Sutton watched his brothers drive off. He put the three bottles left from the six-pack into the fridge in the garage, knowing he’d be less tempted to drink them all if he had to leave the house to get them.
He changed clothes, flipped on the ball game for some background noise, and snagged his laptop. He typed London Gradsky in the search engine. The top result read:
London’s Bridge To Training A Better Horse
Seriously? That was the worst fucking business slogan he’d ever heard. He clicked on the link.
Hers was a simple website. Contact info via e-mail or phone. Testimonials about her training successes. Links to horse brokers and breeders—no surprise Grade A Horse Farms topped the list—but nowhere did London list her lineage. Interesting.
Lastly, he saw a page with a schedule of summer events.
Sutton scrolled the page. Evidently, London put on training clinics on the weekends during the summer at local fairs and rodeos. For fifty bucks, she’d spend thirty minutes assessing the horse and rider before offering training recommendations.
The cynical side of his brain remembered her cutting words to him and weighed in with: What are the odds she recommends herself as the horse trainer who can miraculously fix bad habits and riders?
But his optimist side crawled out of the dark hole it’d been hiding in since the accident and countered with: Her business wouldn’t last long if she didn’t get results, and the horse training world in Colorado would shun her if she was a shyster.
It looked to him like she’d been putting on these summer clinics for at least a couple years. And every time slot was booked, as well as several people on standby for an open appointment. He scrolled down to the current week’s schedule and his heart skipped a beat.
Score.
She’d be in Fairfax, Colorado, this weekend. That was only thirty miles from here. And score again. Her last slot of the day was still open.
With zero hesitation, he typed in D.L. A-ride and hoped liked hell she had a sense of humor.
And that she wouldn’t chase after him with a horse whip when she realized who he was.
Chapter Two
Worst. Morning. Ever.
London Gradsky glared at the busted coffee maker. She’d spent twenty minutes fiddle-fucking around with the thing to try and get it to work. Giving it up as a lost cause, she’d chucked the whole works outside.
No coffee in her cozy camper meant she had to go to the exhibitors’ and contestants’ tent to get her morning jolt of caffeine. Since she’d just planned on quickly ducking in and out, she hadn’t combed her hair, washed her face, brushed her teeth, or changed out of her pajamas.
And motherfucking, son of a bitch if they weren’t there, Tweedledee and Tweedletwat. Making cowpie eyes at each other while people looked at them with indulgent smiles. She could almost hear the collective sigh of the women in the tent when Stitch gently wiped a smear of powdered sugar off Paige’s cheek then kissed the spot.
Paige giggled and nuzzled him. Her tiara caught on the brim of his cowboy hat, which sent the newly anointed golden couple’s admirers scurrying forward to help them out of such a huge pickle.
Of course no one pointed out how stupid it was that Paige actually wore a fucking tiara to breakfast. The man-stealing bitch probably wore it to bed. Then London drifted into a fantasy where Paige had donned the tiara when she gave Stitch a blowjob and it cut the hell out of his abdomen.
“Sending eye daggers at her while eye fucking him ain’t smart, London,” her on-the-road partner in crime Melissa “Mel” Lockhart said behind her.
“I’m not eye fucking him, I’m eye fucking him up.”
“Doesn’t matter, because that’s not how anyone will see it. Come on, let’s get out of here.”
London allowed herself to be led away. As soon as they were out of screeching range, she exploded. “How in the fuck am I gonna survive this summer, Mel? When every time I turn around I see them sucking each other’s faces off? What does he see in her?”
Mel didn’t answer. She appeared to be hedging, which was not her usual style.
“Just spit it out.”
“Fine. That girl is a bonafide beauty queen. Everyone says she’ll be the next Miss Rodeo America and people treat him like he’s a prince—the heir apparent to take that All Around title at the CRA Championships in a few years. They are a match made in PR heaven. What don’t you get about that?”
