Bret's anger lasts a grand whopping total of one day. He texts me: let's grab lunch, and I'm relieved to remember that my best friend never could hold a grudge.

Rudy isn't wasting any time, wanting to launch into training right away, but I've got a few spare hours before he wants us to be at the track. So I say yes.

Bret calls me while I'm cleaning Bella's tack.

"Hey."

"Hey."

"I'm on my way."

"Okay."

"Okay, see you soon."

Not long after the brief and pointless call, Bret picks me up in his battered Ford truck, and we're back to our goofy selves.

"That feeling you get when your best buddy comes in close and starts to gaze into your eyes," he snickers. "Holding his shoulder feels like a boulder in the mountains..."

"You wrap in close over the arm rest," I continue, giggling, "and his tongue feels like the off roads of the Rockies rolling around in your mouth..." I lick his neck, eyes screwed shut with laughter.

"That's the feeling of driving a Ford truck. Men will be men!"

"No girls allowed," we chorus in unison.

This is how I wish things could be between us again - the way they were, before Sammy.

"Hey, man... I'm sorry about what I said." Bret's face is serious now. "No matter what, you're my bro and I love you."

"I love you too."

Upon our arrival at the steakhouse, we're seated and given the menus.

"I don't know if I want the Caesar salad or the scallops for my appetizer," I fret.

"You order the salad, I'll order the scallops and we'll share."

"Good idea. We can do the same with the sides." My salivary glands are aroused. The menu is rife with hearty options like beef tenderloin, porterhouse, tomahawk, striploin, ribeye, T-bone...

"So, ready to race?" Bret flicks my chin.

"I guess..." I smile, offering an insouciant shrug.

"What, you're not excited?"

I take a sip of my lemon water and swill it around in my mouth, afraid of admitting out loud that I'm not thrilled about this obviously incredible opportunity.

"This is more your dad's thing than mine, to be honest." I'm strangely obsessed with the way that sounds. Your dad. Rudy's a dad. Somehow that makes everything we did so much hotter. Little does Bret know, his dad is my daddy.

Bret looks at me imploringly so I try my best to formulate the problem. It's not really a problem, per se; it's just... I have no experience with racing and still Rudy expects me to excel. I'm thrilled that he has enough faith and confidence in me to expect me to succeed without any practice. He trusts that I can show up and succeed based solely on my talent. But I fear the burning shame that makes it hard to meet his gaze when I mess up. Every wrong move - even a wrong chord on the guitar - feels like a personal affront against him. If this doesn't work out, it'll be crushing for everyone involved. But if it does, it'll be Rudy's dream come true...

"So tell him to fuck off and use the time to write."

"Oh yeah; I've had no time to write lately." But that's mostly thanks to your mom constantly up and leaving me with her sons, I don't add. Avery and Roger are a delight, but between them and my job and Bella and my struggles to capture Rudy's heart... I'm stretched pretty thin, and not in the good way.

When our food arrives, Bret and I dig in ravenously. We share and try a bit of everything for the optimal dining experience - everything except the bill. Bret insists on paying, and won't hear of it when I offer to split.

"So, picture this," he suggests. "We just get away from all of this and travel the world. Every two weeks, we're in a different country. We make a blog - call it The Travellers or something - and we can just be two simple dudes, nothing flashy, just doing lots of activities and accumulating authentic lived experiences and all that shit. Best. Writing inspiration. Ever."

"We'd be the dream team, bro. Just wholesome, authentic content. A family show."

"Yeah, no making out in front of the camera or anything tasteless like that."

"Of course. We'd save that for the hotel rooms."

We look like a bunch of uncouth rabble clowning around in this high-end restaurant, snorting up our expensive steaks. I can't find it in myself to care, though.

"Seriously, though, man. The more I think about it, the more I want it. We could buy one of those professional cameras with the fuzzy windscreens, and parkas and all kinds of waterproof gear and practice our wilderness skills and shit."

"You still remember how to make a fire without a lighter or has Sammy dumbed you down?"

