Thunder rumbles across the expanse of furious, gray sky, and an occasional flash of lightening splits the heavens. The lush, rain-washed grass in the paddocks is devoid of horses, ground damp and smelling freshly of earth.

Shaking the spray off my face, I sprint back to the brightly-lit shelter of Bella's barn. The rain drums against the window and slides down in rivulets. The electric lights are on, and only a few riders work quietly at grooming or feeding the horses. The atmosphere is safe and warm. As usual, horses can be seen in the cross-ties and looking over their stable doors, emitting the regular horsy sounds and smell of a stable. But the usual mobs of riders weaving in and out of the barns is missing due to the weather.

I tie Bella up in the aisle and set to work on her stall.

Fine sheets of needle-like rain fall steadily outside, and the relentless pitter-patter drums on the skylights above. The neighbouring horses snort and shift in their stalls, whickering quietly and munching at their hay nets. Thunder purrs outside the stable walls and the sky shimmers for a moment with an eerie, bluish glow.

Sweat breaks out on my brow as I haul forkful after forkful of clean straw and lay it down in Bella's stall. Another fork of lightening splits the evening sky, a heavy blanket of humidity hanging in the air.

My forehead is damp with perspiration, the loose wisps of hair around my face sticking to my temples. I jab the pitchfork at Bella's straw bed and lift a clump of it into the wheelbarrow. Bella whickers impatiently from where she's tied outside her stall door.

The stench of manure mingles with my sweat to elicit a prickling sensation in my nostrils as I scoop tufts of soiled hay into the wheelbarrow. Just when I think my spine is going to snap, I hoist the final forkful of grimy straw into the barrow, and wheel it down the yard towards the muck heap.

After laying out fresh straw, I stuff a hay-net and fill a pail of water, then return Bella to her stall.

Video games are going to be my reward.

Upstairs, I shower in the guest bathroom and then join Bret in his room. Bro-overs spent spooning with him are comfortable, because he's warm as a furnace and solid in a comforting way - but there's a catch. He's always the big spoon, which means you can't hide your phone screen from him. Makes it a bit difficult to sext his father.

My phone vibrates with a message from Rudy and I immediately swipe up to hide the notification.

"Is that your Grindr boyfriend checking in? Is he prettier than me? Can he lift as much as me?"

Oh, and he's annoying.

"Shut uuuuup."

I figure my Notes app is safe, so I open my drafts.

"Ooh, how's writing going?"

I twiddle my thumbs over the soft keyboard.

"I'm not really in the mood for writing," I admit reluctantly. I don't really feel like anyone would want to read a fucked-up perspective written by a fuck-up like me. Maybe if I were a better person within more heroic qualities, I'd have something better to write about.

"You're never in the mood for writing when you actually have time for it."

"Yep. It be that way." For busy people like me, inspiration and opportunity collide as rarely as stars. But when they do, productivity is astronomical. I'll write into the early hours of the morning and not feel tired.

"Let me inspire you," Bret offers, and launches into an unsolicited update on his sex life with Sammy. He flips onto his back and I try to take advantage of the lack of eyes over my shoulder to open Rudy's text.

But then Bret springs back into position, and kisses my cheek.

"Stop it!" I barely manage to angle the phone screen away fast enough.

"Why?"

"Because I said stop doing that!" I squawk lamely.

"What, are you getting hard?" Bret grins and starts kissing my neck mockingly. At this point, I'm forced to lock my screen. "Okay, BJ time."

"No!" I exclaim in horror.

"C'mon, let me see it-"

"No!"

"I just wanna touch it. It's not gay if you don't make eye contact. C'mon, you owe me. I know you've been ignoring me. You've been so distant lately-"

"You think maybe there's a reason? You need a fucking lobotomy, Bret."

Bret acts like he doesn't hear me.

"Let's hang this weekend," he proposes cheerily.

"Can't. New horse. Horses need exercise just like cats and dogs, you know."

"Uh, yeah, I know," Bret deadpans. "My dad's the ranch foreman..."

Ah, yes. Rudy: what I'll really be doing this weekend. I wonder if he'd be up for a date, something other than sex. There're rodeos, amusement parks, hunting...

