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“Like Mr. Ed?” Cash laughs.
I laugh with him because I’ve seen reruns.
“Are you enjoying the party?” I ask him.
“Surprisingly, yes.” He shoves his hands in his pockets and gives me a boyish smile. “I’m usually not much for parties though.”
I’ve been watching him all night and can confirm that he is uncomfortable in large crowds from the way he observes from the sidelines, hiding in the shadows. Occasionally, when someone talks to him, he keeps the conversation short, often finding an excuse to leave.
“I noticed you don’t drink.” I wonder out loud, not sure if I should ask, but there is a lot I don’t know about Cash that I want to find out.
“I had my fill back in the day,” he says plainly.
I can only imagine what it was like from my experience working at the bar and watching people overindulge. I’m sure that’s tame compared to being in a rock band, especially in the nineties.
“Too much alcohol, too many drugs…” he doesn’t finish his sentence. The serious expression on his face makes me itch for my camera, because seeing him in the low light of the barn is perfection. He doesn’t do it on purpose, it’s justhim, but he’s the kind of man that draws you in with just one look.
“Too many women?” I finish for him. I want to know what kind of lover he is. I want to picture him, see his face, reach inside and pull everything from him.
“I’m not Jack.” The tone of his voice is meant to be a warning, but all it does is cause heat to bloom from my stomach and spread throughout my body. Cash isn’t a playboy like Gabriel, nor does he have a past like Jack. He’s someone who looks like he loves hard and gets burned in the process. I know exactly how he feels.
“You don’t drink either,” he mentions as he enters the barn and walks closer, leaning against one of the stalls. He folds his arms over his chest causing the guitar player veins in his forearms to be on full display.
“I worked in a bar,” I explain. “It gets old real quick.” I turn towards Ivan, finding comfort in running my hand across his jaw and down his neck.
I reach into the pocket of my dress and pull out the peppermint that I know he wants. Ivan’s nose flares as he smells it.
“That explains a lot,” Cash says as he moves closer, but stops when Ivan’s head pops out of the stall to take the peppermint from my hand.
I dismiss his comment to take the opportunity to tease him. “Are you afraid of the horse?”
“No,” he says a little too quickly.
I laugh because he’s a bad liar.
“What’s funny?” he asks, curiously.
“You ride a motorcycle but you’re afraid of a little horse.” I tease him with a smile while rubbing Ivan’s nose.
“That,” he points to Ivan, “isnota little horse.”
I have to admit, Ivan is on the large size. He stands about seventeen hands and looks more intimidating than he is.
“Motorcycles I know, horses not so much,” he admits, looking around the barn.
“Well, horses I know, and motorcycles not so much.” I laugh.
“Are they for show or something?” he asks, looking around the barn where Grandpa John keeps old rodeo memorabilia.
I shake my head and laugh. “No.” I move over to one of the other stalls. “Maverick here used to be a race horse.” He lets me lift his lip to show Cash the tattooed numbers on the underside of his top lip. “When he didn’t perform well enough, he was sent to the kill pen.”
Maverick pulls his lip from my grasp having had enough of me showing him off. He’s a sleek black thoroughbred with a white patch on his forehead, and an ornery demeanor like most horses of his breed.
“You rescued him?” Cash moves a little closer. Maverick, despite his name, is less intimidating than Ivan.
“Not me, but Grandpa John took him in for a friend who did.” Maverick licks the remnants of peppermint from my hand.
“Do you ride them?” Cash asks with interest, but he’s still cautious of the horse and keeps his distance, which I find cute.