"Of course I do, man."

After we finish, we're both very full but never too full for dessert. So we agree to order a single crème brûlée and split that too.

Bret burps loudly afterwards, embarrassing me.

"Disgusting," I mutter disapprovingly, looking around to see if it was noticed.

Bret grabs my chin while we're waiting for the bill.

"You're getting scruffy, darling."

"I know; I haven't really had time to shave," I sigh.

Seems like the only thing I do have time for these days is complaining about how I don't have any time.

•••

I'm hyping myself up, tamping down the part of me that feels like this isn't for me, that this isn't my passion. Fuck imposter syndrome; I can make this my thing.

As Rudy and I pull into the racing stables, I can just make out the horses grazing lazily in the bright sunlight, their dark, sleek bodies contrasting beautifully with the lush green grasses of the pasture. Riders unload dozens of horses into the clearing. Whinnies and snorts fill the air. Stablehands come bustling out of the barns to help lead them into their freshly-cleaned stalls. I climb down from Rudy's truck and stand dumbly on the spot for a moment, drinking in the sights and sounds.

A few feet ahead of the central barn, a broad, taupe sign declares in block letters, Wilmot Mar.

Rudy and I are quickly approached by a man Rudy's age, leading a grey horse.

"That Warden?" Rudy asks.

"Yessir, this here's Warden's Whim. He's the best stallion on my yard. Won the Triple Crown a few years back, but we mainly use him for breedin' now."

"He's beautiful," I murmur, reaching up to stroke his glossy shoulder. "You can see that he'd sire amazing foals."

"Ya got that right." The man reaches out a hand. "Terry."

"Evan."

"Nice to meet ya, Evan. I already know this old troublemaker." He laughs and claps Rudy heartily on the back.

The huge horse shifts his weight slightly when Terry steps back, and I can sense him tensing under his tack.

"He's a real one-person horse," Terry explains with a rueful smile. "That's part of what makes him such a tricky ride."

"Evan could do it," Rudy dismisses confidently.

I nearly choke on my spit.

"I don't think-"

"That'd be a good exercise." Terry seems to like the idea. He holds out the reins, eyeing me steadily. "Let's see how ya handle a racehorse."

Taking a deep breath, I run my hand comfortingly down the grey's neck.

"Easy now," I murmur. The stallion blows through his nostrils and lowers his head, but he's clearly not past his edginess.

"Follow me," the manager tells us, stepping down a well-maintained gravel path. We follow him down to the stable's main training ring.

It's very different from the typical, rectangular enclosure at Rudy's ranch. This track is oval-shaped, sort of like a squashed doughnut, with an inside rail and white-painted lanes dividing the ring into speed zones. Neon orange cones are set up along the tracks, marking the distance in furlongs.

This is a racetrack.

"Mount up 'n' ride 'im in," Terry calls, hoisting himself up to perch on the top rail.

Emboldened by the pride shining in Rudy's eyes, I swing onto the horse's back and settle into the tiny racing saddle. Its design feels strange and uncomfortable, but I gather the reins resolutely in my hands.

Warden jogs excitedly under the saddle, and I lean over to settle him.

"Shh," I murmur. I'm hoping that by soothing him and being sensitive to his feelings I can somehow win him over, making him just a little more receptive.

Clicking to the stallion, I walk him into the ring, pleased to see that he's straightening out. As I settle into the grey's long, fluid strides, I recognize the keen vigor with which the horse's muscles seem to work. It reminds me of Bella.

"Alright, Evan," Terry calls from his position on the top fence rail. "Warm 'im up with a canter along the outside rail, movin' in a clockwise direction. It's one of the track rules that riders warmin' up must stick to the outer rail 'n' move in that specific direction."

Obediently, I squeeze Warden's sides lightly with my calves. With a snort, the stallion bursts into a high-stepping gait, his neck straining at the bit. His powerful hindquarters drive forward with each stride, reminiscent of Bella's own energy and power.