Bret huffs a sad sigh, and alarms blare inside me. I know I'm devolving into the shittiest of shit friends - but, being shitty, I can't find it in myself to care.

I decide to change the subject.

"You know, I would be able to afford that bookstore faster if I didn't have to pay rent." Sighing, I blow a wisp of hair off my face.

Bret thumbs at the threads in his comforter.

"Move in with me."

I sit up on one elbow, frowning.

"I mean, you're here most of the time anyway. So why pay rent at your place?"

"I have all my stuff at my place, my bookshelves-"

"So move them here. It's only good when you're here." He shrugs.

"And when you marry Sammy and move out in like a year, then what? I come along too?"

He shrugs, looking at me earnestly like it's actually a possibility.

Bret is too sweet, too kind. He's a good friend - a good person. Now, he'd write a good main character.

I throw my arms around him and lay my head on his chest, right on top of his too-big heart, remembering why, in spite of his flaws, he'll always be my best friend.

"Thanks for everything, Bret," I mumble sincerely.

Bret ends up playing video games, but I'm too distracted to join in. I alternate between watching him and watching the door, listening for the creak of floorboards. But there's no sign of Rudy.

My watch beeps, indicating that it's time to feed Avery. Chelsea entrusted me with the task.

"Bottle time?" Bret asks without looking up.

"Yeah, gotta go."

"I keep thinking..." he twists his hands, rapidly angling the controller. "About that baby, from the station. This is gonna sound crazy but...think Sammy would be up for adopting him?"

My eyebrows shoot up at the prospect of Bret's prissy girlfriend agreeing to take in a dirty orphan baby.

Bret turns imploring eyes on me, though, and I know he can't handle that truth.

"You'll have to talk with her."

Downstairs in the kitchen, I heat up a bottle for Avery. Then I carry it up to the one-year-old's room. The lights in the nursery are at half-mast, the golden glow of the lamp illuminating the otherwise dark room. Bret changed him earlier, so he's a happy bug, his fist stuffed in his mouth while sleepy eyes gaze up at his revolving, musical crib mobile.

Avery eagerly grabs his bottle from me. I pick him up and hold him in my arm, his head cushioned in the crook of my elbow and my hand supporting his leg while my free hand plays with his toes.

When he starts drowsing off, I set him down in his crib and hold his bottle for him while he drifts off to sleep. His hands are so tiny.

I figure if I'm going to do Chelsea's job, I may as well reap her benefits.

Rudy and Chelsea's room is empty, so I sneak into it.

Chelsea will be home tomorrow; this will be my last night with Rudy, in a bed, at least. But I'd gladly make love to him on a bed of thorns if that were the only option.

I gaze at myself in her vanity mirror, marvelling at how much I look like her. I'll bet that Rudy's attraction to me is due, in large part, to that resemblance.

On a whim, I pick up Chelsea's flat iron and decide to straighten my hair like she does, transforming the beach waves into a bob similar to hers. Mine's a little darker than hers, but blond is blond - and that's Rudy's taste.

I pick up his wife's perfume and apply two pumps to the sides of my neck, then her lipstick and some foundation.

I shed my clothes and slide under the covers, waiting for Rudy.

I've never worn makeup before, and I don't like it. My skin feels weird and my cheeks burn with shame. Overall, it makes me feel really, really uncomfortable. The only thought that keeps me from wiping it all off and going home is that maybe Rudy would like this. Maybe it would be easier for him to be with me this way. Anything to get him to open up to me more.

I've almost fallen asleep when the door opens. It's Rudy, and he's drunk. From the other end of the room, I can tell he went with whiskey, straight up. He's the only person I know who drinks the ghastly thing. I don't like it; it leaves an unpleasant burn in my throat.

Rudy doesn't turn the lights on. My heart thumps nervously against my ribcage as he undresses and slides under the covers, wrapping his arms around me. I feel the pads of his fingers tracing lightly across my skin. When they skate around to my pecs, Rudy grunts in annoyance. He was hoping I was his wife, and that stings...for both of us.

Rudy's face is clouded, brow crumpled thunderously when I turn in his arms.

