He’d had to block out the ugly things Rich said to him that day. Rich had told Jake that he’d only been sleeping with Jake for what he could get out of the relationship and it was all over. Then Rich had told him to get the hell out.
Remembering just how good it had been between them made Jake’s hand slow down as he soaped his body. He and Rich had been a team, both on the course and behind the scenes. The first time they’d kissed had been one of those spontaneous moments of joy that had caught fire and turned into so much more. Rich had been struggling all day to get his mount over a ditch on a cross-country course, and his exultation over his success had been contagious. When Jake met him back at the trailer, they’d managed to end up in a clinch pressed up against the side of the van, kissing as though they would never kiss another living soul again, grasping and pulling at each other’s clothing.
“Get a stall,” one of the Angels had good-naturedly called out when she’d come around the corner of the horse van. They had jumped apart like scalded cats and sheepishly avoided each other’s glances the rest of the day.
That was the first time Jake had fully grasped the concept of delayed gratification. His cock had been heavy and full in the confinements of his breeches, throbbing with want while they went about the inevitable tasks of getting the horses back home and the gear stowed away. Finally, finally, Tom had cut them loose for the evening, and they’d made their way back to Rich’s place.
Apparently, it had all been a lie. Rich had been just using him.
Still, Jake’s cock filled at the memory. As he stood in the shower, he took hold of his dick with one soapy hand. Rich, with his lean, almost painfully thin body. Rich with his crooked smile and that tight little ass. Rich kissing him against a wall, hungrily fucking Jake’s mouth with his tongue. Jake had known he preferred guys, but no one seemed worth the risk of his father’s wrath until he’d met Rich. Rich had been worth everything.
Jake bent forward to place one hand on the wall in front of him, out of the direct spray so he could continue the lazy stroking of his cock. Other memories crowded in now. Rich kneeling on the bed in front of him, holding his cheeks apart so Jake could lick and tease his hole. Rich on his back, knees pulled into his chest; the muscles of his neck corded as he pushed back into the pillows and begged Jake to fuck him. Rich on top of him, riding his cock as he would a bronco. Days that had been filled with grueling physical exertion. Nights where they had fallen into bed in exhaustion, and mornings when he’d woken to Rich’s sly smile and a sensual, languorous blowjob.
He moved his hand faster, jacking himself furiously as he stoked his memories. The inarticulate cries Rich made when he was getting close. The look on his face when he finally came. His sheer determination to wring all the possible pleasure out of Jake, bringing him to the edge again and again before taking him over. The sight of his dick sliding in and out of Rich’s ass, and the way Rich would reach between them and touch them where their bodies met….
He rocked his pelvis, his hand alternately speeding up and slowing on his cock as the memories flashed before him. The steam of the shower and the sensation of the water added to the indulgence of his fantasy. It wasn’t the first time he’d jacked off to memories of being with Rich. No doubt, it wouldn’t be the last. He imagined himself pumping into Rich from behind, his hands on Rich’s waist as he snapped his hips forward. He recalled every little detail. The scent that was uniquely Rich, the heat that could only come from skin-to-skin contact, the rush of biting down on Rich’s shoulder as he came.
Jake’s cock jerked and pulsed in his hand as his orgasm ripped through him. The steam filled the shower stall with a fine mist as he rested his head along his forearm. He let his mouth fall open as he rode out the wave of sensation, surprised at the intensity.
Well, it had been a while, after all.
Goddamn, just the same.
Rich’s temper got the best of him. He pulled out of the parking lot at a wholly inappropriate rate of speed considering the proximity to the stables and the curving drive. Jake was visible in the rearview mirror, watching him drive away, the same, tall, lean figure he’d always been. The years had not only been good to Jake, the clock had stopped on his behalf.
Well, why not? He has the Midas touch, doesn’t he?