Leaning intently over the grey's neck, I signal for a quicker pace. I can almost sense a gear shifting in Warden's stride as the horse springs into a sprightly canter. I feel myself slowly begin to relax as the big gray beneath me canters fluidly along the outside rail.

I tell myself to shut out everything except for the stallion. I know from past experiences with Bella that if I take my mind off the horse for a second, he will be quick to tune in on my lack of attention and act up.

"You're a feisty one, aren't you?" I murmur as the stallion snaps at the bit and tries to make a dash for the inside rail. I'm quick to bring him around with my legs and seat.

Keeping the grey at a collected canter proves to be a difficult task when the horse catches sight of Terry across the track. The powerful stallion gives a sharp whinny, and I tighten my grip on the reins apprehensively.

Once I've completed a few circuits around the outside rail, Terry calls for me to move in and start Warden's Whim at a gallop.

"C'mon, Warden," I lean forward in the tiny saddle and knead the reins along the stallion's neck, "It's time to up the pace."

I'm left breathless as the stallion springs forward into a gallop, his mane whipping out behind him and stinging my face. As I maintain pressure around the horse's sides, I feel a surge of excitement well up inside me at the prospect a good, hard gallop.

The orange cones fly by in a blur as the powerful horse beneath me rushes forward, muscles rippling through his well-conditioned coat. I feel the wind drag tears from my eyes as we gallop along the inside rail. The horse's ears flicker slightly in my direction, and I feel all my uncertainty drain away.

Suddenly, however, the stallion snatches at the bit and springs towards the outside of the track, nearly unseating me. "Easy," I cry, pulling Warden around again and struggling to regain my position.

Feeling my face burn, I focus my attention back onto the spry stallion. Now the horse is galloping easily, stretching his neck out on the bit. I keep him going for another round or two before slowing him at the gate.

As we draw up to the fence in a clatter of hooves, Terry jumps down. I'm surprised to see the horse is barely winded from our run. It hits me just how much work and training the stable puts in to make their horses run so well on the track, and how valuable the animal beneath me truly is.

"So whaddaya think?" Terry inquires, his green eyes twinkling as he reaches for Warden's reins.

"He's a tricky one, alright," I reply as I swing down from the stallion's back. The powerful grey horse skitters sideways as I land, and I have to grab a handful of his mane to right myself.

Terry nods.

"Warden's always been like that. It takes a really good rider to manage 'im the way ya did." He smiles warmly, and I feel a wave of relief wash over me.

"Evan can ride anythang," Rudy asserts, and I don't miss the secret gleam in his eyes.

"The way ya handled 'im was excellent," Terry agrees, oblivious to the tension between us. "Ya gave 'im just enough freedom 'n' yet kept 'im on the bit."

"Thank you so much," I return.

"'Course," Terry assures me quickly, starting to lead Warden down the path by the reins. I follow, trailed closely by Rudy.

Terry leads us under a redbrick arch and into one of the white-painted barns.

"This here's where the stallions're kept," he explains as he leads Warden to his stall at the end of the aisle. Terry instructs a stablehand to untack and quarter the stallion, before sliding the stall door shut. "Would ya like to meet some of the other racehorses here?"

I nodded emphatically.

Terry shows us to the stall next to Warden's Whim. A striking chestnut Thoroughbred with two white socks noses at my fingers through the wire mesh. I reach up to stroke his velvet nose, awed by his immense height and build. Despite this, the chestnut blows gently down at my fingers.

"That there's Grand Virtue," Terry introduces, running a hand down the horse's neck. "He's seven. He's always been a shy one, but he used to change personalities real quick when it came down to the last few seconds of a race." I follow the manager to the next stall.

A tall, black stallion stands squarely in the center of his box, eying us with a mild curiosity. "That there's Evening's Masquerade," Terry tells us. He stops to pat the horse's neck. "His foals just tear up the track; they're famous for their endurance."

