Stabled (The Stables Trilogy #1) (4 page)

Maybe this was a place she could let go a bit. Try and be normal again.

Dressing quickly, she threw her hair in a ponytail and went to grab dinner. She was eager to meet the other ranch workers and, if she was honest, eager to see J.B again.

But Maple wasn’t being honest with herself. No, she was pushing all of that deep down.

J.B. had been right-- she heard the kitchen area long before she saw it. When she did round a corner, the sight that greeted her stopped her mid-step.

It was like a restaurant kitchen. Steel appliances, dark stone counters, crisp white cabinets. Everything was clean, and it was
huge
. Behind an eight burner gas range was a pretty girl, maybe a little older than Maple, with long, dark hair and eyes and beautiful, brown skin. She was busily alternating between stirring a few pots, chopping onions and herbs, and laughing whenever one of the men made a joke.

The men-- there were three of them-- were sitting at a long, rough cut table. Well, it was one of those tables meant to look rough, but it had the stain and sheen of a designer table. Maple sighed. She didn’t think she’d ever get used to the luxury of J.B.’s home. It felt as if he was trying to appear modest, with the ranch style and simple layout and designs. But everything had that extra touch of elegance that made her feel as if she were in a museum.

She hadn’t felt comfortable in her parents’ home, but she was a fish out of water here.

“New girl!” One of the men stood. No, on closer inspection, he seemed like he might be her age, maybe younger. He was taller than her, but not by much. Clear, mocha skin and a shaggy mane of black hair. His eyes were so dark they were almost black.

They were inquisitive and intense and Maple blushed and had to work not to stare at her feet.

“Um… hi?”

“Come in!” He loped over to her with a friendly, awkward gait, and draped an arm over her shoulder. “New blood! Sit down. I’ll grab you some food. Tell us every single thing there is to know about you.”

Flustered, she found herself thrown onto a bench, the other two men looking at her and trying to hide their chuckles. “There isn’t much to say--”

In a heartbeat, a plate appeared before her. Rice, beans, shredded beef. It should have been simple food. It was anything but. The rice was fragrant with lime and bursts of cilantro, still steaming. Black beans in a sauce that had hints of cumin and fresh oregano. Spooned on top was fresh pico de gallo, with tiny winks of jalapeño.

She speared some of the shredded beef and tasted it. And promptly died from pleasure. It was so tender it fell apart and melted like butter in her mouth. It was a fattier piece of meat and, despite being from a cheaper cut, still tasted better than the steaks she’d had. “Oh God,” she sighed, rolling the spicy-sweet meat on her tongue. “This is incredible.”

“Mariela makes the best barbacoa around. It helps that J.B. lets us have one of his cows every quarter.”

“What breed?”

“American Wagyu.”

Ah. She understood, and couldn’t believe the level of generosity J.B. had with his staff. American Wagyu steers had to be registered in the U.S. Known for intense marbling, the beef fetched
high
prices at market. “He lets you have a steer?”

“Mmhmm! I’m Raúl. What’s your name?”

Raúl was sitting close to her. Far closer than a new acquaintance should. He leaned in, elbow on the table near her, fingers resting just to the side of her plate. The intimacy of him made her pulse quicken. She’d jumped right into her relationship with Tony. That meant she was limited in her flirting experience.

His closeness, the cheeky smile he kept flashing her, was nice. It also made her uncomfortably nervous. Flirting seemed like one of those innocent behaviors normal people did. Maple didn’t know if she could be normal again.

Only that morning she’d been drinking coffee in her mother’s kitchen. Now she was feeling desperately overwhelmed. The situation was too easy. This was something that happened to nice girls. Nice girls got jobs at ranches. Nice girls had bosses who trusted and cute, genuine coworkers. It was hard to accept this might be it for her. But if she was going to make it work, she’d have to start here, with an introduction.

“Maple. I’m Maple Parsons.”

His nose scrunched. “Maple? That’s a weird name.”

“So’s Raúl. You sound like a movie villain.”