His hand comes up to my face.

"Ah'll show ya what it really means to be mah wife," he growls, and then claims my lips in a rough kiss.

My first thought is how different kissing Rudy is from kissing girls. The scratch of his beard. More aggressive tongue action. The taste of whiskey. Not being in control.

Rudy pins my wrists over my head with one hand. I moan, eyes slipping shut, and sink into it. Just let myself be taken, totally possessed by him.

He kisses me with punishing force, and it's all I can do to just breathe. When he finally pulls back, eyes blazing, I can see lipstick everywhere.

Rudy turns me onto my stomach and then the hard heat of him disappears. I don't dare move.

"What're you doing?"

"Ah'm gunna fuck the brat outtaya," Rudy grunts.

He's back in a moment, and then cold, slippery fingers are probing at my hole. The pressure is unpleasant and awkward, but eventually subsides.

He plays with it for minutes on end, patiently but firmly. One finger slides in without a fuss. This he twists and turns inside me until I'm a whimpering mess. More lube, and then there's a second finger knocking on the door. I'm delirious, arching into it wantonly.

"One don' even touch them sides no more," Rudy drawls, teasing. Can't even feel it, can ya?"

"Daddy," I whimper in response.

"Who's yer daddy, boy?"

Rudy's hot lips and tongue replace his fingers, the scratch of his beard a thousand delicious little pricks on my skin. My back is arched like a cat, straining with desire. I've never been so turned on in my life.

Then something cool and smooth is pushed into me.

"Hold it in. Don't let it slip out."

Rudy slaps one cheek, kneading the other.

My cheeks are flaming against the pillow.

Rudy's body is hard and flushed when he drapes himself over me, nuzzling my neck.

"Now push it out," he whispers hot against my throat. The scent of whiskey is so strong I can taste it.

I moan, relishing the drag of his body hair against my back. It's even better than I dreamed it would be.

Rudy pulls away. "That was too easy."

I hear him apply more lube to his fingers, and then rub two fingers against my hole.

I'm rewarded for the painful stretch with a light touch to my prostate. I explode untouched, soiling Rudy and Chelsea's sheets.

I'm too sensitive to continue. It's no longer pleasurable, and I tell Rudy I don't think I can take anymore.

But he has a lot of stamina and keeps thrusting his fingers.

"Shut up, boy, I ain't done yet. If ya can't keep up, best stay out of mah bed."

The words get me so hot that I almost change my mind, feeling myself start to harden again.

But Rudy pulls his fingers out as bidden, and then pulls me down from the bed with him.

Standing naked before me, he's evidently aroused.

Wordlessly, he pushes my shoulders down and I lower myself slowly to my knees before him. Both hands on my head, he curls his fingers in my hair and slides into my mouth. I close my eyes and hum eagerly around his length, working my tongue in circles on the underside. I savour the taste and smell and heat of him, my aphrodisiac. Rudy grunts a warning and tries to dislodge himself but I seal my lips firmly around him until he gushes like a volcano down my throat. Afterwards, I smile up at him, his juices dripping from my mouth. Rudy fixes intensely passionate eyes on me and pulls me to my feet. This kiss is gentle, a soft, slow savouring of lips and tongues. Rudy licks his essence from my mouth and chin.

"Good boy," he breathes against my lips. "Good job, baby." The endearment is not lost on me.

We fall back on the bed, side-by-side.

"That was so hot..." I whisper, flinging one arm over my head. The way he worked me, that dirty talk... This man is seriously all of my fantasies incarnate.

"Can you believe that?" Rudy pants. He seems a lot happier in this post-coital haze. "Evan, I wouldn'ta known ya, boy."

"Should I do this more?" I flush. I know my face is a clownish mess right now, but it's somehow hot.

"You got makeup 'n' stuff?"

"Well, no, but I can buy it..."

Getting up, Rudy crosses over to his wife's vanity mirror.

He turns the foundation bottle around in his hands like it's a spark plug or some other auto part, then checks the underside and holds this out to me. "Errr, I got this here part number... Dunno where she gets it from, though."

Oh my God; he's so cute!

