Cocktails & Mares 

Author's Note

This is a rough draft of a book idea that's been living in my head for a while. I saw this challenge and decided to stop overthinking and start writing.

Please note that this is an adult romance featuring adult characters, mature themes, strong language, and future revisions as the story develops.

Thanks for reading!

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Chapter 1

Blue

I fucked up. Again. Shit.

Strong sunlight burns through the window and straight into my eyes, dragging me awake.

Getting out of bed is the last thing I want to do, but staying here will only make the situation worse.

I push myself upright and start gathering my clothes from where they're scattered around the room. The second I bend down to grab my black skirt, a horrible wave of nausea crashes into me.

Trying to power through it sounds like a great idea for about two seconds before my body completely disagrees.

Back onto the bed I go, hoping the feeling passes.

Fuck.

Turns out getting older is a scam. Every year my alcohol tolerance gets worse, and the hangovers get meaner. At fifteen, six shots of tequila went down like water, and I'd wake up the next morning ready and energized to start the day.

Now, at twenty-eight, tree shots are enough to have me questioning my existence.

My phone vibrates beside me.

Cocktails & Mares

Gwen: Don't forget. Today, the 16th: Brunch at Rainier Crest Equestrian Club. 1:00 pm.

Gwen: Don't make me send a second text.

I completely forgot.

The bed shifts behind me and I freeze.

Please be just him rolling over in his sleep. If I stay perfectly still, maybe I can Jurassic Park my way out of this.

"Morning, beautiful," a rough voice mumbles behind me.

Shit.

Somehow, the situation just got worse.

Ignoring every complaint from my body, I force myself upright, pull my skirt back on, and grab my boots.

"Not even a look? Ouch. My heart's broken."

I turn to look at him.

He's grinning at me, leaning against the headboard with messy blond hair sticking in every direction and his hairy chest on full display. Judging by the expression on his face, I think this is supposed to be sexy.

The more Matthew and I hook up, the more I realize something. Matthew Marlow is hot under very specific conditions.

Low lighting? He looks like an Abercrombie model. Fuckable.

Full sunlight? I'm looking at the Hunchback of Notre Dame. Not fuckable.

He pushes himself onto his knees, the sheet sliding off and revealing his dick. My eyes drift down for a second. No complaints in that department.

Then he climbs out of bed and walks toward me like he's God Zeus himself. Honestly? More like God Hephaestus.

"Stay for breakfast," he says, giving me his best innocent look.

I stare at him for a second, trying to decide if he's joking or just stupid.

"Breakfast sounds great," I say. "Do I leave before or after your wife shows up?"

The audacity of this man really needs to be studied by scientists. And yes, I'm aware I'm not exactly sitting on the moral high ground right now.

"She arrives on the sixteenth," he says, trying to reassure me.

"Matthew."

"What?"

"Today is the sixteenth."

He goes quiet.

I can practically hear his small brain burning oil.

I don't have time for this. I'm already late for brunch, and showing up hungover is one thing. Showing up after almost getting caught by a wife is another.

I reach for the door.

"Blue."

I pause and look back at him, annoyed. Of course he can't just let me leave in peace. Can a girl not have a quick getaway anymore?

"Are you forgetting something?" He points at his lips.

I smile sweetly and lift my middle finger.

Matthew lets out a laugh.

"Classy as always. Not surprised you're still single."

"Slut as always. Surprised you're still married."

Which reminds me. I pull a hundred-dollar bill from my skirt pocket and throw it at him.

Then I'm out.

_________________________

Tess and Gwen are already waiting for me at our favourite table overlooking the show jumping arena at Rainier Crest Equestrian Club.

Gwen is focused on her iPad, pen moving across the screen with speed and precision.

Tess has her attention fixed on the arena, watching one of the new adult amateur members navigate a course aboard Lucky, a beautiful four-year-old Dutch Warmblood. Lucky clips a cross-rail.

Orange juice, ginger tea, over-hard eggs, and vegetables are already waiting on my side of the table.

Gwen glances at me briefly before lowering her gaze back to her iPad.

"Matthew again?" Gwen asks dryly, taking a sip of her French 75

"So obvious?" I cut into my eggs and spear a piece with my fork.

"You always have a look after he fucks you." Tess doesn't even bother looking away from the arena.

"Who says I don't fuck him?" I tease.

Gwen wrinkles her nose.

Tess finally turns toward me, and one eyebrow arches. “What did Julian do now?”

My appetite disappears.

Gwen's pen slows against her iPad. Her eyes remain fixed on the screen, but she's definitely listening. Across from me, Tess studies my face for a second. Then she leans back in her chair and lets the subject die.

“So,” Tess says, “did he at least fuck your brains out?”

I let out a huff.

“He barely reaches G-Spot on a good day, and that’s only when alcohol tricks my body into thinking adrenaline equals chemistry.”

“Sorry! Sorry for the delay!” Isla rushes toward our table, still wearing her dirt-stained coaching uniform. “A kid threw up on a horse, which inspired another kid to follow his example. Total chaos.”

