Riding Heartbreak Road – MM, Western contemporary

About Riding Heartbreak Road

Author: Kiernan Kelly

Word Count: 50,989

Page Count (pdf):

ISBN: 978-0-9976246-0-1

Date Published: Second Edition January 17, 2017, First Ed. 12/12/2006

Publisher: Evil Plot Bunny

Price: 4.99

Genre: Western

Pairing: m/m

Heat Rating: 

Summary:

Jake Goodall is a Texas bull rider who’s used to keeping his preference for men under wraps. Brent Miller is as wealthy New York businessman who has never had to hide who he is from anyone. When Brent’s car breaks down in Jake’s hometown, the two of them begin a romance that might be hazardous to their health, in more ways than one. Danger lurks in the small minds of folks who’d rather not see Jake and Brent together, and sooner or later, fists are going to fly.

From the prairies of Texas to the bright lights of New York and back again, from western rodeos to big city gay bars to a courtroom in Dallas, Jake and Brent try to work through all their problems despite the hostilities all around them. Jake knows he’s got it bad when he stays with Brent through thick and thin, but can the bull rider from the Lone Star State and the businessman from New York buck the odds to stay together?

Excerpt:

If there was one fact Jake Goodall was certain of, it was that there was nothing like having 1800 pounds of muscle and fury bucking between his thighs to get his blood boiling and his prick ready to ride more than just a bull.

Providing his head or his balls weren’t flattened like his mother’s Sunday morning hotcakes, of course. Eight seconds didn’t sound like much time, but when you spent them on the back of a snot-snorting, ass-busting, ball-banging bull as ornery as Wrecking Ball, they could stretch out for years. There was an old saying among bull riders – it wasn’t a matter of if you got hurt, it was a matter of when and how badly.

He cleared his mind of everything but the animal beneath him, trying to ‘cowboy up’ as he strapped his riding hand down under the bull rope and found his seat on the broad back of Wrecking Ball. The bull heaved and banged against the steel side of the bucking chute, seemingly as anxious as Jake to get the show on the road.

Jake’s left hand raised high in the air, his right tucked down tightly under the bull rope, his legs clenching Wrecking Ball’s sides with the grip of a virgin’s ass on prom night, and gave a nod. The gateman flung the chute open and the ride began.

Bucking, jumping, and twisting, the bull came alive under Jake’s ass as it burst into the arena. It was like trying to ride a tornado but he managed to stay over his hand, keeping his seat for the full time. The whistle blew and he vaulted off the bull’s back, landing squarely on his rump in the dark brown sawdust of the arena.

Jake was up and running before Wrecking Ball even realized he was gone, and the rodeo clowns ran interference as Jake sprinted to the fence, getting away with his hide slightly dented, but still intact. Swatting the dust from the seat of his jeans with his hat, he grinned as his score was announced. Thirty-seven points for him and another forty for the bull meant he’d made the finals, and he was still smiling as he worked his way out of the arena after collecting his bull rope and black Stetson, heading toward the back pens. He stopped only long enough to pick up his gray duffle bag, slinging the strap over his shoulder. He’d be back tomorrow afternoon for the short-go, and a shot at the prize money and the buckle.

Stripping off his riding glove, he flexed his fingers, then unbuckled his chaps and stuffed them, his glove, his protective vest, and his bull rope into his duffle bag. He picked it up and headed out toward the parking lot where his beat-to-shit pickup waited next to the carnival midway. The county fair was still in full swing at this hour, tinny music blaring and colorful lights twinkling in the dark as the locals screamed and laughed, riding the Ferris wheel or throwing baseballs at wooden bottles on the midway in hopes of winning a stuffed bear.

The girls were there as they always were, the buckle bunnies, clustered outside the gate waiting for the riders as they left the arena. They batted their eyes at Jake, smiling and giggling, drawn by his youthful good looks and well-muscled body, packed as it was into his tight blue chambray shirt and worn jeans. He tipped his hat and smiled his boyish, lopsided grin right back at them, but kept walking. He didn’t have any interest in them, though he kept that fact to himself.

On his way to his truck, parked amid shiny horse trailers and motor homes, he nodded amicably at several riders and rodeo hands, but he didn’t stop to hold a conversation with any of them. Jake didn’t keep any close friends on the local circuit. Most of them were friendly enough folk – the riders especially having a great deal in common with him, and he’d spent his share of nights swapping war stories with them over longnecks – but he didn’t try to forge friendships with any of them. First of all, they were the competition, pure and simple. He didn’t travel much and had no need of a traveling partner, a fellow rider and friend to share expenses. Secondly, more than a few of the local cowboys were notoriously short-tempered with men who preferred a cock to a hen, and friends had a way of finding out about things like that. When he was in the company of other riders, he talked the talk and they had never realized that he didn’t walk the walk.

In fact, letting folks in general know about his preferences could prove to be downright unhealthy in Jake’s neck of the woods. There was always a chance that he would find himself at the bottom of a bullpen getting danced on by a ton of pissed off prime rib, or tied to the back bumper of a pickup doing sixty down some godforsaken back road. Even his family and his friends, the ones he’d grown up with, didn’t know which side of the fence he rode. He’d even gone so far as to have girlfriends from time to time, especially when he was younger and on the verge of figuring things out, although for obvious reasons none of them had lasted long and were mostly just for show. Not that he hadn’t dipped his wick now and then… but those times were few and far between and only out of sheer desperation.

He’d fought the truth about himself for the longest time but in the end he’d come to privately accept himself, although his iron-hard fists still spoke loud and clear to the contrary on the rare occasions when some liquored-up lunkhead had the poor sense to call him on it.