02-Let It Ride (4 page)

He shifted, reliving that look as if it were happening right now, and propped a foot on the railing to mask the need to adjust himself. Then he scolded himself for thinking things he shouldn’t be thinking about a friend and a colleague. He was here to do a job, not fantasize.

Focus renewed, he watched Bridge lean down and yank a flapping tail of rope to release the horse’s flank strap while the cowboy half jumped, half slid from the bronco to Marty’s horse, then to the ground. There was no grace in the cowboy’s dismount, but this weekend’s competitors were students learning the necessary skills to reach the pro-tour level. A little shaky looking but otherwise okay, the cowboy made his way out of the arena while Bridge guided the bronco toward the exit gate. The bronc snorted and threw its head, spinning around in an attempted escape, but Bridge anticipated the move, and with subtle commands, his horse about-faced and bolted ahead of the runaway steed. The smooth, relaxed way Bridge sat in his saddle, the thick muscular thighs that seemed glued to his horse’s side, and how his shirt stretched across his broad back as he reined his horse with one hand and swung the lasso with the other captivated Eric.

With the bronco and cowboy safely out of the ring and the crew preparing for the next ride, Bridge and Marty rode back to their guard point beside the chutes. Bridge scanned the rails, and his gaze landed on Eric by the arena exit, where he was stationed for quick access in case of emergency. Even from across the arena and shadowed under the brim of his hat, that stare punched Eric dead center in his solar plexus. Bridge tipped his hat once before returning his attention to his job.

Jesus.
Eric ran a finger along the collar of his shirt, pulling it away from his skin to catch a bit of breeze. Why was a man he’d been told was straight pinging his gaydar so hard? Especially at times like now, when Bridge kept looking over at him. Stealing quick glances as though he was making sure Eric was still there or to see if Eric was watching him.

Then there was the way Bridge had flirted with him last night . . . At first he’d thought Bridge had just had a few too many drinks and had been trying to get a rise out of him, but the burning fire in those warm eyes . . . That wasn’t a man playing—that man had wanted him. Eric knew it right down to his very marrow. Bridge was not at all as straight as everyone seemed to think.

And therein lay the problem.

Last year, when he’d just met them all, if Bridge had pulled what he had last night, Eric would’ve taken him home in a heartbeat. But things had changed. Now Bridge, Marty, and Kent had become the best and closest friends he’d had in as long as he could remember. A situation that made him want to bounce with happiness, and at the same time retreat behind the self-made shield that protected him from ever being let down again. At some point, the party would end like it always did—or be taken away from him—so that layer of protection was necessary. But for the first time in years, he’d allowed himself to make friends. More than that, for as relatively new as his friendship with them was, he felt as if he’d always known the trio, and that sense of complete acceptance kept him hanging around and settling deeper into their fold.

He would not make a mess of things by letting himself fall for Bridge—who may or may not even play for his team. If he did that and things went the way they always did, he’d end up losing them all. And that was a risk he wasn’t willing to take.

“Here, man.” Eric jumped at the sound of Tripp’s voice right next to him, so lost in his thoughts that he hadn’t heard the man approach. “Coffee.”

Grateful for the yank back to reality, he took the paper tray that held two cups of steaming black liquid from Tripp, who’d carried it from the concession stand balanced carefully in his right hand. His left was on the cane he’d need for the rest of his life after the damage his leg had suffered from a brutal beating when he’d publicly come out at the end of last season. But the man was damned determined to fend for himself and not let anyone coddle him in any way; he’d insisted on getting coffee for the two of them on his own. Eric pulled one cup from the tray and handed it to Tripp, then lifted the other out for himself and tossed the tray into a large blue barrel near the arena exit.

He lifted his cup in Tripp’s direction before taking a sip. “Thank you.”

Tripp nodded. “How’re things looking out there? Any of those rookies busting their skulls open yet?”

“Let’s hope not,” Eric said, sending up a silent prayer. He was trained to deal with most every emergency, but he enjoyed his job the most when it was boring. He preferred people staying healthy and whole. “It’s nice and quiet, just the way I like it.”