Okay, maybe he was being unfair. Jake had been injured in the accident too. And he’d lost both his horses and his shot for gold in Beijing. Yet, Jake was still competing and now in contention for the Olympic Team. With Rich’s leg the way it was, sometimes even walking was an effort. Riding in the Olympics was so far from reality it couldn’t even be a fantasy. Jake had been luckier. He’d always been the golden boy of the sport.
Rich eased on the brake as soon as he was out of sight of the barn. The memory of his first visit to Foxden flooded over him. It had been a spring day, just like this one. The Bradford pear trees lining the drive were in full bloom, and each stirring of the breeze sent a shower of petals flurrying to the ground like a freak snow storm. Then, as now, the beautifully manicured farm had spoken volumes about wealth and good taste. Rich had known immediately that he didn’t belong there. He’d have turned around and left, only the drive had been too narrow for that.
He realized he was gripping the wheel so hard it made his fingers hurt. This was no good—he couldn’t drive all the way home like this—and he pulled off on the verge. When the car rolled to a stop, he lowered the window and pushed himself back into the seat, taking a deep breath. He forced himself to let go of the wheel, flexing his fingers as he stretched out his shoulders. With a sigh, he shifted uncomfortably in the driver’s seat, continuing to take calming breaths.
He thumped a fist on the steering wheel, grimacing when it hurt more than he’d expected.
What was he doing here? This was a big mistake. Okay, there was no way he could turn Tom down, not for something like this. Not after Tom had taken a chance on him in the first place. Not when Tom had largely been responsible for Rich’s success as a trainer when the accident had grounded him. If it hadn’t been for Tom recommending Rich to various clients over the years, Rich would never have achieved the level of prestige he had now. He owed Tom a lot.
But still. Coming back to Foxden was a stupid thing for him to have done.
He idly wished for a cigarette, understanding for the first time why someone would want to smoke. Like cleaning the lenses on a pair of glasses, it was something to occupy the hands, a soothing routine that bought time to cool down and think before acting rashly. He could picture his mother’s nicotine-stained fingers tapping another cigarette out of the pack, the cellophane crinkling with the movement. They probably didn’t wrap cigarettes in cellophane anymore. No matter. A second memory of his mother’s harsh cough and her smoke-roughened voice killed any desire to actually develop such a habit, even if working in a barn didn’t prohibit it altogether. Huh. Maybe subconsciously that’s why he’d chosen to work with horses for a living. A psychologist would probably have a field day with that one.
There. He’d managed to go a whole thirty seconds without thinking about Jake Stanford.
I’m so fucking screwed.
His mother’s vocabulary had been one of the few things he’d been unable to abolish from his life when he’d left home at eighteen. He still salted casual sentences with expletives as though they were merely colorful adjectives. Clearly, he’d done a shitty job of erasing her influence over him.
Damn, Jake looked good. Same smoky eyes that changed color with the light. Same unruly, black hair. Though unlikely, the black T-shirt and tan breeches he wore today could have been the same ones he’d been wearing when Rich first laid eyes on him. No, Jake was no longer the lean youth of Rich’s past. He’d matured into his features, age granting power to what had previously been merely attractive.
Even if Rich could go back in time, he knew he wouldn’t change anything except the way things had ended between them. That he would do differently. But how could he have known? When Tom Banks had approached him at th
e last horse trial of the 2005 season, he’d been flattered beyond all belief. Tom had complimented Rich on his win with Argo and asked about her breeding. There’d been no point in trying to bullshit someone with Tom’s eye for a horse. Rich had admitted to buying the Belgian-cross mare off a slaughter truck for two hundred and fifty dollars. Instead of instantly dismissing the horse as not being worth his time, Banks had turned speculative, asking Rich about the training he’d done with her.
The next thing he knew, Tom had invited him to come train with him the following spring. It had been a major turning point in Rich’s life—the opportunity to become a serious competitor.
Offers like that didn’t come to someone like Rich Evans. Up until then he’d managed to be competitive with his slaughterhouse horse, but showing horses was a pastime for the wealthy or the very determined. There was no way Rich could have turned Tom down even if he’d wanted to.