“I don’t get how that asswipe could dump me, via text message, after he does one fundraiser with her because it’s true love? Bullshit. No one falls in love in a night.” London paced along the metal fencing. “I wanna choke her with her stupid ‘Miss Rodeo Colorado’ sash and then tie it around his dick until it turns blue and falls off.”
Mel’s hands landed on London’s shoulders and then she was right in her face, her brown eyes flashing concern. “This has gotta stop, London. What the hell did you see in him anyway? He’s looks like Opie from The Andy Griffith Show. I think the only reason you ended up with him in the first place is because you were lonely and wanted a dog.”
“He’s a damn hound dog who needs to be put down,” she muttered.
“Not true, because we both know that man did not rock your world or even the damn camper when you two got down and dirty. He doesn’t know how to be a horndog.”
London couldn’t argue that point.
“Seriously sista, you’re starting to scare me with all these violent scenarios you spout off like horror poetry. Stitch scratching an itch with Paige the underage is not the end of the world. I think the real issue here is you need to get laid by a man who knows what he’s doing. And you’re putting out this I-will-rip-your-dick-off vibe to any man who starts sniffing around you.”
That wasn’t true…was it?
“Find a hot guy and fuck him ’til he can’t walk. Then you’ll be back to strutting around with your head held high instead of acting like a whipped pup.”
“You’re right.”
“Of course I am. Now take a minute and breathe.”
London closed her eyes, inhaled for ten counts, exhaled for ten, and reopened her eyes to gaze at her friend.
The freckle-faced redhead wore a smug look. “Better?”
“Much. Thank you.” Then her gaze narrowed. “Hey, you just did that thing my mother always does. Did she give you instructions on how to get me to cool off?”
“Yes, and I asked her—but she didn’t offer up her magic mom trick freely.”
“When were you hanging out with my mother?” London demanded.
“Uh, since she owns my cutting horse, I see her more than you do.”
“She may own your horse, but I trained Plato so he’ll always love me best.”
“Even my color blind horse can see what you’re wearing is all kinds of wrong because you look like a leprechaun hag. Where did you get those god-awful green pajamas?” Mel leaned closer. “Do they have frogs on them? And sweet baby Jesus on a Vespa…are those frogs baring lipstick-kissed butt cheeks?”
“Yep. Nana gave them to me after Stitch ditched me. Said toads like him could kiss my ass.”
“Appropriate I guess, but still hideous. Come to my horse trailer. I’ve got coffee and everything to banish that outer hag.” She smirked. “You’re on your own getting rid of that inner hag.”
“Fuck off.”
“You love me.”
“I really do.” She looped her arm through Mel’s. “Let’s start making a ‘get London laid’ list of candidates.” She paused. “You still got your little black book of rodeo circuit bad boys?”
“Yep. It’s even color coded by cock size, which circuit they’re on, and their ability to last longer than eight seconds.”
London was hot and tired, but exhilarated after six hours of working with horses and their riders. About three quarters of her clientele were kids under fourteen. It was gratifying, proving to novice equestrians that their animal was under their control. Contrary to belief, she picked up ver
y few new regular clients at fairs and rodeos. The problems she helped with were rider related rather than horse related. The horse issues would take more than a thirty minute fix.
She checked her sign-up list, surprised to see her last opening had been filled. Weird name. D.L. A-ride. No gender or age listed. Was it a joke? D.L. A-ride. She watched the gate for a horse and rider to approach.
After two minutes she closed her eyes, breathing in the familiar scents of hot dirt and manure and livestock, with the occasional whiff of diesel fuel and something sugary like cotton candy or funnel cakes or Bavarian almonds.
“Excuse me,” a deep voice said behind her. “I’m looking for London Gradsky?”
London pushed off the fence and turned around, but the you found her response dried on her tongue. Holy balls was this man hot. Like off the charts hot. Two days’ worth of dark scruff couldn’t hide the sharp angles of his face. Strong, almost square jaw, ridiculously full lips. The guy wore a ball cap and dark shades. A short-sleeved polo in ocean blue accentuated the breadth of his shoulders, the contours of his chest and… Holy smoking double barrels, welcome to the gun show; his biceps were huge. His forearms appeared to have been carved out of marble. She stopped herself from dropping her gaze to his crotch. Had Mel sent this man her way?
