The Heartbreak Horse

Because She's a Cutthroat b***h.

I’m not the underage drinking type of guy, but Matt insisted. Matt Davis is sort of like my surrogate big brother—or used to be, at least, when his mom, Zoe, was dating Oliver, my dad. They aren’t dating anymore, but I’m still best friends with Cyan, Matt’s sister. Matt lives with his fiancée now, but he comes home to help his mom out a lot, so I still get to see him. Last time I saw him, I made the mistake of confessing my lovesickness for Valerie Rucker, who definitely doesn’t return the sentiment. Matt decided I needed to unwind, and that he would risk his bartending license to serve me, a nineteen-year-old with very little drinking experience.

The bar is called Atlantis. It has tables, too, not just a bar. Like the bar, the tables are ultra-hip, nestled in this blue-black lighting with these gauzy curtains hanging from the walls. The booths kind of sparkle in this annoying way. The music is loud—the pop s**t Val listens to—and a bunch of dumbasses are embarrassing themselves on the dance floor.

Despite all the people lined up waiting for a seat, there is an open one at the bar, and when Matt sees me, he waves me over.

“Dude,” I say as I sit down, trying to ignore the glares coming at me from the line, “how were you allowed to hold my seat with a line like that?”

Matt grins. “The owner’s my fiancée, remember?”

Oh, of course. “Now I do. How is the lovely Fiona?”

“She’s fine. Insecure as hell. It’s like, I love her so much, you know? And she’s still all jealous. I swear, I hate it. The sexiest quality in a girl is confidence.”

I’m not sure about that. I think the sexiest quality in a girl is strength—not physically, but emotionally—being able to deal with s**t and being smart enough to deal with it right. But then, I don’t really find Val all that smart or able-minded, so maybe Matt’s right.

“Why’s she so jealous?” I ask. “Do you have a hot friend or something?” I know a little about that. I haven’t had many girlfriends, but when I do, they’re always jealous of Cyan. Cyan really isn’t all that pretty, anyway—eccentric, but not pretty—but girlfriends can’t deal with their boyfriends having female best friends. They were all convinced either she was in love with me or I was in love with her. As if. Cyan and I have the most platonic relationship ever.

“Hot doesn’t begin to describe it,” he says with a grin, gesturing to a table near the bar where a waitress is taking an order. I can only see her profile, but I can make out her features well enough: long, wavy, dark hair; rich, brown eyes ringed with black eyeliner; creamy, tan skin. White, clearly not mixed like me, but about my skin color. She’s your average height, but not your average weight. There’s no substance to her at all. She’s wearing a short, backless dress, and her bones are practically jutting out of every bare part of her skin I can see.

I don’t think she’s hot. I certainly don’t think she’s beautiful. Too thin; too perfect; too obviously sexy. But I know guys, and I know she has that sultry, Megan Fox s*x appeal they all love.

So I go along with it. “No wonder you have a problem,” I say, raising my eyebrows and shaking my head. I’m a decent actor. Besides, it is no wonder his fiancée is jealous of a coworker who looks like that. “You’re not...?”

“Nah. Just friends. She’s not into me. But I can’t say I haven’t thought about it, man.”

I decide then I don’t like Matt as much as I thought and consider telling him that was a douchey thing to say, but he’s already left to serve the others. When he comes back, he hands me a drink I don’t recognize and tells me to drink.

I obey because I really do want to get drunk that night. I want to wallow in the stupidity of my ridiculous crush on Val Rucker. I wince a little at the taste, and Matt laughs. 

His laugh is interrupted by the girl. She could probably pass for twenty-one, but I can tell she’s younger—probably about my age, eighteen. She doesn’t carry herself like she is, and she doesn’t look like she is, so I don’t know how I know, exactly. Maybe it’s because she looks familiar to me, somehow.

“Matt,” she whines, walking behind the bar to join him. Matt almost visibly brightens, slinking an arm around her waist as soon as she gets close enough.

“What’s wrong, babe?” he asks easily. “Need me to kick someone’s ass outta here again? You get harassed too much.”

She has a sort of no s**t expression on her face, but she doesn’t say that. I watch her intently, even though she hasn’t spared me a glance yet. I still swear she looks oddly familiar, but can’t quite put my finger on it.

“I don’t know,” the girl says to Matt, frowning. “Do you think my t**s are worth a hundred bucks?”

They are definitely worth more than a hundred bucks, and that’s exactly what Matt tells her.

“But,” she whines, “I really need some new boots.”

Matt gives her a very sarcastic look. “Your mom’s a millionaire—or close to it. I think you’re set.”

“I’m legally an adult now. I don’t want to live off her anymore.”

“Then move out. You make enough for rent on salary alone, and a fortune on tips. How much have you made tonight?”

She shrugs nonchalantly. “A few hundred.”

“Exactly.”

“So don’t flash them?”

“Not unless I get a peek, too.”

