02-Let It Ride (3 page)

Tripp laughed and stepped back, holding a hand up in surrender. “Okay, okay. I got it.” Then he turned and accepted a hug and playful smack on the back from Kent. Bridge caught Marty looking at him, his gaze warm and shiny, like tears might be brewing.
Thank you
, he mouthed. Bridge smiled back and nodded.

With greetings out of the way, they went back to setting up for the weekend, but he couldn’t really concentrate. Every ten minutes, he looked at his wristwatch. Every distant rumble of a vehicle engine had him inconspicuously peeking around the trailers.

The afternoon progressed slowly, and the sun began its determined descent toward the horizon, pushing long shadows out across the spring grass. The constant rise and drop of adrenaline in his system was beginning to wear on him. Maybe he’d saddle up Breeze and go for a ride along the river trail. Kill some time and try to settle his nerves. He lifted his hat and ran a hand through his hair, then turned around, and his heart shot into his throat, choking off the ability to breathe, speak, or even think.

Eric, the man of his dreams—literally—stood near the back of Marty’s rig looking way too sexy in worn jeans, sneakers, and a turquoise golf shirt fitting tight enough to show off the hard muscle beneath. His short-cropped, dark-blond hair sparkled like gold in the sun’s fading rays. A single dimple bracketed one side of a warm and friendly smile.

“Hey, guys.” Eric addressed them as a group, but his sharply accented voice coasted over Bridge like an intimate caress, sending a rush of heat southward to pool in his groin.

He hung back, rendered immobile by Eric, live and large just ten feet away from him, and watched while his friends greeted his walking wet dream one by one with hugs, backslaps, and smiles. He’d worried that he’d spent too long in his fantasies, that his imagination had blown everything out of proportion and he wasn’t really physically attracted to Eric, but the second the paramedic walked in his direction and engulfed him in a hearty hug, every doubt he’d ever entertained vanished. Feeling Eric’s body so close, the heat that radiated from him and bled into Bridge, and smelling the tantalizing spice-and-citrus scent of Eric’s cologne, proved his dreams were far from exaggerated. They had been nothing but a poor tease of the real thing.

He fought the urge to bury his nose in Eric’s neck, to suck an earlobe into his mouth, and to keep his body from showing just how happy he was to see Eric again, but he couldn’t let go of his living fantasy either. Eric broke the embrace first and looked up at him with those captivating eyes, so much more intense in person. “Good to see you again, Bridge.”

“Yeah.” He cleared his throat, but his voice sounded a bit too deep and husky to his ears. “You too.”
You don’t even know.

Oblivious to the raging hormones wreaking havoc on Bridge’s libido, Eric turned and clapped his hands twice. “Well, what the hell are you all standing around for? Let’s go get some grub and play some pool!”

“Thanks, sweetheart,” Bridge said, taking the fresh pitcher of beer from the waitress and then dropping a couple of bills on her empty tray in its place. She looked up at him through long eyelashes and smiled.

“Can I get you anything else?” Her voice practically purred, and the slight raise of one dark eyebrow clued him in to the fact she was offering more than a fresh bowl of peanuts or another round of chicken wings. She was definitely pretty—long, dark hair fell loose over her bare shoulders, a short skirt showed off long legs, and a tank top displayed the rest of her God-given assets—and though he would have definitely been interested not all that long ago, he now had his sights too firmly set on someone else.

He shook his head and smiled. “We’re all set.”

“Okay. Well . . .” Her pout was subtle, but she stepped closer and pressed a napkin into his hand. “If you change your mind.”

Don’t hold your breath, darlin’.
He tipped his hat, and she turned, casting a seductive look over her shoulder before walking away with a little extra swing of her hips.

Kent stepped up beside him and began to refill his beer mug. “She’s sexy. Get her number?”

Bridge shrugged and dropped the napkin—he knew without looking that it had her digits on it—on the table in front of Kent. “Here. Give her a call.”

Kent stopped mid-pour and nearly dropped the pitcher back on the table. His eyebrows disappeared under the brim of his hat, and his mouth fell open. “Since when do you turn away a hot girl like that?”

“What’s going on?” Eric said, coming up behind Bridge and reaching for the pitcher to top off his beer, saving him from having to come up with a quick answer. “You look a little shocked there, Kent.” He stood close enough for Bridge to catch another whiff of his cologne. Damn, but the man smelled good. Bridge couldn’t stop himself from shifting a little closer and inhaling a little deeper.

“Nothing,” Bridge said. He didn’t know how to tell his friends what was going on yet, and he had to find out if Eric could be on the same page first. What was the point of telling them he might be gay, or bi most likely, if the only man he was interested in wasn’t interested in him?

Kent snorted. “B has a new girl he’s not telling us about.”

Eric frowned. “You do?” He stepped closer to the table, probably to hear Kent better over the almost-too-loud music in the sports bar they’d wandered into. His arm brushed Bridge’s when he lifted his mug to take a sip. The touch was light, unintentional, but the effect was still enough to send a thrill coursing through Bridge’s veins. He took a swig of his beer and swallowed hard.

“Who’s got a girl?” Marty said, holding the pool cue out toward Kent. “Your turn.”

“B’s been singing and smiling to himself for a few days now,” Kent said. He took a quick drink before taking the cue stick from Marty. “And I swear he drank an entire pot of coffee this morning, with the way he was pinging around the truck on the drive here today.”

“I was not pinging.” Bridge straightened to his full height and puffed his chest out a little. “And I already told you, there’s no girl.”

Kent gave him a skeptical look and then shook his head before walking over to the pool table to take his shot. Bridge looked back at Marty and Eric, both watching him with curious expressions.

“There’s not!”