“I’m London. Do I know you?” Please don’t tell me you’re a long lost cousin or something.
“Yeah. We met a while back.” He paused. “I signed up for the last class slot because I needed to talk to you.”
Needed. Not wanted. Her skepticism reared its snappish head. “Who are you?”
He encroached on her space, completely throwing her body into shadow and tumult. Then she waited, breath trapped in her lungs for the moment when he tore off his sunglasses.
Eyes as blue as the Caribbean stared back at her.
Fuck me. She knew those eyes. She’d dreamt of those eyes. Although last time she’d seen them up close she’d wanted to spit in them. “Sutton Grant.”
“I reckon a once-over like that is better than the fiery look of hatred I expected.” He grinned.
That grin? With the damn dimples in his cheeks and in his chin? Not fair. She was such a sucker for a devil’s smile boosted by pearly whites. But she’d considered him devil’s spawn after his dealings with her family. In her mind she’d attributed cloven hooves, demon horns, and a forked tongue and tail to him.
Which pissed her off because the man was a piece of art. A real piece of work, too, if he thought she’d let bygones be bygones just so she could stare slack-jawed at his perfect face, spellbinding eyes, and banging body.
“You lied to get a meeting with me?” She snorted. “I see you’re still the same manipulative bastard who follows his own agenda.”
He took another step closer. “I see you’re still the same brat who jumps to conclusions.”
“Yeah? I’m not the one in a piss-poor disguise, douche-nozzle.”
“Douche-nozzle…I don’t even know what that is.”
“Look in the mirror, pal.” Her gaze flicked over him. “A ball cap, a polo shirt, and…no freakin’ way. Are you wearing Mom jeans, Sutton Grant?”
He shot a quick look around and said, “Keep your voice down. No one has recognized me and I’d like to keep it that way.”
“I’ll bet your girlfriend picked this outfit because it is guaranteed to keep you from getting laid. Like ever.”
He scowled. “I don’t have a girlfriend. Now can we skip the insults and cut to the chase? Because I really need to talk to you.”
“You scheduled the time and it ain’t free.” London held out her hand. “Fifty bucks for thirty minutes. The clock starts ticking as soon as you pay up.”
Sutton dug in his front pocket and pulled out a crumpled fifty. “Here.”
“Shoot.”
“It’s about Dial.”
“What did you do to him?”
“It’s more a problem of what I’m not doin’ with him. Due to my injury, he’s been benched the last eight months.”
Now she remembered. Sutton had gotten badly hurt late last fall during his circuit’s last qualifying event for the CRA Finals and ended up with life-threatening internal injuries. “What do you want from me?”
“I’ll hire you to work with Dial, get him back up to speed, since I’m still sidelined.”
“So he’ll be in top condition when you’re back on the circuit?”
A funny look flitted through his eyes and he looked away. “Something like that.”
“Why me?”
“Because we both know the only people who’ve been able to work with him have been you and me.”
She sucked in a few breaths and forced herself to loosen her fists. “This wouldn’t be an issue if you hadn’t browbeaten my folks into selling Dial to you outright. When the breeder owns the horse and a rider goes down, other people are in place to keep the horse conditioned. That responsibility isn’t pushed aside.”
“You think I don’t know that? You think I’m feelin’ good about any of this? Fuck. I hired people to work with him and the stubborn bastard chased them all off. A couple of them literally.”
London smirked. “That’s my boy.”
“Your boy is getting fatter and meaner by the day,” Sutton retorted. “I’m afraid if I let him go too much longer it’ll be too late and he’ll be as worthless as me.”
Worthless? Dude. Look in the mirror much? How could Sutton be out of commission and still look like he’d stepped off the pages of Buff and Beautiful Bulldogger magazine?
“I hope the reason you’re so quiet is because you’re considering my offer.”