She drops into the chair beside me and grabs the menu despite already having a plate waiting for her. One glance in my direction is enough.

"Please tell me we're not on another chapter of the 'last time was the last time' saga," Isla says. Without looking up, she reaches for the Aperol spritz that had been placed beside her plate and takes a long sip.

"You'd think after cleaning vomit off a pony before noon I'd lose my appetite," Isla says, eyes scanning the menu. “Turns out it just makes me hungrier.”

"Morning-after Matthew has the opposite effect on me," I say.

Isla groans. "Oh no. Did he ask you to stay for breakfast again?"

"The only times I really fuck up are when I don't leave after sex and accidentally fall asleep," I say. "Then I have to deal with him in the morning. Every single time he tries to stay for breakfast."

"Today?" Isla asks.

"Today."

"Isn't Bambi supposed to arrive today?" Isla asks.

"Exactly."

"The confidence of a rich white man should be studied." Tess takes a sip of her espresso martini. "Men are exhausting."

“One of the blessings of being bi,” Isla says proudly, “Is that when one gender exhausts me, I can simply switch teams for a little vacation.”

“You’ve told us,” Tess and I say in unison.

Every chance she gets, Isla reminds us.

Unfortunately for me, I don't swing the other way. I tried once. Well, five times, tops. I was sick of men in the summer of '22, so I decided to give the other side a test ride, with Isla enthusiastically volunteering as my mentor.

Turns out I absolutely love my own vagina. Other vaginas? Beautiful. Gorgeous, even. Just not my thing.

I glance over at Gwen, who's gone back to working on her iPad. She may be the quiet one, but that doesn't mean she doesn't have opinions.

She senses all three of us staring at her and finally looks up.

"What?" she asks defensively.

"You know what," Isla replies.

"This group doesn't function without your judgment," Tess says. "Come on. Let us hear it."

"No judgment if Blue wants to keep sleeping with him," she says, lowering her voice. "Until Matthew's father-in-law, the man who owns Rainier Crest Equestrian Club, finds out."

Gwen sighs.

"If this gets out, it could ruin your career in show jumping, cost you your place on the team, and more." Gwen glances at Tess and Isla. "It could affect both of you too. The Rainiers aren't a family I'd want to mess with."

"Only if this gets out," Tess points out. "Until then, why shouldn't she have some fun? We're young."

"Being young doesn't mean not having morals," Gwen counters.

"But," Isla cuts in, "it's not like she's sleeping with him by herself. Matthew could say no. This isn't all on her."

"Matthew isn't exactly the sharpest tool in the shed, and everybody knows it," Gwen shoots back. "The only reason he exists is because the Marlowes needed another marriage alliance."

"Blue giving him a hundred dollars after sex is probably the only money he's ever earned himself," Tess says, leaning into her chair.

"See, Gwen? My vagina employs him."

I probably shouldn't feel satisfied about that. But I do. I wait for the guilt to hit. Nothing.

Oh well.

If it hasn't shown up in the last two years, I doubt it'll suddenly appear now. Besides, the LGCT season is around the corner, and between training with Lumière and spending half my life in the saddle, my muscles are permanently sore. Scientifically speaking, orgasms are supposed to help relieve tension.

Could I sleep with someone else? Of course. I mean, look at me. Caramel skin, wavy hair, legs built from years of riding. Someone would happily volunteer. But sticking it to the Marlowes has become something of a hobby.

"Deep Blue Ocean," Tess says.

She only calls me that when she wants something.

"Do you think I should give him a test ride?" she asks. "I can practically feel spiderwebs in my va-jay-jay. I need to get back in the saddle."

"You'd have to lower your standards first," I tell her.

"What standards?" Tess asks.

"Exactly."

Tess snorts. "I'm serious."

"So am I," I say. "If you're going to do it, here's my advice."

"Oh God," Gwen mutters.

"First, don't let him talk too much. He gets significantly less attractive the longer he opens his mouth. Second, dim lighting. Candlelight if possible. Third..." I point my fork at Tess. "Under no circumstances stay the night. Morning Matthew is a completely different species."

"See?" Isla says excitedly. "This is valuable information. Women supporting women."

"Women making terrible decisions together," Gwen corrects.

"Same thing," Isla replies.

Tess taps her chin thoughtfully.

"So what I'm hearing is decent equipment and terrible customer service."

"Exactly," I say. "Three stars. Wouldn't recommend, but if you're bored..."

"You realize you're reviewing a married man like he's a restaurant." Gwen stares at me.

"He asked me to stay for breakfast. Technically, he started it. "I shrug.

Isla snorts.

"A Marlowe hooker," she says. "Now that's new."

"You are impossible," Gwen mutters.

"Come on," Isla says, suddenly excited. "This is something we could do together. Share the experience."

"Count me out," Gwen says, not even looking up from her iPad. "I'm perfectly happy with my husband."

