Love Tangle: Riding Bareback

by S. E. Margaux

  “Oh, I just came to see if Jo was home,” she said, quickly. She couldn’t pretend she was looking for Sally, what if he told her where she was? And Nikki and Bella didn’t live here. She realized, with a pang, and another burst of red-hot pain in her stomach, that it was only Jo now. How could she trust any of the others, when any of them might have been… Maybe all of them. She could ask them, she knew, but she was done. She was done feeling weak and useless and betrayed. Whatever anyone was doing with Tristan was not her problem.

  Not her problem.

  And Jo, sweet, loyal Jo, she would be there, Anita knew, she’d be there for her until this all blew over. Until Tristan left. Until Anita got over it.

  If she could.

  “Oh, I think I saw her on the roof of the barn. Where we were the other night,” he said, crossing over to her. “You still have stars to show me,” he said softly, reaching out her hand, but she quickly pulled it away.

  “Yeah. Sure.”

  He frowned. “Anita, are you ok?”

  “I’m fine.”

  He grinned at her again, that sunshine-filled smile that kindled a warmth deep inside of her. The kind of smile that almost made her forget what she had read, about the lies, about the deception. She briefly wondered if she could forget it all: the world they inhabited together was so removed from her reality, did this new truth really matter? Could she ignore it for those singular moments of pleasure? Could she pretend--

  “I kind of wanted to speak to you about--”

  No. The sunshine was tortured with bruised clouds and the promise of thunder. She didn’t want to tantalize herself with promises of paradise anymore. The world they had inhabited together had been magical, but the bubble had burst. It was time to get back to reality. “I need to find Jo.”

  She breezed past him, and his arm brushed her shoulder like a bolt of lightning, and then she was gone. The barn was only a few minutes away. All she had to do was hold out for a few minutes. Striding, back straight, face set, hair billowing behind her, she must have looked, she thought, perfectly in control. Never mind what she felt inside. The desperation, the devastation, she balled it up until there was nothing left but fury. Desperation would eat away at her. Fury, she could work with.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  -

  A storm was approaching.

  Anita had checked the barn, but Jo had left. She was probably in the stables — some of the horses got nervous during storms, and Midnight was especially restless. Sliding open the heavy stable doors, Anita saw the empty horse stalls and felt empty herself. Through the open door at the other end, she could just see the horses, grazing in the pasture, tails flicking. She pulled the door closed behind her and leaned up against it, stifling a sob.

  Suddenly she heard a rustling. She straightened up, took a deep breath. “Jo?” she said softly. Someone stepped out of Willow’s stall.

  “Oh, hey,” said Raoul. He pulled his headphones from his head and slung them casually around his neck. “I didn’t know anyone else was here.” Shirtless and glistening with sweat, he wiped his forehead on the back of his gloved hand. The headphone cord lay against his sculpted chest, twisting in a knot around the dark hair trailing lightly down his toned abs, disappearing into the pocket of his jeans.

  Anita felt as if she were seeing Raoul for the first time. His wayward black hair was matted and disheveled, but it fell perfectly across his chocolate brown eyes; and something about the square of his strapping shoulders and his glittering, moist skin made Anita forget why she was upset. Standing in that stable, she felt as if the only thing that she wanted and indeed would ever want was standing right in front of her.

  He set the rake against the stable wall, below a shelf of riding helmets, soft leather saddles and a dangling row of riding crops. He cocked his head. “Anita? Are you ok?”

  She walked slowly towards him. The dusky yellow light filtering through the sliver of open stable door cast a shadowy glow against his sculpted torso. She lightly fingered the soft leather of a riding crop, tugging it gently from the wall. Then, very deliberately, she placed the end of the riding crop against the gleaming bow of his collarbone.

  He breathed in sharply, and she slowly raised her eyes to meet his. His dark eyes looked at her questioningly, but he did not pull away. Holding his gaze, she traced the riding crop down his muscled chest and stomach. As she passed his navel, she felt his whole body tense. He held his breath as she slid down to the top button of his jeans… and then she sharply pulled the riding crop away and slapped it against his thigh. He gasped as she slipped her hand into his pocket.

  Pulling out his Walkman, she twisted her finger around the cord. “You should take this off,” she whispered.

