02-Let It Ride (5 page)

“Who says we’ll bother wasting time by taking shirts off?” Marty rebounded with a serious note in his voice, but the smirk on his face elicited laughter from the table.

Bridge watched them walk away and smiled when he saw Marty reach out and let his fingers brush the back of Tripp’s hand. Tripp hooked his pinky around Marty’s. The move was hesitant, covert, but profound nonetheless. When Bridge turned back to the table, he found Eric watching him with those striking eyes. Heat crept into his cheeks again, and he looked down at his plate for a distraction, only to find it empty.

Eric cleared his throat. “Yeah, I should go get my kit ready.” He rose from the table and began gathering the discards of their lunch. “You guys all done?”

Bridge and Kent nodded in unison. “Thanks, dude.”

“See ya later?” Bridge meant it to be a casual
later
but somehow it became a question. Almost eager.

Eric lifted a brow a notch and then tipped his head. “Yeah. See ya later.” His gaze shot quickly to Kent and then he turned with hands full, heading for the nearby garbage barrel.

Bridge couldn’t help but watch Eric walk away, eyes locked on the way his dark-blue work trousers hugged his firm, round ass.

“So . . .” Kent began when Eric was out of earshot, throwing their plates, cups, and wrappers in the trash. “Going to tell me what’s going on now?”

“Nope.” Bridge tore his gaze from ogling Eric, hoping Kent hadn’t realized that’s what he’d been doing, and casually scanned the empty arena.

“There’s really no new girl?”

Bridge slanted a sideways glance at him. “Like I said.”

Kent remained silent for so long that Bridge sighed and turned to look at him fully, only to feel like a bug under a microscope with the way Kent stared at him. He knew Kent was reading him like an open book, because really, he was one. He knew that. He didn’t hold much back, didn’t worry what anyone thought about much of anything. He just wanted to rodeo and enjoy life and make his friends laugh. But that didn’t stop him from shifting on the bench again. When the hell did the thing get so damned uncomfortable?

“What?”

Kent shrugged. “You know you can tell me anything, right?” Nothing in his voice or eyes but concern. “And Marty.”

Bridge didn’t miss the emphasis Kent put on those last two words. He just nodded. “Yeah.”

Kent clapped him on the shoulder and stood. “I love you, man.”

Bridge looked up into friendly blue eyes and smiled at Kent’s unwavering acceptance and loyalty. “Love you back.”

Bridge held out his fist, and Kent bumped it with his knuckles. Then he smiled that suave James Bond smile of his that always won the ladies over. “I got some rookies to go show how to wrestle down a seven-hundred-pound steer now.”

Bridge nodded. “See you out there.”

He watched Kent walk away and exhaled a long breath, then lifted his hat and ran a hand through his hair. He really needed to get Eric alone and have a talk. Soon.

“You all right?” Eric asked when Kent brought his horse to a halt beside him, wincing as he dismounted.

There were still a couple more sessions on the roster, but day one of rodeo school was coming to an injury-free close—so far. Kent had just finished a steer wrestling demonstration, and his clothes were covered in dirt, there was a tear in the knee of his jeans, and one of his shirttails was hanging free.

Kent sighed and pushed his hat back to wipe sweat from his face with an old bandana. “Yeah.” He angled his leg to get a better look at his knee. “Just a scratch.”

“Even so,” Eric said. He kneeled down to open the emergency field kit he’d placed near the arena entrance where he stood watch, and pulled out a package of antibacterial wipes. “Let me give it a quick cleaning. You’d be surprised how fast a minor cut untreated can turn into a major infection.”

“Yes, Mom.” Kent chuckled but hooked his boot onto the second railing of the arena fencing, giving Eric better access.

“He-Man,” Eric joked. He pulled the torn material back from Kent’s skin and started wiping away the dirt to get a better look at the cut. “So . . . is it just me or has Bridge been acting weird?”

Eric didn’t look up, but he could feel the weight of Kent’s stare on him. “Yeah. Something’s going on with him. He’ll tell us when he’s ready.”