“Yeah, but where’s the fun in that?” Tripp said, amusement clear in his voice and a mischievous glint in his cool-blue eyes. “It’s all about the mayhem.”

Eric shook his head. “So the stories are true. You bull riders really are nuts.”

Tripp laughed, turning his attention to the ring, and the expression on his rugged face softened. Bridge and Marty rode side by side toward them, and Marty graced Tripp with a smile that could make even the coldest heart melt. Eric knew Tripp’s had a long time ago. The ex-bull rider’s smile widened, his fear of anyone knowing the two even knew each other, let alone were together, fading more and more with each passing day. It warmed Eric to see that growing confidence. No one should ever have to live in fear of showing another how much he means to him.

“How’s it going out there?” Tripp reached through the metal rails to stroke the thick neck of Marty’s horse.

Marty glanced over his shoulder. “Not bad. Couple of cowboys are going to find themselves in a world of hurt if they don’t pay attention, though.”

“Bunch of greenhorns.” Bridge laughed, and the deep rumble of his voice drew Eric’s gaze to the big cowboy astride the equally big chestnut gelding. Their eyes met, locked, and there it was again, that flare of heat he’d seen the night before in those melted-chocolate eyes. The kind of look that clearly said
I want you
and set off Eric’s bells and whistles like a pinball machine.

Time stilled. Voices and pounding hooves and lowing livestock faded. A light breeze gently lifted the ends of Bridge’s hair, like gold threads of silk, and the tips of Eric’s fingers tingled, wanting to touch.

“C’mon, B. Gotta get back to it.” Marty broke the frozen moment, and Eric remembered to breathe.

Bridge nodded ever so slightly, eyes still on Eric, and then reined his horse after Marty and headed back into the action. Eric put a hand on the railing, needing something solid to hold on to for a minute while he watched Bridge ride away, watched the way his broad shoulders rocked with the sway of his horse, the way the muscles in his arms bulged when he adjusted the spoke of his lasso, the way he turned his head and scanned the arena, completely aware of every animal and cowboy in the ring. Confident, sexy, loyal, and everything Eric had ever imagined a cowboy would be.

Everything he wanted in a man.

Shit. His maybe-not-so-straight friend was going to make it hard to keep his boundaries in place.

The five of them sat at a picnic table during intermission, eating burgers and drinking cold colas while sharing the morning’s highlights from the first of four days at rodeo school. Bridge and Kent sat on one side, Marty between Tripp and Eric on the other.

Bridge’s gaze kept wandering from Marty and Tripp to Eric, and he found his attention more on Eric and less on the conversation. Marty leaned in and whispered something in Tripp’s ear. Tripp looked down so the brim of his hat covered most of his face, but not enough to hide the smile that Bridge saw lift his mouth. Marty sat back up and popped a French fry into his mouth, looking rather proud of himself as he chewed. He caught Bridge’s eye and winked, which made Bridge smile too. This was the Marty he’d missed so much. It had been a hard road for those two, and at one time, he’d hated Tripp for the way he’d treated Marty. But now that he understood Tripp’s reasons, and what he’d had to overcome in order to be the man Marty deserved, Bridge had come to realize Tripp really was the perfect man for his best friend. And there was no denying they were clearly head over boots in love with one another.

Bridge slid his gaze back to Eric, and his breath caught. Eric was watching him, his expression unreadable, but a little thrill still charged through his veins.

“Right, Bridge?”

He jerked at the sound of his name. “Huh?”

“Dude.” Marty sighed, lowering the French fry that had only made it halfway to his mouth. “What’s with you?”

“What? Nothing.” Bridge shifted on the hard wood bench, trying to remember where he’d dropped the thread of their conversion while ignoring the glance Marty and Kent exchanged. He also made a point of not looking at Eric. Nope. Definitely
not
looking at Eric.

“Lady Loooove,” Kent singsonged under his breath before taking a big bite of his burger.

