September 28th, 2025
I wake with a jolt,the nightmare still clinging to my mind. I blink rapidly, finding my room exactly as I remember. I slump back into the pillows. Even when I’m awake, I’m in hell—a nightmare I just can’t escape.
I don’t belong here.
I don’t want to be here—or anywhere, for that matter—but I’m a coward.
Throwing the sheets off my sweat-slicked skin, I climb out of bed and stomp to my dresser. I find the first set of mildly matching athletic wear and put it on. It clings to my body the way I like—tight and accentuating the parts of me I work so hard on.
I like to think I keep my demons hidden in the fat on my hips—the more I work out, the less of them there are. Or, at least, the less of them I notice.
Being skinny or fit isn’t everything,but, fuck, does working out make me feel better.
Not bothering to be quiet, I stomp through the darkened house and out the front door. I’m hit instantly with a blast of stagnant, humid air smelling of chopped grass and horses. I suck in the smell greedily, welcoming its effects on my nerves—I never knew the country could have such a calming effect.
But here I am, breathing it in like a cocaine addict taking another bump. It’s damn near euphoric.
Once I’ve had my fill, I quickly walk to the barn, the sound of my sneakers crunching on the gravel-lined driveway mixing with the chirps of the crickets and hum of cicadas. It’s a purely Texas sound, and I love it.
Throwing open the barn door, I slip inside and flick on the overhead light. The horses startle at the intrusion, their heads all leaning out of the stall gates, looking for the intruder.
“Sorry,” I mumble, raising my hands in apology. Their glassy eyes, dark and round, blink back at me, and one by one, they move back into the interior of their stalls. Even terrified of the great beasts, I breathe another sigh of relief, this one from the comfort of not being alone. Even if my companions are giant, hay-eating dogs,anyone’s better than no one.
I walk over to the equipment, running a hand over the bars and leather seats. It was delivered yesterday, and already, a thin film of dust has settled on the black leather. I wipe a finger through it, smiling to myself with the knowledge I’ll likely leave smelling slightly of horse and barn—something I’ve never once found appealing but now ache for. If I can find comfort in this smell, maybe I can soak it into my skin as well as my mind.
I settle on the first machine, and within a half hour, sweat’s pouring down my back, the curls at the nape of my neck turning to tight coils. At the hour mark, my muscles begin to quiver, my legs and arms like Jello. I feel hot and exhausted, but the voices in my mind have yet to stop their roaring. Leaning my head backagainst the head rest, I close my eyes, sucking in deep breaths through my nose.
Everything’s okay—I’m safe, I’m strong.
The ache in my muscles is proof of that. So why can’t I get the nightmare to retreat into its box within my mind? Why can’t I get my heart to slow, not from the exertion but from the adrenaline?
I wipe an arm across my forehead to keep stray beads from running into my eyes. As I pull away, I note the paste turning my arm brown. I’m covered in sweat and dust—mud, at this point, and I know I’m going to have to call it a night.
Reluctantly standing, I wipe off the seat with a towel and start toward the barn door, only to pause, my eyes catching on the outdoor shower. Shower’s a loose term—it’s more of a metal grated floor with a wooden tying post and a large detachable shower head. I know the water’s going to be freezing, but something about that, mixed with the warm outdoor air and smell of the horses, sounds appealing.
Really fucking appealing.
I’d be naked and exposed, but no one’s awake at this hour. And if McCrae really did come looking for me, would I care?
I twist on the dial, and the spray bursts out. I yelp in surprise at the cold water that splatters my bare stomach. It’s bitterly chilled, and yet—maybe this is exactly what I need.
Quickly, I take off my sneakers and peel out of my shorts and sports bra, folding them and laying them on top of my shoes and towel. So I can’t chicken out, I step under the spray face first, clutching my hands over my chest in an effort to protect my tits from the inevitable cold.
“Shit!” I bounce around on my toes, the cold so intense, I’m barely aware I’m standing in nothing more than my panties in a barn full of horses—if my old self could see me now.
I giggle at the thought, tipping my head back and soaking in the simplicity of the act, even as it feels profound. It’s nothing monumental, but I feel the chains of my former life and expectations start to crack around my wrists and ankles, their weight not so heavy.
With adrenaline pumping anew through my veins, I quickly wash the dust off my pinkening skin before stepping out of the spray. I blink rapidly, smiling again at my surroundings.
If only I could fully relax.
The thought has me looking at the still closed barn door, my ears straining to hear for sounds of life. When I’m met with none, I curiously stroke over my nipples, their hardened peaks aching beneath my touch.
I shouldn’t do this, here, now—I’m exposed and vulnerable. But the adrenaline and exhilaration are too much to deny. I want this, and I’m not in the habit of denying myself.
As I bite my lip to keep in a strangled moan, my fingers drift south between my legs, pulling my panties to the side and rubbing through my folds in a practiced rhythm. Circling my clit with large, soft, teasing circles, I pull my other nipple between my fingers with my free hand.
Feeling dangerous, I back into the spray, gasping as the icy water makes it impossible to breathe. I tighten my circles, pressing firmly on my clit as the ice rakes against my skin. It’s intense and all consuming, and I allow myself to get lost within the sensations.