I go up to him, take his face in my hands, and kiss him ardently.

"Again?" I whisper hopefully against his lips.

Rudy chuckles.

"Can't. Not much endurance left at mah age."

"Come hold me then."

I climb into the bed and Rudy crawls in after me. We close in a tight knot under the blankets, facing each other.

"I got makeup on your beard," I giggle.

Rudy absently strokes my chin.

"And I gave ya beard burn."

His eyes twinkle.

"I like it."

"Really? Chelsea hates this scruffy thang." Rudy reaches up to scratch his disheveled facial hair.

"Really."

For once, Rudy doesn't toss himself free of me or mumble something about how much he regrets this, but lets me stay in his arms. I stay with him until he's fast asleep before slipping away.

After putting on my clothes, I use the guest bathroom down the hall to wash my face, so as not to wake him.

Then I'm too tired to do anything more than slip directly under the covers and fall asleep in the guest bedroom - or my bedroom, whatever.

My phone vibrates and I fish it out of my jean pockets. Oh, shit. Bret just texted me - bro where are you? - and tried calling me five minutes ago.

I can hear his bedroom door open and thank fuck I'm not with Rudy right now. Wow, I'm stupid.

•••

All good things must come to an end, and such is the case for my one night in paradise with Rudy.

His wife comes back while we're eating lunch outside the next day.

Rudy is overjoyed to see her, instantly kissing and hugging her.

My heart sinks with the gutting sensation of betrayal. It feels like I gave myself to him completely last night, and it was nothing to him. It would sting a lot more, if I weren't expecting it.

Chelsea is less than thrilled. Her two youngest boys are playing in a patch of mud in the backyard, covered from head to toe in dirt. And apparently Rudy's barbecuing is equally unsatisfactory.

"Honey, why didn't you thaw out that wagyu steak in the freezer and add that to the grill?"

"We have wagyu steak?" Rudy scratches the back of his head.

"We have wagyu steak and you didn't make it?!" Bret echoes, pissed. "Dad, how do you not remember?"

"That's okay. We'll serve it to the parents at Roger's birthday party," Chelsea smooths. "You ordered the cake like I asked you to, right?"

Rudy clears his throat, lowering his gaze apologetically.

His wife breathes sharply through her nose.

"Typical. I swear, selective retention of information is part of the male genome," she mutters, picking up her burger and taking a bite.

Bret must be in a complaining mood, because he goes on to compare his dad to leadership at the fire station. Our captain is old and out of touch, and forgets things too.

"I heard he's retiring soon," I mumble between bites of my angus.

"I hope we get a younger guy," Bret mutters.

"Don't forget, even the old ones were young once," Rudy imparts sagely. "Everyone gets older."

After lunch, Chelsea says she's exhausted after her trip and can we please just leave the dishes on the table, kick back and listen to some music. Rudy goes for his guitar and I expect him to bring mine, too, but he doesn't.

"Ah'll play today," Rudy responds to my wordless question.

I manage an anemic smile.

After a few minutes of him playing everything Chelsea requests, I get up from my seat.

"I think I'm done," I mutter morosely, pushing my chair in.

"You've barley eaten," Bret protests.

I insist that I'm full and make my way to the sliding glass door.

"Oh, Evan, darling, can I count on you to help with the decorations tonight?" Chelsea calls.

"Of course."

I listen to the guitar strains from upstairs while I dig through the party supplies Chelsea hid in the hall closet. He sounds good, damn him. Damn that wickedly handsome hunk of a man who had no right to make me feel like he did and then drop me.

Lowering myself to the floor, I glumly gather my knees to my chest.

I half-wish I didn't need to be there tonight. But as much as I don't want to see Rudy, I don't want to disappoint Roger, either.

Which reminds me, I have a responsibility to my horse, too.

I make my way up the long, winding path to the ranch, wrestling with feelings of glumness, despondency and discouragement. I don't dare press my luck anymore. He had me and apparently I was so unmemorable he's already over me.

Rudy was right, I think as I slip into Bella's paddock; we shouldn't have done this. He should have stayed a crush, an unrealized affair in my mind.