I’m so utterly disgusted by this whole display that I must unintentionally sigh, or something, because she finally turns to glare at me. But after a second, the glare turns into more of a shocked expression. Boy, do I love it when girls give me shocked expressions. 

“Joey?”

And that’s when I realize who she is. No one else has eyes like those. A chocolate that’ll melt your heart, I used to think.

“Riles? Is that you?”

She wrinkles her tiny, little nose.

“Riley hates it when people call her that,” Matt explains to me. “How do you two know each other?”

“Bray,” she tells him sharply. “I told you I used to ride there.”

I guess now would be a good time to explain some things. Oliver, Cyan, Zoe, Val—we all know each other from Bray Farms, my father’s hunter/jumper (competitive jumping based on finesse, rather than speed, if you were wondering) horse stable. It’s kind of a dump, really—four acres of land; ten-stall barn; outdoor arena with halfway decent jumps; a couple paddocks for the horses to run around in. It probably wouldn’t have any boarders at all, but Oliver, my dad, is a legend. He’s pretty much the best hunter/jumper trainer in the state of Florida, and people travel from all over the southeast to work with him. Most of them leave because he’s so frustrating, but they all try. Riley used to take lessons with him. She didn’t leave because she didn’t like him; she loved Oliver. But she didn’t own a horse, which meant she didn’t have a commitment, and the day they diagnosed her dad with cancer, she left.

“Oh,” Matt says cheerfully when she chastises him. I’m guessing he doesn’t listen much when she talks. Maybe it’s not a jackass thing, though; I can see how it might be hard to focus around her. “Well, cool. I guess you know Cyan, too, then.”

She nods carefully. She’s still staring at me.

“Matt’s Cyan’s brother,” I volunteer. I’m pretty sure she didn’t know that; Matt was never really a part of the whole Bray lifestyle. Most guys aren’t into horses. Me and Oliver aren’t really like most guys.

“That’s too bad,” she says to Matt. “Cyan’s a bitch.”

“Hey!” Matt and I both object—me more sharply than he. “Cyan’s my best friend,” I add defensively.

She watches me carefully—probably as carefully as I watch her. When she first came to Bray, she was my best friend, and we thought Cyan was a fake. But we both eventually became Cyan’s friends. It just took a long time to warm up to her. 

None of that justifies the way Riley is looking at me now—like I’m some kind of fraud for being best friends with a girl like Cyan. I’m pretty sure there’s more to this story.

“Cyan,” Riley says to both of us, “is a tool. Has she picked a hair color yet?”

No. “You were two were friends at Bray, eventually,” I remind her. “She stayed in touch with you longer than I did.”

“Yeah,” she says dryly, “well, she doesn’t give up as easily as you. But she wasn’t calling me to chat; she was calling me to chastise.”

I wonder why. At Bray, Riley was an angel child. Clearly not anymore, though. “What happened? How’s your dad doing?”

She glares at me again, ignoring the question completely before stalking off to her customers.

“She’s sensitive about her dad,” Matt explains to me as soon as she’s out of earshot. “He died a year or two ago. That’s about when she came here, actually. Good thing she did, too. Half the creeps who come here, come here for her.”

I’m hardly listening anymore. Jesse Rhodes died? The guy seemed invincible. He was so... strong. And smart. It’s where she got it from. They were the same person in different bodies—even more inseparable than me and Cyan.

But how could she possibly have changed this much? I didn’t even recognize her, and two years ago I was madly in love with her.

I finish off my s*x on the Beach or whatever it is and walk over to her. Stupid, I know.

“Riles,” I say loudly when I get behind her. She’s carrying a tray of dishes, but I don’t care. I have to figure this out.

“It’s Riley,” she snaps as she whirls around. “Look, Joey, in case you didn’t pick up on this, I don’t like you.”

“Why? Because I gave up? What was I supposed to do? I called you ten times a day for months. You ignored me. You got a boyfriend and forgot all about Bray.”

“I have to get these plates out. I don’t have time for this.”

I take the plates from her, surprising both of us. “I’ll hold them for you until you think of an answer. Why do you hate me?”

She groans. “I don’t hate you, Joey. Don’t flatter yourself enough to think that I think about you enough to hate you.”

“But you said you don’t like me.” I don’t know why I’m this persistent, but I am. She’s just so different, and I really can’t get over it.

“Fine,” she says. “I don’t. I don’t like you because you’re underage and drinking at a bar by yourself. I don’t like how judgmental you were of me when I was talking to Matt. I don’t like how you go around acting like you have the weight of the world on your shoulders when you’re the luckiest kid I know. I don’t like how you’re pretending to care about me when you haven’t cared about me for two years.”

I really don’t know what to say about that. She’s so off base, I don’t even know where to begin. But then, maybe I can’t speak because some of it actually is true. I don’t like to think about it.

“Get lost, mutt,” she snaps, grabbing the dishes back. “You don’t belong here.”