It was hard to believe that was almost ten years ago now. Where had the time gone? Well, that was easy enough to answer. The first couple of years Tom had taught him everything he knew about training and competing horses was wrong—or at least it had felt that way at the time. In the end, he’d discovered Tom’s way was the best way. He’d been happy, so very happy. He was riding great horses with a fantastic trainer and he was loving Jake. His life was better than he’d ever expected it to be—right up until the night of the wreck.
After the crash, he’d spent the next eight years putting his life back together.
Face it. You’re better off now than you were then.
He hadn’t had what it took to be a great rider. It didn’t matter how hard Rich trained, he couldn’t effortlessly spot his distances the way Jake could, nor trust when to stay out of the horse’s way and let it make the decisions. Jake rarely came off a horse and seemed to know instinctively how to take the best approach to every obstacle. Rich didn’t have that underlying core of “screw it” that made a rider close their legs around their horse and push it through when the animal would have quit, that looked ahead to the next fence with absolute confidence that the horse would get them there.
No matter. He was a damn fine trainer if he did say so himself. He had a gift for getting the best out of a horse and rider, no matter what their ability. He was patient with the nervous adult amateurs who came to him because they were too afraid to go to one of the really big names in the business. But if Tom hadn’t stood behind him after the accident, he’d probably be coaching Pony Clubbers. Tom had been there for him.
Unlike some people he could name.
That still hurt, even after all this time. For Tom’s sake, he make this work. He’d pretend everything between him and Jake was water long gone under the bridge.
Well, isn’t it?
Of course it was. Today was nothing like his first trip out to Foxden. Neither was meeting Jake again, except for that first little electric jolt of recognition on seeing him closeup as opposed to across the width of an eventing course with both of them making a point of keeping their distance. It wasn’t like he and Jake could have avoided each other forever. The horse world was a small one, practically incestuous. A small smile edged its way onto Rich’s face. Yeah. It had only been a matter of time.
Still, Rich had thought it would happen on neutral ground and in a public arena, such as the Horse Center at Lexington or at Commonwealth Park. Seeing Jake at Foxden was like stepping back in time. Almost like the first time, which was seared into his memory, grounded in equal parts admiration, longing, and embarrassment.
Becky had led him to the tack room so he could store his gear. The moment he’d stepped into the room, it had been clear just how lucky he was to be there. Rows of gleaming bridles hung from hooks on the far wall with the covered saddles beneath them, each marked with a brass nameplate. This tack room had been a far cry from the schooling barns where he’d learned to ride, where saddles sometimes were green with mold and the leather often cracked to the point of being unsafe. The smell of new, clean leather had made him close his eyes and take an appreciative, deep breath before he left the room. To this day, nothing smelled better.
Then again, maybe there were one or two things better. He wondered if Jake still wore that aftershave that smelled of cedar and sandalwood.
At the time, his only thought had been finding Tom and starting his internship at Foxden. Making a fool of himself with the boss’s son hadn’t been on the list at all. His attraction to Jake, as well as his admiration for his horsemanship, had caught Rich off guard, and he’d very nearly lost his new job in the first ten minutes of his arrival by accidentally spooking a horse Jake was working with. Hard to believe it had been ten years ago. He wasn’t even the same person anymore.
Hopefully not that stupid, at any rate.
It was weird seeing Tom today without his faithful little red heeler at his side. What had been her name? Oh, right. Cricket. Rich supposed Cricket was gone now. Ten years was a long time in the life of a dog, and she’d been middle-aged then.
A cold thought entered his mind: presuming Cricket was indeed dead, and wasn’t taking an extremely geriatric snooze somewhere in the barn, what if Tom had decided not to get another dog because of the cancer?
Rich thrust that thought away. Tom was going to be all right. He had to be all right.
He could only imagine the effect this news was having on Jake. No wonder Tom had chosen to announce both his need for treatment and his decision to use Rich as his replacement practically in the same breath. The double whammy had probably knocked Jake off-kilter, rendering him unable to react fully to either at the time. He hoped Tom knew what he was doing.