Eric nodded, fighting back the urge to ask more questions, even though he knew Bridge was the only one he should be talking to about this. Except he had a feeling he knew exactly what was going on and some part of him didn’t really want it confirmed.

He may have felt like he’d known the affable cowboys forever, that maybe he finally belonged somewhere, but in the back of his mind, he was still Disposable Eric. The kid whose parents said they loved him but kicked him to the curb; the new kid in the foster home who would always be the first one turned out if there was a rift between him and the established friends. If he let his original attraction to Bridge resurface any more than it had already, let something happen between them, he’d lose more than Bridge when it took its usual route south. He’d lose all of them because there was no way Marty and Kent would choose him over Bridge. No way anyone would choose him first.

Fuck, how did he let himself get in so deep with these guys? He knew better than to let his guard down and believe in fairy tales.

Before he could wander farther down Woe Is Me Road, commotion from the arena drew his attention. Eric turned in time to see a horse pull itself up from the ground, leaving its rider in the dirt. The riderless horse trotted off, shaking its head and snorting, clearly not impressed at having taken a fall, but the cowboy remained flat out on the ground. A split second later, Eric’s stomach bottomed out when he recognized the cowboy. He swallowed back the sudden queasy lurch and shifted into professional mode. He grabbed his field kit, holding it under his arms to keep it closed rather than wasting time fastening the latches, and sprinted into the ring.

“Clear back,” he barked at the cowboys who’d gathered at Bridge’s side. Eric’s heart pounded hard in his ears as he dropped to his knees beside the burly cowboy.

“Bridge.” His voice cracked, and he heard the hint of panic in it. He took a deep breath, forcing himself to detach, forcing all his emotions into their assigned boxes so he could focus on his job. “Bridge, can you hear me?”

“Of course I can hear you.” Bridge huffed. “Shit.”

“Where are you hurt?” Eric began by visually searching for injuries, while pulling equipment from his kit.

“I’m not.”

Eric inspected Bridge’s face, pushing the long hair back from a furrowed brow. What wasn’t covered in dirt looked pale, and his eyes were squeezed shut. “Then why are you still on the ground? And green?”

“Trying not to barf.” Bridge’s voice sounded weak, like he really was doing just that. Eric tried to shine his penlight into Bridge’s eyes, to check for signs of concussion, but Bridge pushed his hand away and grunted. The sound more put-upon than in search of relief from injury.

“Are you going to be that kind of patient?” Eric said, keeping his tone even. People reacted all kinds of ways when they were hurt, but he didn’t want Bridge to be one of the ones he had to fight in order to assess his injuries.

Bridge opened his eyes and looked up, searching Eric’s. Whatever he saw there softened his expression, and warmth radiated outward, calming Eric when he was the one who was supposed to be calming the injured person he was attending to.

“If you’re feeling nauseated, I’m worried you might have a concussion,” he said, that trace of fear when he’d first seen Bridge on the ground creeping back into his voice.

“I’m sorry,” Bridge said. His voice was quiet, laced with a note of vulnerability Eric had never heard from the man before. Not breaking his stare, Bridge lifted his left arm. “It’s the blood. Somehow I got cut going down. Probably the cinch buckle or the edge of a conch.”

Eric reached for the arm Bridge had indicated and carefully rolled up the torn shirtsleeve. On the inside of his forearm was a gash about three inches long. It didn’t look deep enough to require stitches, just a good cleaning, butterfly strips, and a secure bandage. “That’s it? No pain anywhere else?”

Bridge shook his head, and Eric watched him closely, pressing his fingertips to the cowboy’s wrist, the pulse there strong and steady. Bridge stayed still and let Eric check his pupils this time, and then Eric gently palpated the ribs and abdomen for any signs of hemorrhaging or breaks. The whole time their gazes remained fixed on each other.

“Just a minor cut,” Eric said. Satisfied Bridge was okay, his heart rate slowed, and he exhaled a relieved breath.

“It’s bleeding,” Bridge complained.