  Raoul grabbed her and wrapped his strong arms around her waist. With the riding crop between her teeth, he lifted her up and pressed her against the wooden beam of the stall box as she twined her legs around his brawny body, crossing her riding boots behind his back. Dropping the Walkman to the stable floor, she tugged the cord from his neck and tossed the headphones to the side. He kissed her neck, moving his lips from the soft skin beneath her jaw to the slopes and valleys of her collarbones. The heady scent of straw mingled with his sticky sweat. Anita breathed in his skin. She remembered the sharp, zesty fragrance, like a fresh cut lime, of Tristan's cologne.

  She felt him pushing against her, hard. Hard. She groaned as he kissed down her chest. Gripping her ass in one hand, he deftly unbuttoned the top of her shirt, kissing urgently between the folds of white fabric. His warm, wet tongue gently massaged the soft skin of her breast, slowly maneuvering to her erect nipple. He sucked on it, nibbling lightly as Anita writhed with pleasure.

  She ran her fingers through his midnight hair and was surprised by how silken it was. She thought of Tristan’s tangled, disheveled mop of hair. Running her hand down Raoul’s strong, taut neck, she fumbled at the button of his jeans — but just as she unfastened it, he pushed her hand back above her head. Smirking, she tilted her head back, exposing her neck for Raoul to lick, suck and bite as he pushed her denim skirt up around her waist and grabbed the riding crop from her red lips.

  Anita gasped as she felt Raoul delicately slide the riding crop up her thigh, gently tracing a line on her warm skin. Tristan’s face swam in her mind; she recalled the touch of his fingers on her legs in the lake; she pushed the thought away. Raoul played lightly with the lace of her underwear, tugging it to one side with the soft leather of the whip. He hesitated; not in uncertainty, but with delicious anticipation. The riding crop circled her pleasure, traced again the taut muscles of her thighs, and again, faster this time. Stroking and spanking her gently, rhythmically, he smiled as a small moan escaped her lips. She thrust her hips against him as he brought her ever closer to climax, gasping in exhilaration.

  Suddenly he dropped the riding crop, and she panted in disappointment. Her disappointment would be only momentary, though: he unzipped his jeans. Anita felt his engorged pleasure throbbing with desire as he thrust himself into her. She moaned as he pulsed inside of her.

  “Turn me round,” she whispered, and she unwrapped her legs from his torso. Holding her waist, he lifted her easily. Anita leaned against the stable box door as Raoul lifted up her ass and pushed his pleasure into her again. The sound of his gratified moans thrilled her as he pulled her to him, wrapping his hot, rippling body around her. He gently but urgently squeezed her breasts, rolling the stiff nipples between his thumb and forefinger. Anita groaned, pushing her ass against his hips. Above and outside, a clap of thunder announced the oncoming storm.

  Once the immediate feeling of euphoria had begun to fade, and the shuddering of Raoul’s pleasure had ceased, she didn’t feel as triumphant as she thought she would.

  He pulled out of her, straightening up, zipping his jeans. Anita wriggled her skirt down and began buttoning her shirt. She felt Raoul step up behind her: she let his warmth envelop her as he ran his hands across her clothed breasts and thighs. She turned
around and he kissed her on the mouth for the first time, squeezing her to him.

  He smiled as she pulled away. “That was, uh, unexpected,” he said softly. Anita opened her mouth to reply but was stopped in her tracks as the stable door opened.

  A pair of piercing blue eyes glared through the violet evening light.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  -

  Something wasn’t right.

  Tristan wasn’t sure what had just happened; but when Anita left the guest house, something didn’t seem right. The cold way she had looked at him, the blasé way she had breezed out of the house. No jokes, no lingering looks…

  Sally came in, on the phone, brow furrowed.

  “No. No, don’t come over. No. What letter?”

  “Are you okay?” Tristan mouthed. She gave him a feeble smile and a thumbs-up, before going to her room and closing the door.

  He quietly made a cup of coffee, gingerly moving about the kitchen so as not to disturb Sally’s conversation. He gave the living room a quick turnover, stacking up papers on the table, grabbing the empty mugs to wash, and cleaned up the kitchen. He didn’t have anything to prove to Sally, he felt like they were becoming good friends; the same was not true for Jo, who seemed to be harboring a grudge of some kind, but Tristan was determined to be a good house guest.

