We walk around the perimeter a few times to help him get used to this change in his routine. My heart hammers away as I pull out the blindfold. “This is it,” I say to myself, then tie it around my eyes.
My world goes black. I adjust it around my ears so that it doesn’t pinch, and then with one reassuring pat on Hope’s shoulder, I lift my leg high and swing into the saddle in one smooth motion.
“Good boy,” I say, giving him a gentle nudge with my heels to get him moving. “That’s it, boy. Nice and slow.”
Once I’m confident I’m not going to fall off, I finally remember to breathe. My nerves settle, making room for my other senses. My world fills with the soft churn of hooves. A cool breeze picks up, and I can feel it brushing against my face.
Without the distraction of seeing what’s around me, I feel even more connected to Hope than I normally do. The steady expansion of his flank beneath me. The soft wheeze that escapes his nostrils. The fluid motion of his hooves in the dirt. I feel it all so muchmore.
A tear of relief rolls down my cheek. I’m doing this. I’m really doing this.
Which means I might just be able to keep my job and continue working with horses after all.
27
Maverick
After dropping me off this morning, Wagner texted half an hour later to tell me he’d spoken to Candice and that she was free to take a call with me at three. He also mentioned he’s the best older brother in the world. Several times.
The timing for the call couldn’t have been better since Jackson and I usually hook up at two. I called Candice, and it went well. Better than well, actually. She loved my idea of having a local talent show fundraiser and agreed to help me out. Given what I now know, I didn’t offer up my brother on a platter for her to devour.
I regret misjudging her. She’s not some Xanned-out, socialite-climbing trophy wife. She’s actually a really nice person. And even though I didn’t have to resort to whoring Maverick out to her, they could actually make a good couple. Not that I’m going to stick my nose where it’s not wanted or needed.
I’m at my desk, waiting for Wagner to pick me up and take me back to the mechanic to pick my car up. He texted twenty minutes ago that his meeting was running over. I told him not to worry. I have a million things to work on.
Including one thing I’ve been ignoring.
I unlock my phone and hit Play on the recording. Labored breathing. Coughing. Long breaks in between breaths, then gasping for air. This isn’t a snuff porno—I recorded myself sleeping once Jackson and I returned from our weekend away.
He wasn’t kidding when he said my sleep is terrible. I sound like an army of malfunctioning robots echoing through a metal hall. Wagner told me about a great doctor who specializes in sleep disorders a few towns over in Brentdale. Muting the deafening racket blaring from my phone, I look up the numberfor the sleep specialist and give them a call, booking the first available appointment to see him.
I get back to my actual work, quickly losing myself in a world of spreadsheets, when I hear a metal clang, like someone opening the center pen. That’s strange. I’m the last one here, and the light in Jackson’s cabin is on, so I’m assuming he’s done for the day.
I get up from my desk and walk over to the window. “What the actual fuck?” I shake my head in disbelief. Jackson is in the center pen, riding a horse,blindfolded.
He doesn’t strike me as someone who has a death wish, but I don’t waste another second standing around doing nothing. I tear out of my office, thunder down the stairs, and race over to the pen, ruining my shoes and the bottom half of my pants in the process.
He’s taking it easy with Hope. They’re moving at barely a walking pace, but it doesn’t change the fact thathe’s riding a horse blindfolded!
“What on earth are you doing?” I call out, resting my hands on the top of the fence as I catch my breath.
“What the fuck?” His head bobs, and he almost topples over before pulling the damn blindfold off his eyes. He flinches, like he’s struggling to adjust to the light, which doesn’t make much sense since it’s almost completely dark. “Maverick? What are you doing here?”
“I own this place. Remember?”
His lips thin, and he wipes under his eyes and carefully eases himself down from the saddle. “I mean, here, right now. Your car isn’t in the lot.”
“I had my car serviced today. I’m waiting for Wagner and Sammy to pick me up.”
“Oh.”
Jackson is still in his work clothes, but there’s something off about him, and I can’t put my finger on it. “What’s going on?”
He leaves Hope in the pen and steps out. His eyes are stormy, his breathing uneven. It’s as if he’s upset. But why? I’m not mad at him or anything; I just want to know why my head handler is riding a horse blindfolded. That’s not unreasonable, is it?
He opens his mouth to say something, but no words come out, just…a heart-wrenching sob. He falls into my arms, his warm tears seeping through the material of my shirt and into my chest.
“Jackson, what’s wrong? I’m not angry with you, just curious,” I say, on the off chance that’s what he’s worried about. I don’t think it is, but it’s the only thing I can come up with. I’m so confused. None of this makes any sense.