Eric relaxed further, chuckling at the man’s insolent tone. “Well, yeah. That’s what happens when you get a cut, genius, but it’s not serious. I really think you’re going to live to ride another day. Here, look.”

“Can’t.” Bridge squeezed his eyes shut again.

“What do you mean you can’t?”

Bridge groaned and then stage-whispered, “Blood! Freaks me out.”

“Are you serious?” Eric leaned back on his heels, trying really hard to prevent the laughter from bubbling up but not succeeding. “Big, tough cowboy like you turns green over a little blood?”

“Oh, shut up,” Bridge groused, cracking an eyelid to glare at Eric, but the hint of a smile teasing the edges of his mouth took any bite out of the words.

Eric shook his head. “You’re so in the wrong business.”

Bridge only huffed in response. Eric laid Bridge’s arm carefully over his thigh, opened an antibacterial wipe, and began cleaning the wound. His gaze kept straying to Bridge’s face, taking advantage of the man’s closed eyes to study him freely. His lashes were long and a few shades darker than his hair, and there were faint freckles sprinkled across the bridge of his nose. His lips were pursed but held a healthy blush; the bottom one was fuller than the top. Golden fuzz covered his jaw, and Eric had the sudden urge to slide his tongue into the cleft of his chin.

He cleared his throat and focused on his task.

“Sit up, you big baby.” He kept his tone light. “People are freaking that you might be seriously hurt.”

Bridge did as he was told. “I like your accent,” he said quietly, like a confession.

Eric paused, staring hard at the cloth in his hand because he couldn’t look up into that handsome face right then. “Thank you,” he said, his voice just as quiet, and went back to work. When the wound was clean, he quickly applied ointment then gauze, taped it up, and smacked Bridge on the shoulder when he was done.

“There. No more blood.”

Bridge opened his eyes, and they locked on Eric’s. There was a mix of embarrassment and gratitude in that rich, brown-eyed stare, but there was also . . . desire. Eric had the distinct feeling Bridge was about to lean over and kiss him, as though they were slowly inching toward each other by some unseen force. The fact that they were in the middle of a rodeo arena with an audience somehow seemed a distant concern. He licked his lips, and Bridge’s gaze dropped to follow the movement. Then Bridge broke the connection by looking down at his arm and turning it over to inspect Eric’s handiwork.

Eric released the breath that had gotten hung up in his throat and quickly put his supplies back in his kit.

“Thank you,” Bridge said, his coy smile reaching down into Eric’s chest and settling itself there. He was seeing a new side to Bridge today. The confident, playful side that fired up his engine and made him think—want—things he shouldn’t, and then this. Vulnerable, shy, calling out to a part of Eric that wanted to wrap him up in his arms and protect him. Which was funny. No one could look at a man like Bridge and think he played any other role than protector. The guy was built like a brick house.

Eric stood and held out his hand. Bridge stared at him for a beat, then placed his hand in Eric’s. Even through the leather glove Bridge wore, their touch made Eric’s skin tingle. He pulled Bridge to his feet, which earned a round of applause from the small crowd. No one liked to see injuries at rodeos, whether it be the competitors, volunteers, or the roughstock, even though it was par for the course in the sport. A minor injury like Bridge’s counted as a good day.

Bridge swayed briefly once he was vertical, his grip tightened on Eric, and he leaned forward. For the second time in as many minutes, Eric thought Bridge was about to go in for a kiss, and then he straightened up and stood steady. Bridge’s hand slipped slowly from Eric’s, fingertips lingering for a brief moment, and then it was gone.

A throat cleared. Loudly.

Preoccupied with Bridge’s injury, Eric hadn’t realized Marty had collected Bridge’s horse and ridden up beside them, where he sat looking down with a teasing smile on his face. He held the reins out for Bridge.

“Don’t even start,” Bridge mumbled, shooting a warning glare at Marty, who laughed in response. He leaned down to collect his hat and dusted it off against his thigh before plopping it back on his head. He looked at Eric again and tapped a finger to the brim of his hat, then climbed up into the saddle and reined his horse back into the fray.