Like a dog searching for a way under a fence to get at his prize, Rich’s thoughts circled around to Jake again. In the time Rich had known him, Jake had never had a pet of his own. Horses, yes. And he’d seemed genuinely fond of Cricket. He’d instinctively known to ignore Rich’s prickly cat during the times he’d come to Rich’s apartment until the cat couldn’t bear the lack of acknowledgment any longer. Unbidden and unwelcome, a memory surfaced of Jake sleeping in a T-shirt and briefs on his couch, and Brainchild curled up in the middle of his chest. But Jake had no pets of his own.
Rich had asked him about it once, and Jake’s face had gone into lockdown mode, putting up no trespassing signs the way it always did when Rich strayed too close to some ill-defined no-fly zone.
“I had a dog once,” Jake had said. “He died.”
End of discussion.
A meadowlark trilling in a nearby field made Rich close his eyes and lean back against the headrest. Funny how a sound or scent could take him back in an instant to better memories. His breath slowed as he thought of the things that calmed and soothed him. The purring of a cat next to him in the middle of the night. A horse cropping grass at the end of a lead rope. The rich scent of fresh-cut hay, and Jake, backlit by the sun, smiling as he plucked a piece of grass from Rich’s hair. The warmth of Jake’s lips when he leaned down for a kiss.
No. Not going there.
Ten years ago, the pressure Rich had felt to succeed had been enormous. He’d sold Argo for a tidy profit so he could live off the money he’d made from her sale while working under Tom’s tutelage, since it would be impossible to hold a second job at the same time. He’d pretty much cashed in all his chips to make that bet on his future, and he’d have been sunk if it hadn’t have paid off.
At the time, Rich had been so keen to make a good impression, he’d forgotten one of the basic rules of working with horses. Spying Tom on the far side of the arena, Rich had entered the ring, despite the fact someone was working a horse in it. Oh sure, he made note of the incredibly hot guy working a nervous, black Thoroughbred down at the far end, but Rich hadn’t asked permission before entering the area. The horse had exploded at the unseemly interruption, galloping madly at the end of the lunge line, towing the horseman behind him as he tried to regain control—the horseman who’d turned out to be the boss’s son.
As intro
ductions went, it could have gone better.
What if things had gone differently that day? What if Tom had kicked him out after his idiotic behavior? He tried to picture himself living a life that did not revolve around horses. He could have gone back to school. The money from Argo’s sale would have paid for the first couple of years. Hard work would have gotten him a scholarship, of that he had no doubt. He’d worked hard for everything he’d ever wanted, and he’d always gotten it in the end.
Well, mostly.
That very first day, Jake could have been a dick about Rich’s stupidity, could have kicked Rich off the farm, but he didn’t. Rich had watched in horrified mortification as Jake slowly regained control of the runaway horse, and then Jake and Tom both had been rather blasé about the entire thing.
“I am so sorry,” Rich had stammered. “You could’ve been seriously hurt.”
“No,” Jake had said with that easy smile of his. “If that had been likely, I would’ve let go.”
“And the horse would have learned running away works.” Rich had been prepared to pick up his things and go, which might have been why his next words were so formal. “I apologize for precipitating a dangerous situation.”
Jake’s smile turned into a smirk. “Big words there, Professor.”
It was the first time Rich had been called a name with amusement. He’d thought he’d found love and acceptance at Foxden, but he’d been exiled. In some ways, it would’ve been better not to have had it at all.
Rich gave himself a little shake and turned the key in the ignition. He wondered where Argo was now. He’d liked the mare and would have liked to have bred her. If he’d had the facility to maintain a broodmare and foal, which he hadn’t at the time.
Oh well. What’s done is done.
The same could be said for the way things had ended between him and Jake. No use crying about it now.
Jake Stanford was a selfish bastard to whom Rich had given his heart and watched it get trampled. He wasn’t about to do this all over. This was for Tom.
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