Terry proceeds to introduce us to the rest of the barn's striking occupants, and is offering to show us the yearlings when a stablehand leading a pretty Arabian mare comes up to Terry and says something to him in a quiet voice. Terry excuses himself after making us promise to bring Bella down next time.

"Whaddaya think?" Rudy asks when we're back in the car.

"Rudy, to be honest, I'm scared this isn't for me, and I won't be good at it. I like riding, but I never thought about racing. My dreams are...different. I've been dreaming of opening my own bookshop...never this." My cheeks flame with a sudden bout of self-consciousness. My goals aren't as manly as his, but they're valid.

Rudy thumbs my cheek reassuringly.

"You'll be amazin' at anythin' ya put yer mind to."

My heart melts. I would kiss him right now, if I could. I'd do a lot more. But, imagining the scandal if a parent came to this professional establishment to pick up their child from riding lessons and saw a man in a dark car, a boy's head in his lap, I decide against it.

•••

Rudy shows up at my place bright and early the next day to drive me to the racing lesson, holding an envelope.

"I noticed this on the way in," he frowns, handing it over.

It simply says: for the bookshop.

I open the envelope, and see green. Dozens and dozens of Benjamin Franklins. There's at least fifty grand in here, probably a hundred thousand dollars. What the fuck...

A brief sense of vertigo, then my vision blurs.

"Thank you, Rudy."

"Don't thank me; I have no idea how this got here."

A slow smile spreads over my face, which Rudy eventually mirrors.

I surge forward, leaping into his arms.

"Rudy," I breathe against his lips, tasting my own tears. "I love you."

Rudy crushes our mouths together. I'm pushed against a wall, Rudy's hands gripping my ass. The kiss is hot and heavy, a helium-filled sense of euphoria. Tongues thrashing, lips snagged between teeth, two mouths fuse into one. After a few minutes of making out, I pull away, breathless. The first two buttons of Rudy's shirt are undone, revealing honey skin flecked with hairs, leading into shadow.

"Wait here. I want to thank you properly."

The first thing I do when I go into my bedroom is call Bret. He's going to lose his mind.

"I-I'm opening the bookstore," I pant in greeting. "There was... I've got the money! It was - out of nowhere!"

There's a weighty pause as Bret internalizes this.

"What?! Congratulations, man! You need to start searching for a good location right away."

"I will, now that I can afford it!"

"Fuck yeah! Who gave you the money?"

I falter, settling with a, not untruthful: "anonymous donor. That's all I know. But, Bret, I am so, so happy right now..."

"That makes me happy."

When I re-emerge from the bedroom, Rudy's voice stops me in my tracks.

"Take yer clothes off."

Rudy is lounging on the settee with one leg slung over the frame, a king on his throne. He touches himself slowly through his briefs, in no apparent rush.

I'm instantly hot all over. My clothes practically melt off.

He sizes me up as I stand before him shirtless, mouth set in a straight line.

"Ya keep pleadin', hollerin' 'bout how ya love me. Show me."

Men in their forties are so sexy with their calm assertiveness and confident self-sufficiency, knowing what they like and dislike, experienced and well-versed in the bedroom as they are in life. I've tried girls, topped some boys, but never, ever known the pleasure of being taken by a man in his forties. Or any man. On the rare occasions I had the opportunity and courage to get physical with a stranger, I'd freak out if my butt was touched. I'm not a macho dude - not like Bret or other straight guys - but I draw the line at having my butt plundered by someone I don't completely trust. And it seems like almost everyone on Grindr is a bottom, anyway. But this unavailable, emotionally reticent, married father of my best friend...he can mess me up in all the places. Thrust it here, there, everywhere. I know him; I trust him; I - fuck - I love him.

I lower myself to my knees, Rudy's hand coming to rest on top of my head. First, I place my lips over his bulge and start sucking lovingly on it through the fabric of his underwear. Then I fish his weighty, veiny meat out of his briefs and start giving him a million dollar blowjob. And Rudy, composed at first, eventually succumbs to the pleasure with his head thrown back and his lower lip snagged sultrily between his teeth. He thrusts himself into my mouth over and over again, trying to fulfill a primordial, biological imperative he can't control. It feels like an hour of gagging and choking on our combined fluids - to which Rudy grunts, "stop whinin'" - before I coax an orgasm from him.