Marty and Eric shared a glance but didn’t saying anything. They didn’t need to. Bridge could read the disbelief in their amused smiles. He rolled his eyes and took a long draught of his beer.

Tripp returned from the bar with a bag of ice for his leg and reclaimed his stool beside Marty. They’d been taking turns playing doubles pool since they were odd numbered, but Tripp’s leg had begun to hurt so he’d decided to take up a referee position from their table while Marty and Eric teamed up against Bridge and Kent. Tripp looked from one to the other and then settled on Marty. “What did I miss?”

“B!” Kent called from the other side of the table. “You’re up.”

Saved!
He set down his drink and turned so quickly he jostled Eric, who’d just raised his mug to his mouth. Beer spilled over the lip of the tipped glass and dribbled down Eric’s chin. Bridge reached out to steady himself by placing one hand on the table and the other on Eric’s hip but froze when the amber liquid dripping onto Eric’s chest caught his attention. All he wanted to do right then was lean down and slide his tongue over that wet, exposed skin. He licked his lips and lifted his gaze to meet Eric’s. He couldn’t get a read on Eric’s expression, but he was sure he saw a flash of heat in the violet depths of his eyes; that in their fleeting look, Eric somehow knew what was going on in Bridge’s head, knew what kinds of dreams he’d been having, and just maybe felt a little of the same.

Kent called to him again, an impatient note in his voice, and the brief connection broke.

“Shit. I’m sorry, dude.” Bridge grabbed a napkin, the one with the waitress’s phone number on it, and handed it to Eric. He turned away before he could use the napkin as an excuse to touch Eric and dab away the alcohol himself, run his hands over places
just friends
had no business running their hands.

Kent passed off the cue with a raised eyebrow, but Bridge ignored him. He focused on the task of chalking the cue stick to get back to center. When he felt somewhat collected again, he cleared his throat. “Five ball, corner pocket,” he called to no one in particular and then leaned down. He spread his legs a little, pulled the stick back, and then he glanced up at the mirrored wall on the other side of the table and froze. He’d called a shot that had him bent over the table right in front of Eric, and in the reflection, he could see that Eric had noticed. His gaze was planted firmly on Bridge’s ass.

Encouraged, Bridge didn’t move, waiting until their eyes met in the glass. When they did, he gave his butt a little wiggle. “Checking out my ass, Palmer?” he teased over his shoulder.

Eric snorted, leaning back on his stool a little. “In your dreams, Sullivan.”

Oh, you don’t know the half of it
. Bridge winked and then turned his attention back to the pool table. A smile spread across his face of its own volition, and he rocked from foot to foot until Kent yelled at him to hit a damn ball already. He settled into position, lined up, and snapped the shot. The cue ball bounced off the three ball, which careened into the five ball and sent it cleanly into the corner pocket. He pumped his fist in the air and hooted. Marty’s and Kent’s groans were offset by a whistle and enthusiastic applause from Eric. Bridge tipped his hat at Eric, then called out his next shot. This time he had to set up on the opposite side of the table, but when he had his strategy planned out, he raised his eyes to meet Eric’s and grinned. When Eric shifted in his seat, Bridge took the shot. And missed.

“Your turn,” Bridge said, inducing a hint of challenge in his voice.

Eric jumped down from his barstool and met Bridge in front of the pool table. Bridge held the cue stick out for him but didn’t let go when Eric grabbed it. Their gazes locked for an extended beat, and then Eric stepped into Bridge’s space. That spicy-citrus fragrance drifted into his nostrils, teasing his senses and triggering a rush of endorphins in his brain.

“If I didn’t know any better—” Eric’s voice was low, his accent thicker. His hand slid down the shaft of the stick until it rested above Bridge’s, and the contact sent a burning spike of arousal careening into Bridge’s cock. “—I’d think you were flirting with me.”

“Maybe you don’t know better,” Bridge said, quietly enough for only Eric to hear, and then grinned when his eyes widened ever so slightly. Bridge let go of the cue stick, dropping his hand to brush Eric’s thigh as he walked past him without looking back.

He made it to their table without tripping over his boots and took a long draught of his beer. His heart pounded in his chest as if he’d just run five miles, his mouth had gone dry, and his jeans were feeling damned uncomfortable. He’d basically just tipped his hand. Risky, he knew. He did not want to screw up a great friendship, but at the same time, he had to know if it could be more.

Fortunately, Marty and Tripp were otherwise engaged in their own private conversation and not paying attention to Bridge or the game, but Kent’s keen gaze didn’t miss much. Bridge knew full well that the slight frown on his friend’s face meant
We’ll be talking later
.

Eric called his shot, and Bridge turned around, grateful to get out from under Kent’s stare. He wasn’t ready to tell Kent that the girl he thought had Bridge skipping was actually Eric. Of all the people he knew, his best friends would be the most understanding. They’d even jokingly asked if he had something to tell them a time or two in the past. But until he knew where things stood with Eric, he couldn’t share with them just yet.

Eric looked up at him then, and once again, Bridge’s heart shot into his throat while blood flooded into his groin fast enough to make his head spin.

Shit, I really am in for it
.

Eric watched the action in full swing at the center of the arena with rapt attention. His gaze wasn’t on the man riding the bronco, who was losing control and coming dangerously close to meeting the ground with his face rather than his feet, but on the pickup men flanking the bucking horse, trying to pull its rider to safety. And he was focused on one pickup man in particular: Bridge Sullivan. The cowboy who’d look just at home on a surfboard as he did on a horse. His too-long blond hair had kept Eric awake all night, imagining what it would feel like sliding through his fingers. And then there were the Superman jawline and cleft chin, and those deep-brown, gold-flecked eyes that had stared down at him with so much heat and intensity last night in the bar that he’d almost imploded on the spot.