He laughed. “Or just Hispanic. Because, you know.” His hands waved up and down his body as if to say
look at me
. Duh, she knew. “Besides, I think it is more a lover’s name than a villain’s.” The boy had the audacity to wink at her.

Unsure of how to respond to a wink, she turned to the other men. “And you?”

“Tim, Miss.” One said. He was older. More of what she’d expected on the ranch. His face was wrinkled and weathered, looking like leather. Gaunt, with high cheekbones that were covered in salted stubble. “This here’s Jones.”

Jones could have been Tim’s brother, but Maple had used up the last of her ability to be social. She knew she should ask more questions. Instead, her anxiety was winning the war. Despite having just showered, she was sweating again. Her mind was starting to speed up, her thoughts buzzing.

Do they like me? What do I say? Will I be able to remember their names? Can I go to my room now? Would that be considered rude?

Raúl didn’t give her a chance to consider retreat. “So, Maple, how do you like the job?”

“I haven’t really done it yet. I just interviewed today. Sort of.”

“Yeah, J.B. moves kind of quick,” Raúl nodded in sympathy. “He either likes you or he doesn’t.”

There was a flutter at that.
He likes me?
But she shook it off with another big bite of beans and rice, hoping this was just first-day, new-girl crushing. Besides, J.B. had told her why she was hired: weak and trainable. Those weren’t exactly traits worth bragging over and they hardly were something anyone would find attractive. “I guess I passed, then.”

“You’re so pretty, I don’t know how you couldn’t have!”

Tim and Jones coughed, and Raúl blushed a little. It was reassuring that others found his bold nature forthcoming too. Her skin itched a little at his compliment, his closeness. Maple needed distance, her anxious thoughts becoming insects under her skin.

“It’s been a long day,” she said as she stood. “It was nice to meet y’all, but I’m going to turn in.” Tim and Jones nodded. Raúl looked crestfallen. Maple couldn’t stand to disappoint people, even if she wasn’t sure she liked them, so she offered him a small smile. “See you tomorrow? I think you’re showing me how to muck Bane’s stable.”

At this, Raúl flashed her his full set of teeth, grinning so hard it was comical. “Sure! We can talk then. You can tell me about yourself, okay?”

She ran out, muttering something non-committally, needing escape before the day crashed into her.

Chapter Four

“Did you get the job?”

“Yeah, Mom, I got it.”

The relief her mother felt managed to travel silently through the phone. Maple rolled her eyes.

“You’re unpacked, then?”

“Yeah, Mom.”

A pause. “Okay, Honey. Is there anything you need?”

This was the part that always needled Maple. When she’d left for college she’d had almost this exact same stilted conversation. Her parents weren’t talkers. Never had been. They’d been even less affectionate. Affection came in the form of an extra biscuit on a plate if she’d done a hard day’s work, or a Bible and a necklace tucked into luggage to wish her good luck.

Most of the time Maple was okay with that. Most of the time it was enough. Because if your parents don’t talk, then they don’t ask too many questions, either. But the day had just been so damned strange. Picked up by a driver? She’d never been in a car that nice before. Hired with so little interview? Did that even happen in real life?

She should be able to ramble to her mom about it. Gush about her hot boss. Get advice. Giggle.

“No, Mom, I’ve got everything here.”

“Good, Honey. I’m proud of you.” Her mother added that last bit in like it was an afterthought.

“Right. I’ll call when I can,” Maple offered. It didn’t escape her that her palms were damp. That her chest was tight with nerves.
Ask me to call next week. Tell me you miss me. Ask me if I need to come back home.

“Okay. Be safe, Maple.”

Click
.

She hadn’t even waited for Maple to say goodbye. Sighing heavily, Maple tucked her cellphone into the drawer of her bedside table. Most likely she wouldn’t need it for a while. Her parents were the only people she had to call.

This was typical for them. It was one of the reasons she needed to leave home. Her parents loved her, she knew. But they’d grown up in tough times and it’d made them hard. Hard to talk to. Hell, she’d never even really seen them talk to each other.