  But still, the feeling persisted that something wasn’t right. Outside, night was falling. A violent violet hue tinged the horizon beneath bruised yellow clouds. A storm was coming. Tristan felt unsettled.

  A clap of thunder spurred him into motion. He wanted to speak with her — that had been his resolve this morning. What had changed?

  He left the guesthouse and made his way across the yard. A strong wind was picking up. Anita had gone to find Jo — she’d be in the barn. He hoped she was still there. The last thing he wanted was a scene up in the big house.

  The roof of the barn looked empty, but Tristan climbed up the ladder and peeked through the skylight just in case.

  “Jo?”

  No answer. He wondered where she might be, if she wasn’t home or in the barn, and made his way, at a run, to the stable. Tristan slowed as he approached the stable. Apart from the sharp whistling of the wind, the yard was quiet. The stable door was eerily ajar; Tristan had only ever seen it wide open or shut tight. Reaching out a hand to slide the door open, a sound from within made him stop.

  He heard a rustling, a grunting, a quick breathless panting. Was it just the horses? Stepping closer to the door and peering through the gap, Tristan squinted into the half-lit stable.

  Silhouetted in the dark, the erect figure of a man was thrusting against the soft, curving form of a woman. The light caught only the outline of their form, though their faces remained anonymous. Embarrassed, Tristan began to step back; then Anita groaned loudly, flipping her long black hair over her shoulder.

  Tristan froze. He watched the man thrust once, twice more, and still. He wanted to move. His mind was screaming for him to move. He wanted nothing more than to unsee this whole moment. But his feet were glued to the spot. The single glimpse of her ecstatic, pleasure-filled face was seared in his mind eternally.

  He watched her wriggle down her skirt, fix her shirt, and then the man stepped forward into another embrace. Tristan could watch no more. In his mind, he walked away; in reality, he opened the stable door.

  It creaked loudly as he rolled it open. His furious eyes found hers in the dark. He saw something in her face; surprise, shock, anger?

  “Anita?”

  Raoul turned around. He was shocked. “Um. Hi,” he croaked. “I, uh, better get the horses in. Storm’s coming.” Raoul jogged out of the stable.

  Tristan could barely feel the straw-laden concrete floor below him as he crossed the stable. His fury made him fly. But he tried to remain calm. He tried to not jump to conclusions, but--

  “Anita?” he asked again. He could see it now on her face: surprise, yes. Anger, more so. And something else, still, which bubbled up into the wet sparkle of her eyes, the slight purse of her lips.

  “What?” she spat back.

  He laughed a short, barking laugh. It was mirthless; cold. “Oh, right, ok. So you’re with him?”

  “What does it matter who I’m with?” she asked defiantly.

  “What does it — what does it matter?” he shot back. “I thought we-- how long have you been with him, then? You kept that quiet.”

  “Well, we all have our secrets, Tristan,” she said bitterly. “At least I didn’t--”

  Anita was cut off by a bloodcurdling scream from across the yard. They turned in unison, the fight forgotten.

  Tristan darted into the yard, scanning for the source of the scream: and his eyes rested not on a person but the guesthouse. Blazing like the sun, billowing plumes of purple smoke into the midnight sky--

  “Oh my goodness,” Anita cried behind him, as screams of “FIRE!” tore across the silent yard.

  Racing towards the guesthouse, the two arrived to find Jo being restrained by Nikki and Bella. Tristan surveyed the scene. The single story guest house was completely engulfed in a fury of flames, flickering golden and crimson, spitting sparks into the night sky. A dark green Chevy parked to the side of the house was already covered in soot and ash. Another rumble of thunder echoed across the blackening sky, and the first drop of rain fell.

  “She’s in there! SHE’S IN THERE!” Jo screamed, trying to wrestle her skinny arms free of her friends’ strong grip. Bella’s face was pale, Nikki’s cheeks were streaming with tears. Jo howled in frustration.

  “Who’s in there?” Anita yelled.

  “Sally!” cried Jo, choking on a sob. Anita darted forward, but Tristan pulled her back. “No,” he said, “stay here.”

  As Tristan ran towards the house, a silhouetted figure began to stumble from the flames. Shielding his face against the burning heat of the fire, Tristan called out: “Sally?” but was met only with a throaty cough.