“Oh my God. Will you stop?” Bridge growled, his gaze shooting in Eric’s direction. “There is no girl.”

Kent chuckled around the food in his mouth, and Bridge elbowed him playfully while Marty continued to stare at him. He could see the wheels turning in his friend’s head and the moment he let it go. Thankfully. Bridge knew it was only a temporary reprieve, but he’d take what he could get for now.

“I was saying,” Marty intoned while giving him the
pay attention
glare. “I think that young cowboy, Cory Ackerson, will make a great pickup man. He seemed to know every move the animals were going to make before they made them. That’s a talent you’re born with.”

“Yep,” Bridge agreed, grateful the conversation had picked up where it had apparently left off. He reached for his drink. “He’ll be an asset to the circuit.”

“Not our circuit, though,” Marty said.

“No?”

Marty shook his head and turned to Tripp. “You should have a talk with him. He wants to ride pickup for the IGRA.”

“What’s the IGRA?” Eric asked.

“International Gay Rodeo Association,” Tripp said. “I’ve contacted them about teaching bull riding and using what pull my name still has to help bring more awareness and acceptance for other gay cowboys stuck in the closet.”

“Cool.” Eric leaned forward to look fully at Tripp. “So, can you teach me to ride?”

Bridge choked on the soda he’d just swallowed, bubbles burning his nostrils. “No!” The word was out before he’d even realized the thought had crossed his mind, and four sets of surprised eyes landed on him. Heat rose in his cheeks. “I mean, bull riding is for psychos.”
Shit.
“No offense, Tripp.”

Tripp chuckled, and a crooked smile spread across his face. “None taken. Goes with the territory.”

Bridge put down his drink and looked at Eric. He tried to play it cool, but his words spilled out in a rush. “Just, you know, it’s one of the most dangerous sports going, and I’ve seen too many guys’ careers—and a few lives—come to end from riding those crazy-ass animals. Not to mention, we’ve never seen you ride a horse, so you shouldn’t be even thinking about getting up on a bull.”

Not ever, if I have my way.

Silence fell over the table while the sounds of rodeo life around them amplified in Bridge’s eardrums. Horses and cattle stamping their hooves, whinnying and lowing—it sounded like there was a whole herd right behind him. Voices rose over the livestock in a steady but indistinguishable din, broken at random intervals by hearty laughter, and the unmistakable sizzling of burger patties and hot dogs on the open grill played in the background. All the while, his heart raced and heat flushed over the surface of his skin; perspiration broke out across the back of his neck, and for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out what to say next.

A grin unfolded on Eric’s face, capped by a single dimple. He placed a hand over his chest. “Aww . . .” His voice was light, teasing, and he fluttered his long eyelashes. “I didn’t know you cared.”

The rest of the guys started laughing, and Bridge relaxed a little, joining in at his own expense. He chucked a French fry across the table, and it bounced off Eric’s chin, landing squarely on his paper plate. “You’re just too irresistible.”

Eric preened. “Knew it.” Then he picked up the fry and popped it into his mouth, chewing with exaggerated flourish. Bridge shook his head.

“Yeah,” Tripp finally said, getting the convo back on point and backing Bridge up, whether he realized it or not. “Bull riding isn’t for everyone, and it’s not a matter of
if
you’ll break something, but
when
.” He turned toward Eric. “We need guys like you on the ground to patch us up so psychos like me can get back in the saddle.”

“Good point,” Eric conceded. “I’ve actually never broken a bone.”

“Knock on wood, buddy,” Kent mumbled.

Tripp laughed. “And I don’t think I have a single one that hasn’t been broke.”

“And on that note . . .” Marty stood up and nudged Tripp’s shoulder, thankfully ending the current discussion. “We have a couple of things to . . . take care of before the afternoon sessions start.”

Bridge didn’t have to use too much imagination to guess what those “couple of things” were. His mind had been running scenarios of him with a certain paramedic too often to stretch it very far. “Just remember to put your shirt back on right side out.”