"C'mere, Bells," I click to my horse.

Bella, mischievous by nature, dodges and ducks away from me, even sidestepping playfully around me. "C'mon, girl. I'm already having a really bad day."

With a playful whinny, Bella throws her head up and trots a few paces away from me. Frustrated, partly because of the hopeless chase, and partly because of everything else, I leap for the filly's mane. My fingers close on nothing, however, and I go down, eating grass. Groaning, I lay there stretched across the ground.

"Need a hand?" I don't have to look up to know who it is. I'd know his voice anywhere. Rudy produces a sugar cube from his pocket, holding it out on the palm of his hand.

Greedy as always, Bella eyes the enticing cube for only a split second before crunching ravenously away at the treat. Triumphantly, Rudy catches hold of her mane and snaps the halter and lead line on.

"See, it ain't so hard," he grins down at me. He's too hot; I can't take it right now.

I offer him a thin smile.

"Thank you," I nod politely, and promptly turn to lead Bella away.

After putting her back in her stall, I turn to find Rudy lingering by the barn door, staring at me.

"Can I help you with something," I ask coolly.

He says "ya know damn well," and in the next instant, our arms are wrapped tight around each other and I feel a rush of affection, happiness, and relief swelling up and surging through me like a tidal wave. And I know in this moment that he can come to me in the dead of night, whenever he needs some drowsy pleasure, and I'll give it to him, I'll always give him anything he wants, with love.

Later, I help Bret and Chelsea set up for Roger's birthday party. He's invited a few kids from class and since their parents know the Palmers, they stick around to chat and enjoy a slice of cake. Roger loves his new glove, and he and his friends start playing peewee baseball in the backyard. Rudy fires up the barbecue and puts Bret in charge of it and I don't know how the rest goes because then Rudy and I are kissing in a closet while everyone sings Happy Birthday To You.

•••

Riders are bustling about, leading sleek, long-legged horses in and out of the barns. The summer sunshine bathes the training rings in gold and gleams off the three, scarlet barns that border the main yard. Beyond that, lush green fields stretch out for miles into the horizon, with the riding trails cutting through like ribbons.

"Alright," Rudy begins, shielding his eyes from the intense glare of the sun. "Start 'er at a trot 'n' then a canter fer warm-up, 'n' come back to yer position whenever yer ready to begin timin.'"

I nod deftly. My heart in my mouth, I squeeze the filly's sides. Bella leaps forward into a high-headed canter, but I maintain steady pressure on the reins until she slows her gait to a collected trot.

When we're about halfway around the ring, I slid my outside leg behind the girth and lean forward slightly, encouraging the filly to pick up the pace. With a snort, the horse makes the smooth transition from trot to canter.

"Good, Bella," I murmur, poised above the filly's withers. Bella's ears flicker excitedly. "You know what's coming, don't you?"

When we reach our starting point again, I squeeze Bella's sides once more, crouching precariously over the horse's neck. With a sharp whinny, the filly explodes into a breathless gallop, kicking up loose dirt as she flies around the ring. "Go, go, go!" I murmur, kneading the reins through my fingers.

The sound of drumming hooves rings in my ears and the wind rushes past, dragging tears from my eyes. The filly's muscles ripple through her well-conditioned coat, gleaming with a fine layer of sweat. Bella's legs are merely a blur as she streaks along the inside rail and her tail streams behind her like a banner. I apply a steady pressure to the filly's sides until she bursts into a higher gear. Dust and mane fly in my face, and the wind throws my hair behind me. I give a delighted whoop as the filly gallops ahead, eating away at the bit.
Everything flies by in a blur as the filly strains at the bit, and Bella streaks across the fence rail at what seems a mile a minute.

All too soon, we're flying by the starting point again. I sit back in the saddle and use my weight to bring the filly to a halt. "Good girl," I murmur as Bella draws to a stop in a shower of dirt. From his perch on the fence, Rudy is grinning broadly. "How did we do?" I call, raising a hand to shield my eyes from the dazzling sunlight. I trot the filly back to the gate, letting her stretch out her neck muscles.