Maple had wanted more. She’d told herself she wanted a life outside of cattle. She wanted human connection. Maybe it was all the books she’d poured over as a kid. The fantasy ones with intense, passionate relationships and epic, soul-changing adventures. Those books made the world out of Silt Springs and her tiny bedroom seem enormous. Enchanting.

Funny how she was now back at a ranch and feeling more alone than ever.

It was too early to go to bed. She could go to her room and read, but her curiosity was growing. J.B. had said she could explore, and she wanted to see this house that should be a movie set instead of a place where people lived.

There weren’t many twisting halls; after she left what she realized was the guest wing and kitchen, she stepped into the open-concept living space. This was the room she’d seen from the car. The single, enormous glass wall making it feel as if she were stepping outside.

Maple gasped. The night sky bloomed in front of her. No cars were parked in front. It was just wide, open sky and the shadow of the fence and gate on the horizon. The stars were so plentiful that, combined with a half moon, the room could have been lit from them alone.

Lights were on, though, which allowed her to view the art on the walls up close. The pieces were not what she expected. They were modern, for the most part. Huge canvases covered with slabs of dark paint that was slashed through with grays, whites, and blues. They looked angry, foreboding, clashing with the pristine white walls and polished marble floor.

Between the oppressive canvases were smaller pieces, contemporary but mimicking classic styles. Twisted faces, mouths screaming in pain. Pale bodies, misshapen and haggard. Reminiscent of Goya, they startled her more than all the posh elements of the house combined. How did a man with such refined tastes everywhere else choose such atrocious paintings for his living space?

As she peered around, it became more and more apparent that there was a unifying theme in all of the smaller works: Women in bondage. Every screaming face, every writhing body was a female, while dark, mysterious, masculine figures loomed in their background. Her eyes picked out elements she hadn’t seen at first glance. Riding crops. Whips. Ropes tied so tight around breasts and bellies the flesh bulged out.

Maple shivered, her stomach lurching. The paintings were evocative, at least. She found herself making her way back to the first, to begin looking at them anew. They captured her fully, drawing her in. When she waded past her initial shock at the dark matter, she found something ugly and sensual inside herself.

She could picture herself easily in the paintings. The ropes cutting and chafing her skin. The lick of the whip on her back.

Maple could picture it, because she’d been there before.

Her pussy was swelling, the shameful flood of arousal slicking her folds. She shut her eyes and slowed her breath.
You’re not that person anymore
. What a lie.

The heavy stone wall she’d built around those memories of college, of her ex boyfriend Tony, of the depraved things he’d done to her was shaking in her mind, threatening to tumble. Breathing deep, she worked quickly to rebuild it. Add an extra layer. Bury them deep, so deep.

All the colors, dark and foreboding, combined with her reluctant arousal, only piqued her interest. J.B. wasn’t a man she could have googled to understand this art. What little was known about him was centered on the cattle and money. These paintings were a shock; tantalizing and confusing. What kind of cowboy wanted such depravity on his walls? What did they say to him, and about him?

Her image of J.B. became richer and more enticing as she studied his collection. Not just handsome, but maybe tainted like she was? Considering his grim, stoic attitude for the day and these paintings, Maple began to sketch her own idea of him. The words he liked to use--
train
, for example, made her shudder. Tony had tried to master her. J.B. seemed like he’d be a Master. Noun, not verb. That possibility was much too alluring.

Of course, she shouldn’t be considering him at all. He was her boss. Maybe too old for her. And hadn’t she come here for a fresh start?

She was almost done, her breathing almost normal and the electric angst that zinged along her limbs almost dissipated, when his voice shocked her system.

“You’ve looked at them twice-- you like them.” Oh God, his gravel rumble made her core clench in desire,. His commanding voice, presence, promised so much more than Tony had ever dished out.

Tony had dished out a lot.

Maple refused to look at him. She thought about how he’d chastised her for being uncertain. This was a chance for her to be sure. Art was one of her few strengths.

“Yes, I like them.” Truth. She’d always appreciated art that inspired reaction, no matter how distasteful she found her reaction to be. “They frighten me,” she admitted.