London’s gaze zoomed to his. “How do you know you can afford me?”
“I don’t. I get that you’re an expert on this particular horse and I’m willing to pay you for that expertise.” Sutton sidestepped her and rested his big body next to hers—close to hers—against the fence. “I know it’ll sound stupid, but every time I grab the tack and head out to catch Dial to try and work him, even when I’m not supposed to, I feel his frustration that I’m not doin’ more. I ain’t the kind of man that sees a horse—my horse—as just a tool. Your folks knew that about me or they wouldn’t have sold him to me for any amount of money.”
“Yeah. I do know that,” she grudgingly admitted, “but you should also know that I wouldn’t be doin’ this for you or the money, I’d be doin’ it for Dial.”
“That works for me. There’s another reason that I want you. Only you.”
“Which is?”
His unwavering stare unnerved her, as if he was gauging whether he could trust her. Finally he said, “Strictly between us?”
She nodded.
“If it’s decided I’ll never compete again, you’re in the horse world more than I am and you’ll ensure Dial gets where he needs to be.”
London hadn’t been expecting that. Sutton had paid a shit ton for Dial, and he hadn’t suggested she’d help him sell the horse to a proper owner, just that she’d help him find one. In her mind that meant he really had Dial’s best interest at heart. Not that she believed for an instant Sutton Grant intended to retire from steer wrestling. First off, he was barely thirty. Second, rumor had it his drive to win was as wide and deep as the Colorado River.
As she contemplated how to respond, she saw her ex, Stitch, with Princess Paige plastered to his side, meandering their direction.
Dammit. Not now.
After the incident this morning, she’d steered clear of the exhibitor’s hall where the pair had handed out autographs and barf bags. She felt the overwhelming need to escape, but if she booked it across the corral, it’d look like she was running from them.
Screw that. Screw them. She was not in the wrong.
“London? You look ready to commit murder. What’d I say?”
She gazed up at him. The man was too damn good-looking, so normally she wouldn’t have a shot at a man like him. But he did say he’d do anything…
“Okay,
here’s the deal. I’ll work with Dial, but you’ve gotta do something for me. Uh, two things actually.”
“Name them.”
How much to tell him? She didn’t want to come off desperate. Still, she opted for the truth. “Backstory: my boyfriend dumped me via text last month because he’d hooked up with a rodeo queen. Because he and I were together when I made my summer schedule, that means I will see them every fucking weekend. All summer.”
“And?”
“And I don’t wanna be known as that poor pathetic London Gradsky pining over her lost love.”
Sutton’s eyes turned shrewd. “Are you pining for him?”
“Mostly I’m just pissed. It needs to look like I’ve moved on. So I realize your nickname is ‘The Saint’ and you don’t—”
“Don’t call me that,” he said crossly. “Tell me what you need.”
“The first thing I’d need is you to play the part of my new boyfriend.”
That shocked him, but he rallied with, “I can do that. When does this start?”
“Right now, ’cause here they come.” London plastered her front to his broad chest and wreathed her arms around his neck. “And make this look like the real deal, bulldogger.”
“Any part of you that’s hands off for me?”
She fought the urge to roll her eyes. Of course “The Saint” would ask first. “Nope.”
Sutton bestowed that fuck-me-now grin. “I can work with that.” He curled one hand around the back of her neck and the other around her hip.
When it appeared he intended to take his own sweet time kissing her, she took charge, teetering on tiptoe since the man was like seven feet tall. After the first touch of their lips, he didn’t dive into her mouth in a fake show of passion. He rubbed his half-parted lips across hers, each pass silently coaxing her to open up a little more. Each tease of his breath on her damp lips made them tingle.
She muttered, “Kiss me like you mean business.”
Those deceptively gentle kisses vanished and Sutton unleashed himself on her. Lust, passion, need. The kiss was way more powerful and take charge than she’d expected from a man nicknamed “The Saint.”
Roped In: A Blacktop Cowboys® Novella (1001 Dark Nights) Page 2