"Fantastic," Rudy replies, his eyes shining. "Three laps in thirty-nine seconds, in our largest trainin' ring."

With a grin of sheer delight, I swing down from the filly's back. "That's a record time; she's got great potential. With a little bit of trainin' and tonin,' I reckon she'd make a fortune on the track."

Rudy has the most breathtaking smile of unfeigned happiness in the world. His eyes twinkle like a child's.

"Really?" I reply quizzically.

"Positive. Most Thoroughbreds nowadays are raced anyway, unless they're injured or retired. I figure it wouldn't hurt to put in some trainin' at least, see how she does. We could transfer her to a racing stables, get some advice from the jockeys 'n' maybe assemble a trainin' team."

Rudy goes on to explain that that consists of an owner, an exercise rider, a trainer, a jockey and a groom.

Rudy calls Max, who comes down to discuss the idea with us.

"You and I both know plenty of good, dependable, horses who went into training to become racehorses and changed personalities pretty quickly on the track because they couldn't handle being crowded in by all those galloping horses," Max warns his boss. "Only a promising ancestry of racehorses can truly determine a foal's future on the track."

"She's got an outstandin' conformation, an unusually large heart, plus an exceptional stride length," Rudy rebuts. "That counts fer somethin.'"

One thing's for sure. If anyone has the time, will and resources to invest in making a racehorse out of Bella, it's Rudy.

•••

Chelsea finds the makeup-stained pillowcase in the laundry, and immediately accuses Rudy of cheating.

Rudy is clearly terrified of losing her, but wasn't prepared for a confrontation like this. He tries to convince her she left the stains and just doesn't remember. They're from her products, after all; he proves this with a quick experiment that has her shrieking at him not to waste her expensive Lancôme.

"What a sonofabitch," Bret mutters angrily, slamming his bedroom door.

"Bret-"

"He's cheating on my mom."

"She probably just doesn't remember leaving those stains! She couldve been tired, or drunk; who knows how long that pillow case's been in there?"

"Doesn't matter; I hate him."

"He's your father; you should love him."

"Look at the way he's behaving. That's not the behaviour of a good man, so why defend him like one?"

"Even if he was cheating, did you ever stop to think that maybe he's starved of love and unhappy in his marriage?"

"He's not starved of love; he's just greedy! He knows he can get it from my mom and a little side whore too-"

I slap him. Bret almost lost his entire existence talking about his father like that. That's enough of his bratty disrespect.

"I see the way you look at my dad," Bret accuses, fire in his eyes as he cradles his smarting cheek. "You really want my dad? My fucking dad?! Come on. You can do better."

Fear lances through me.

"You need to get your eyes checked." He's my best friend, but I could never tell him the truth about this. How could I? What would he say if he knew his best friend's ass is a fucktoy for his dad?

Rudy and Chelsea are downstairs arguing in front of Roger. I find him sitting glumly on the staircase, and my heart deflates like a balloon out of air.

"Roger, baby." I kiss his curly head, sit beside him and hug him close. "Everyone fights. They'll make up soon; I promise. It's going to be okay, always." Outwardly, I'm all comfort. Inwardly, I'm fuming. I'd like to string them both up by their innards for making this sweet little boy sad. It's so messed up that he had to hear this before I got here. "Hey, I have an idea! Wanna go play with some chickens?"

I take him outside to play with the chickens and then Rudy joins us and we go into a field to look for cool bugs and things.

Rudy is evidently shaken, terrified because his marriage is on the rocks, but he's trying to pretend everything's okay for his son.

When night falls, everyone's abandoned him but me. Chelsea's once again taken refuge at a friend's; Bret is at Sammy's because he can't stand the sight of his father. But I'm here.

At some point in this affair, we switched from rushed, hurried make-outs to savouring. In a lulling whirl of soft kisses and stroking, we slowly remove each other's clothing.

Rudy whispers, "I have yer love 'n' I don't need nothin' else."

"Always," I whisper.

Part of me is grateful for this rift in their marriage because it gives me a chance to re-insert myself in his life. Vaguely, I acknowledge that this makes me bacteria, eagerly invading a body through a fresh, open cut.

I choose not to dwell on this.