“Why?” His footsteps drew closer, and she felt the pure, masculine energy of J.B. next to her. She was standing in front of a painting with a team of girls, bound together and pulling a cart which carried a hooded figure, whip in hand to urge them on.

“Do they frighten me? The pain of the women isn’t explanation enough?” Lie. They frightened her because she found them so appealing. That was the sort of thing she’d never admit out loud. Especially to her boss. Curiosity tingled through her, now. Why did a cowboy have such bleak, sexual art? And on such prominent display? What was J.B. trying to tell the viewer?

“Hm. They frighten me, too.” He didn’t offer a reason why.

“You’re a big collector.”

“I dabble in art acquisitions, yes.”

“Your acquisitions are very specific,” she pushed. “Is it that the paintings speak to you, or for you?” As soon as the question was out, she desperately wished she’d never asked it. This was the kind of thing she wondered about; the psychology behind the art and the buyer. It was
never
a thing that a girl like Maple Parsons should say out loud.

Her hands had been twisting together, she discovered, because as she asked the question she popped one finger, its soothing crack making her jump.

“That’s a personal question, Maple.” J.B. moved to her periphery. “You’ve grown bolder, and in such a short amount of time.”

Maple had no choice but to turn to him. Her eyes picked a point just to the left of his face to focus on. It was a trick she’d learned when her anxiety threatened to morph into panic in public. For all intents and purposes, it looked as if she was meeting someone’s eye. His, though, she couldn’t avoid for long. They demanded her attention.

She sucked in her breath. One blue eye, one green. Mismatched. Hypnotizing. This was what had seemed off about his eyes all day. She’d been so nervous with the interview, with his overwhelming presence, she hadn’t recognized it. Now she did. His heterochromia was inescapable. Her pulse quickened. The imperfection was perfection.

“Y-you don’t have to answer,” she muttered. “I’m sorry.” Her tongue darted out to lick her lip. His eyes followed, lingering on her mouth. When the pause between them weighed too much to bear, she changed the subject. “We didn’t, um, discuss pay. Do you need me to fill out paperwork? Things like that?”

J.B. nodded slightly, his gaze never leaving her. His look was smoldering. “We can do that now. Let’s go to my office.”

As she followed him, she kept seeing more and more of the larger, more abstract paintings. “That artist must be thankful for your patronage.”

“I reckon so.”

“Who is he? Or she? I don’t recognize the work.”

“Why would you?” J.B.’s legs were long, and he did not slow his clip.

Maple stumbled as she fought to keep up, trying to answer without sounding too winded. “Well, I studied art history in college--”

They came to a hall branching away from the main house. All of the doors on it were closed. She remembered his warning-- if they were closed, she was not permitted to look around. It didn’t pique her curiosity; it was his home, this was probably where his bedroom and bathroom were. It wasn’t like the lone stable, looking new and yet forbidden.
That
was a mystery, far more than a few closed doors.

Besides, he was with her now, opening a door and welcoming her in. She forgot what she’d been saying as she entered his office.

It was the opposite of the living area. Dark, chalkboard black walls. The couch inside the office was dark grey and distinctly masculine. The desk made of glass. A back wall of books, most of them appearing to be ledgers but a few were beautiful, leather bound novels. On the marble floor was a large cowhide rug, its rustic coloring a stark contrast to the simple lines and dark features of the room.

One wall had an interesting piece of art: ten feet of bamboo switches hung vertically in varying lengths and thicknesses.

He gestured to the couch and she sat, forgetting what they’d been talking about. That is, until he sat opposite her, setting a stack of papers on the steel coffee table between them. She reached and grabbed them. As she began to rifle through, he asked her “why art history?”

“Well, not only art history. Double major in that and psychology. I liked learning about people through their art.”

“That’s why you’re curious about the artist? What do you see in the paintings?”

“The ones that caught my eyes first were the large, abstract ones. I thought they were your standard angry and lonely paintings. But there’s more to it. Like, in the ones with blue it seemed like the artist was celebrating the emotions instead of wallowing in them. The paintings are about the seduction of the darkness, reveling in the unattractive emotions.” When looking at them Maple had felt the artist was painting her past. The darkness and the celebration.