  The figure stumbled on, tripping down, dropping something to the ground. Tristan ran forward. Face down in the ash-strewn dirt was Connor; at his side, Sally, covered in damp towels, with a cloth across her mouth.

  The girls were at his side as he rolled the two lifeless figures over, shaking them. “Sally! Sally! Sally!” Bella shouted, shaking her. The girls lifted her between them, dragging her further from the flames. Tristan pulled Connor back to a safe distance.

  Sally was sitting up, coughing, when he lay Connor down beside her. Sally looked dazed until she saw his body in front of her.

  “Connor,” she screamed, shaking him. Her hands clenched in little fists gripping his burnt and torn shirt. His eyes were closed, his mouth agape. “Connor,” she repeated, crying, pounding her fists feebly against his chest. “Wake up, wake up, wake up.”

  Bella gestured for everyone to step back, and the group moved away, without breaking the protective circle. Anita’s face was ashen. Jo was clasping her hand tightly, tears flowing freely down her cheeks. Nikki was crying silently, the fire reflected in her glistening cheeks. Bella, her face as blank and unmoved as ever, could not disguise the fear in her eyes. In the distance, a siren wailed as the fire crackled on behind them.

  Sally buried her face into Connor’s chest. “Wake up,” she begged, pressing her lips to his.

  Connor coughed slightly, wheezed, coughed again. Sally started crying harder, repeating his name in between sobs.

  “Sally,” he coughed, “Sally, I--” but his wheezing cut him off as he gasped for air.

  “You saved me,” she cried into him, squeezing his hand. “You saved me, you saved my life. Connor, please don’t leave me.”

  The glowing red and blue of an ambulance tore up the drive, followed by a piercing ring of the local fire truck. The truck headed straight for the blaze, while Tristan waved the ambulance over to the sad huddle of people.

  “Connor, just hold on, the ambulance is here,” Sally sobbed.

  “I have to… tell… you some... thing,” he wheeze
d between coughs.

  “Connor, it can wait. You saved me. Why did you save me, you could have gotten out. You saved me,” she cried, her tears now pooling on the ground with the rainstorm.

  Connor grasped her hand. He coughed; blinked twice. A single tear cleared a track in the black soot on his face. “Love,” he coughed, “requires... sacrifice.” His eyes rolled back into his head and he wheezed again as Sally started screaming his name. Paramedics surrounded the lifeless body, pulling him from Sally’s tight grasp onto a stretcher.

  “She should go to the hospital, too,” Tristan said to the paramedics, gesturing the crumpled, crying heap of Sally, now surrounded by her friends. Sobs wracked her body in long, shuddering waves.

  “I’ll go with her,” said Jo instantly. She led Sally to the ambulance, helping her in the back. The doors slammed, and the three figures watched it race out of sight down the driveway.

  The four of them stood outside watching the firemen fight the blaze. They watched the flames fall and rise, burn from crimson to violet. They stood, fixed to the spot in silence until, in the darkness, the sooty, steaming wreckage of the guesthouse was revealed amidst the smoke. Only the concrete pillars still stood, though these, too, were now crumbling. The wooden frame of the house had disappeared; the glass from the windows melted or smashed. The metal from the doorknobs lay in the piles of splintered wood and charcoal.

  It was eventually Tristan who led them in from the rain, Tristan who made the tea, and Tristan who answered the phone from the hospital: Connor was dead.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  -

  The storm had died down somewhat in the past day and now fell as a steady drizzle over the ranch. The living room of the main house was quiet. Nikki and Jo sat at the table, beers in hand. Nikki had long since given up on pretending to read her textbook and was now staring absentmindedly at the page, reading the words but understanding none of them. Jo was drawing circles on the oak table with the moisture from the beer bottle, watching the wood darken and then dry up again in an endless cycle. Anita sat by the windowsill, the alcove sheltering her, blanket wrapped around her shoulders. She watched the rain create patterns on the window, mesmerized by how the droplets ran down the glass to join other streams, to pool together at the windowpane. Sally looked utterly forlorn on the sofa, in a pair of Anita’s pajamas. Her own had gone up in smoke, along with all her other possessions. Along with the man who had saved her life. All four sat in complete silence, the shock of what had happened still hanging over them like a veil, none really sure what to say, or if to speak at all.