I am you’re here?”

  “I believe you just did.”

  “Good,” she said as she snuggled down to sleep. “I wouldn’t want to be remiss.”

  Chapter 32

  Miranda went to her riding lesson the next week, although after a short ride, she wished she’d stayed home. “The flying lead change is gonna have to wait another couple of weeks, Nigel. Just bouncing in the saddle makes me feel like I can’t breathe right.”

  Nigel was optimistic. “I’ll ride her. Bet I can get her to do it.”

  Miranda knew that having Nigel as a rider would be good for Kira, but the mare wouldn’t do it for him, either—which made Miranda feel a little less inept, and only irritated Nigel.

  “My God, Miranda. Are all of your horses evil?”

  “They aren’t evil, Nigel. They’re just—oh, hell, I don’t know. Whether Kira ever does a flying lead change or not really doesn’t matter since she’s primarily a broodmare anyway. I just wish I could figure out what to do with Jadzia.”

  “Breed her.”

  “Maybe, but to what?” Jadzia was beautiful, with a shiny, chocolate brown coat, a star, and one white stocking. Unfortunately, her anatomy—relatively short legs and a long back—made dressage difficult for her.

  “How about an Andalusian?” he suggested. “Or a Lusitano?”

  “Yeah, right. I’d have to sell her just to get enough money to pay the stud fee. Which reminds me, are you still interested in Arwen?”

  “Who?”

  Nigel’s terrible memory had gotten him disqualified more than once for omitting a jump in the show jumping phase of a three-day event. On one of those occasions, he’d actually been in the lead after the dressage and the cross country competitions.

  “Arwen,” Miranda repeated. “You know…the chestnut filly that turns three this spring? The one I brought up here and showed you last fall?”

  His blank expression made Miranda wonder how many concussions he’d had before she’d started taking lessons from him.

  “Did I like her?” he asked.

  “Yes, you did. You even told someone else that she was already yours and that I couldn’t sell her to anyone else.”

  He scratched his head. “I did?”

  Miranda nodded.

  “Okay, if you say so...”

  What a trusting soul. “You said you’d give me four thousand for her when she turned three.” It wasn’t a total lie—she’d given him her price and he had told that other woman that Arwen was spoken for.

  “Really?” he asked, scratching his head again. “I said that?”

  “You most certainly did.”

  “Well, okay.” he said brightly. “Bring her tomorrow. I’ll find the money somehow.”

  Miranda hoped he wouldn’t have forgotten by then. The money was a different story. Hopefully, his wife would remember to pay her. Perhaps she should send an email…

  * * * *

  Thanks to some contrivance with Levi, Travis had already bought the ring. He’d been a little overwhelmed in the jewelry store until he spotted one particular setting, and somehow, he knew it was the right one. The only problem he faced now was how, where, and when to ask her. Should he pop the question over a candlelight dinner in a fancy restaurant, or should it be after a quiet dinner at home? Or perhaps during a stroll through the pasture? He considered sticking the ring to his dick with a dollop of cookie dough or peanut butter, but he didn’t want to be too kinky or too flippant. His intentions, as the saying went, were honorable, and he wanted her to know that.

  Finally deciding that a more intimate setting was best, he opted to fix dinner for her at her house and ask her then, which was probably the best tactic anyway. No point in making it obvious what he was up to. After all, a proposal should come as a bit of a surprise, and, hopefully, not an unwelcome one.

  Miranda was still up at the barn when he arrived, and his plan was to have everything put away before she returned. He’d already carried in all the bags when he suddenly panicked, frantically patting his pockets for the jewelry box. He found it right where he’d put it, of course, but opened it anyway, if only to reassure himself it was still there. Fumbling as he attempted to stow it back in the breast pocket of his jacket, the box fell into a bag of groceries just as Miranda came through the door.

  “Hey, sweetie. Looks like you’ve been shopping.” Within seconds, she was right there in front of him, greeting him with a hug and a kiss. “Don’t tell me you brought more cookie dough. I think there’s still some of the last batch left. Used to be, it wouldn’t have lasted a whole day, let alone a week.”

  Travis gave her a sheepish grin. “Um, looks like the Travis York method of binge prevention is working.”

  “Yeah, now I binge on your dick,” she said dryly. “I’ve traded one addiction for another.”

  “Yes, but sucking my dick is guaranteed to prevent weight gain.”

  “True—aside from the fact that I can’t get enough peanut butter on it for a good-sized mouthful.”

  Scowling, he pulled out a carton of unsweetened organic soy milk and glanced inside the bag. The jewelry box was nowhere to be seen. Great. “Are you insinuating that my dick isn’t big enough for you?”

  “I’m not insinuating anything. I mean, doling it out in tiny amounts is the whole idea, isn’t it?”

  “Tiny? My dick is not tiny. It’s big enough to make you scream, isn’t it?”

  “Well, yeah… Why are you so touchy all of the sudden?”

  Heat flooded his cheeks. He arched a brow in an attempt to disguise his reaction. “I’m not being touchy. It’s just that I’ve got plans for this evening.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really. Could you just help me put the groceries away?” He knew he sounded a bit snappish, but he still had a chance to retrieve the ring while her back was turned. Unfortunately, she went for the
very sack it had fallen into.

  Crap!

  From her crestfallen expression, he had an idea he’d hurt her feelings, or at the very least pissed her off. Averting her eyes, she began emptying the bag, setting lettuce, tomatoes, cottage cheese out on the table.

  “This stuff is a lot healthier than what you usually buy,” she remarked. “Are you going on a diet?”

  “No, I’m not going on a diet,” he replied, unable to keep the irritation out of his voice. “I don’t live on cookie dough, you know.”

  “I didn’t think you did. These things seem more normal, though. I hadn’t realized I was out of so many things.”

  “Just stocking up.” He reached blindly into another bag and pulled out a package of rib eye steaks.

  Her eyes nearly popped out of her head. “Oh, my God! Steaks cost a fortune nowadays. I’ve quit buying them altogether.”

  “Me, too,” he admitted. “But like I said, I’ve got plans for the evening.”

  She stared at him for a moment, then glanced at the bag of charcoal sitting on the floor.

  “Planning to grill the steaks?”

  “Yep,” he said. “We’re also having baked potatoes and salad, and I’m making chocolate mousse for dessert.”

  “Chocolate mousse? Really? That stuff’s a bitch to make. You’ve got to whip the cream, melt the chocolate—oh.” She stopped short as he held up a package of mousse mix, but she still seemed curious. Too curious. “That would be easier, of course. What’s the occasion?”

  “Nothing special.” Travis couldn’t believe how badly he was handling this. There goes the romantic dinner… With an absent shrug of his shoulders, he stashed a sack of potatoes in the pantry. “Just wanted a steak.”

  Miranda didn’t pursue the matter any further because it sounded pretty good to her. If only she didn’t feel like crying. Thank goodness he’d bought some Kleenex. With her luck, he would start looking for an excuse to leave now, just when she’d admitted she loved him and was starting to depend on him. Just as she’d always feared he would...

  Tears stung her eyes as she opening another bag filled with detergent, fabric softener, and paper towels—he hadn’t been kidding about stocking up. Another bag contained some decidedly male toiletries—body wash, disposable razors, shaving cream, and aftershave. No wonder he always smells so good... A bottle of wine. Candles. Baby oil.