Ha.

Back in the day, Gwen's dating life had been just as chaotic as ours. Some summers, even more. Marriage was what settled her down. Good for her.

What I don't love is how she acts like having an active sex life suddenly comes with a moral superiority badge.

Really, how often can a married couple have sex before it turns into scheduling around grocery lists and arguing over whose turn it is to take out the trash?

Speaking of taking out the trash...

Mara Marlowe appears at the edge of the show jumping arena with Ivory at her side, her ten-year-old Dutch Warmblood mare moving with the same effortless elegance as her owner.

Looking at Mara, I'm not surprised people whisper about the Marlowe family. Blond hair. Blue eyes. Five generations deep in Jasper Bay. One of the oldest families in town.

Rumour has it they're inbred. Personally, I think they're just aggressively committed to a brand.

She approaches our table.

"Ladies."

Mara says it with a polished smile, showing just enough perfectly white teeth to qualify as friendly. Her gaze moves over Tess, Isla, and Gwen before landing on me. The smile falters.

"Afternoon, Bennett."

"Marlowe,"

"Long night?" Mara asks pleasantly. "You should really take better care of yourself. Losing as often as you do can take quite a psychological toll."

"There she is," Tess says with a sigh. "I was worried we weren't getting the annual lecture on dignity."

"It's called concern," Mara replies smoothly.

"Mara," I cut in. "I forgot my G-string at your cousin's apartment. Be a doll and warn him before Bambi finds it."

I didn't forget shit. But if there's one thing Mara values more than winning, it's protecting the Marlowe image. Nothing says family embarrassment quite like a mistress's missing thong.

For the first time, her smile hesitates. Only for a second.

Checkmate, blond bitch.

"I'm sure Matthew appreciates your concern for his wife," Mara says, smoothing the cuff of her riding jacket.

"Oh, please," Isla says. "If I found out my cousin was sleeping with Blue Bennett, I'd fake my own death before brunch."

Tess lifts her drink. "To family values."

Mara's gaze flicks back to me.

"One day, Bennett, you'll discover that not every victory is worth the mess it leaves behind."

"And one day," I reply, "you'll discover life is a lot more fun when you're not constantly cleaning up after everyone else."

"How fortunate we each know our strengths."

Her polished smile settles back into place before her attention shifts completely.

"Gwen. If you need any help with the trail hunt, don't hesitate to reach out. It's a tremendous responsibility, especially your first year organizing it."

Not that long ago, Gwen would've joined in without hesitation, taking shots at Mara right alongside the rest of us. Back when we all rode for the same team.

Different time. Different circumstances.

Now, she lets the silence do the talking.

"I have everything under control," Gwen says with a tight smile. "Everything's going according to plan."

Every year, the McCoys organize the annual trail hunt fundraiser. No real foxes.

A neutral party lays a scent trail across private property, and teams from Rainier Crest race to track it down. The winners get bragging rights, sponsors donate an obscene amount of money to charity, and half of Jasper Bay pretends they're starring in a British period drama.

Ever since Gwen married Richard McCoy, the eldest McCoy son, organizing the event became her responsibility. Tradition.

And because Richard and Mark Marlowe have been attached at the hip since childhood, the hunt has been held on Marlowe land for years.

"Wonderful," Mara says. "I'm only a phone call away."

With one last polished smile, she turns Ivory toward the course.

None of us say anything until she's out of earshot.

"To hell, preferably," Isla mutters.

A corner of Gwen's mouth twitches like she's fighting a smile before her phone buzzes against the table.

She glances at the screen.

"I have to go," she says, already gathering her things. "I still need to finalize details with the caterers."

She stands. "You guys are still coming to the trail hunt, right?"

"Of course," Isla says. "I'm not missing Jasper Bay's annual rich people cosplay event."

Tess snorts. "Please. The hunt's been rigged since before we were born."

Gwen frowns. "You don't know that."

"They host it on Marlowe land," Tess says. "The Marlowes win, everyone applauds their generosity, and we all pretend to be shocked."

"Exactly," I agree. "I hate losing, but I hate unwinnable games even more."

"There's a difference between getting beaten," Tess points out"and volunteering to be someone's supporting actress."

"So we'll sit this one out," Isla decides. "Drink cocktails while judging everyone's outfits and contribute to charity through emotional support."

"You mean gossip," Gwen says.

"Tomato, tomahto."

Gwen looks at me. "Blue?"

"As if I'd willingly participate in the Marlowes' yearly public relations campaign," I say. "I'll be there. Just not chasing fox piss through the woods."

"You know," Isla says thoughtfully, "most people attend charity events because they care about the cause."

"I care deeply," Tess replies. "About open bar."

"And the inevitable Marlowe drama," I add.

Gwen shakes her head. "You three are hopeless."

She shakes her head, but there's a smile fighting its way onto her face as she walks away."

It's ironic. Gwen questions my loyalty to my morals. Lately, I've started questioning her loyalty to us.