Chapter 6

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Quinn threw his mother up into her saddle and then swung up onto his horse. Poetry in motion, and if we’d been alone, I’d have dragged him into the stable, found an empty stall, and fucked his brains out.

“Just don’t kick Blue,” Quinn was saying, and I shook myself out of the pleasurable reverie of him bent over a hay bale.

“Sure.” How difficult could following such simple instructions be? I mounted the horse the groom was holding for me.

But Blue reacted every time my heels brushed against his sides and continually broke into a trot that had me bouncing in the saddle, rattling my teeth.

I’d warned that fucking flea-bitten, sway-backed, hay-burning refugee from a glue factory that I had a gun and had no problem using it if he made me look bad in front of my lover. Obviously, he hadn’t taken my warning seriously.

I studied Quinn’s posture in the saddle and copied it. I’d shoot the nag later.