Isn't it wonderful to get what you want and not have to pay the price, I want to ask Rudy. No nagging, talk of chores, exasperated reminders of tasks long overdue, beating at his brain like a hammer... The way I offer myself to him is uncomplicated, without expecting too much.

Rudy beckons me up with one crooked finger. I obey, sitting down on his lap. His hands fondle my ass, one slipping inside my briefs.

"Haven't had me touch ya fer a week, have ya? Ah'm bettin' yer all pent up."

I stifle a moan.

"Daddy, please..."

"Whaddaya want, boy?" He punctuates the question with a stinging slap that makes me hiss.

"I..." I clear my throat, trying to school my voice back to some semblance of normalcy. "I want you to take responsibility."

"Fer what?" Rudy grunts.

"For making me this way..." My voice pitches once again into embarrassing sheepishness.

"And what exactly do ya think I owe ya?"

You must love me, I think. I can barely contain the words bubbling up in my throat and threatening to spill from my mouth. I want you to learn to love me. You owe me that.

Except he doesn't.

Rudy stands up with me in his arms.

"I know what ya need."

Depositing me on my feet next to the wall, he turns me around to face it and dwarfs my body from behind. My pants and briefs are yanked unceremoniously to the ground. He kicks my right leg, opening my stance and bending me forward.

Slapping, pinching, and kneading are followed by a wet sensation, spit. My breath hikes in my throat; I'm hopeful at the prospect of finally feeling him inside me. One finger slides in without too much discomfort as Rudy prepares me.

"Please. Please," I breathe, delirious. "I-I don't need that; please just fuck me, Rudy, please."

Rudy scissors the two fingers in my ass - hard - making me cry out in pain.

"And ya want me to believe you've done this before? Please. Yer tighter 'n a choir boy. Puttin' the moves on me, seducin' me, romancin' me like ya know what yer doing... Nice try, Evan."

My head spins, thoughts dizzying and chaotic. He doesn't want an immature, inexperienced virgin. He doesn't need a bad lay.

Despair overtakes me, and I panic at the prospect of being left high and dry.

I find myself begging like I've never done before.

"Please don't humiliate me," I whimper plaintively, in a voice that doesn't sound like my own.

"It ain't about that." He slaps my ass. "This here's an athlete. It needs to be trained, slowly. Ya wanna end up in the hospital? So everybody can find out what we been up to? Ya wanna be all messed up down there, unable to walk or use the toilet? Huh? Ya gotta think, boy, and not with yer dick. That's when you'll be a real man. Now, ah'm sick..." He thrusts his fingers in deep. "Of yer whinin' 'n' beggin.' Yer gonna be a good boy" - this punctuated by another thrust - "and yer gonna be patient, and lemme do this right." He scissors his fingers inside me again and I mewl, cleaving helplessly to the wall. The friction against my aching member every time one of Rudy's thrusts pitches my body forward into the wall is delicious. He either doesn't notice or doesn't forbid me getting myself off.

Rudy's mouth finds mine and I twist my head around to meet him in a feverish kiss. I reach up to brush my fingers against his, entwining them in a loose handhold.

Even when I paint the wall in milky white splatter and can't take any more, he doesn't stop.

His fingers still inside me, he shoves me over to the dresser and makes me look at myself in the mirror. I don't recognize myself. My lips have never looked so plump and red. My cheeks are flushed and ruddy down to my jaw. Eyelashes cast long spiderwebs on my cheeks under the light.

When Rudy catches my gaze in the mirror, I find myself - inexplicably - blushing harder.

"Beautiful," he murmurs against my throat, and for the first time in my life, I almost believe it.

Afterwards, I find myself wanting to talk, maybe even ask for promises.

But Rudy says it's time to go.