Manties in a Twist (The Subs Club Book 3) (35 page)

The grooming contest wasn’t too scary.

I wasn’t gonna lie to myself, or anyone—Cinnamon looked good. She carried herself perfectly, her frigging
skin
was basically dewy and flawless. Her tack gleamed and her tail rippled, and the Jolly Rancher was gone. I was dead before it even started. There were three lineups—ponies, pups, and miscellaneous. A judge came down the pony row and checked us all out. Looked at our tack and our bodies and had us walk in little circles. I was pretty sure she snickered when she saw my tail, but she seemed to appreciate my Pegasus Sheath. I had to be really careful when I walked in the circle, because the friggin’ prostate plug was really doing its job. I didn’t place. Bridget took third, Cinnamon second, and Holly first.

“It’s fine,” Ryan said as he led me out of the ring. “We’re just getting started.”

After the grooming, we had some time to relax before bobbing for apples. Maya showed up, and she was, like, super admiring of my horse getup. Except my sheath. She just rolled her eyes at that.

Ryan and I headed over to the apple tubs early, and he started talking to some handler he’d met earlier, while I wandered around, considering my bobbing strategy.

I almost ran into the tentacled hipster of my nightmares.

“Hey,” he said.

For a second I couldn’t speak. I just stared at his cardboard tentacles in horror. “Hey,” I managed warily.

“Is this your first year here?”

I swallowed. “Y-yeah.”

“Me too.”

That made me feel better. We got to talking, and he was actually pretty cool and smart. We talked about his tentacle kink, and my costume kink, and the Subs Club, which he was slightly mortified to learn I had cofounded. Then we bonded over our love of women’s underwear.

“I have all these gender nonconformist urges,” he said. “Plus, I know I look like a guy and use male pronouns, but I don’t always
feel
like one inside, you know? That’s why Fucktopus is third gender.”

“I totally get that, man. All my life, people have thought I was a dude-bro because I did sports and I have these muscles or whatever. I mean, I don’t know if I’m binary or not. But I want the
option
to explore nonbinary things.”

“Exactly!”

We hoof-to-tentacle high-fived.

“All right!” called a ref, waving her arms. “Competitors! We have three apple tubs. You should already have been assigned your tub, so you should proceed there and shake paws or hooves with your rival.”

Fucktopus and I went to tub number two. He stared into the water. “The ocean,” he whispered.

“Dude, that is not the ocean.”

He looked up. “I’m sorry I keep using your club forum inappropriately.”

“It’s okay. I hope you find a sea captain.”

He held out a tentacle. I bumped it with my hoof. “Let’s do this.”

The refs crouched by their respective tubs.

The bell sounded a moment later, and Fucktopus and I stuck our heads into the water.

Okay, this was a lot harder than it had been when I was a kid. Every time I got my teeth anywhere near a fucking apple, it scooted away. I could hear people cheering, and I could see out of the corner of my eye that Fucktopus was having way more luck with this than I was. Dude was boss at apple bobbing. I stopped for a moment just to see how many he had: Two. And he was pulling a third out of the water.

I stuck my face back in. Chased the apples and got nowhere. Pulled my face out.

“Oh my God! That squid is amazing at bobbing for apples!” I heard someone yell.

Oh, Fucktopus, you tentacled bastard.

I had to win.
Had
to. I’d already fucked up grooming, and I was nervous as shit about dressage. I needed some serious points.

I stuck my face back in and discovered the magic of pushing the apples against the side of the tub with my cheek, then bracing them there while I sank my teeth in. I dropped one apple in my pile. Two. Three. Four. When the bell went off again, I had water in my eyes and didn’t know who had won, but suddenly a ref was patting my shoulder and calling me a good pony, and she declared me the winner.

I went on to round robin the other two winners, and emerged victorious.

Fucktopus was the first to congratulate me. Seconds later, I was stormed by my friends, who group-hugged me. Over their bodies, I could see Fucktopus and Maya gazing at each other. Like, the kind of gazing that leads to trouble.

I cleared my throat at Fucktopus. “Dude. She’s nineteen. Don’t even go there.”

Fucktopus looked at Maya and raised a tentacle to wave at her.

Maya waved back.

I puked in my mouth a little.

By cart race time, I was pumped. I’d barely been able to eat anything for lunch—though I had managed another handful of Jolly Ranchers.

I lined up in the three position between Holly and a gray pony called Snowball. I couldn’t see my competitors with the blinkers on, so I focused on the white lines that marked the large oval track. The track was situated on a slight incline, so Ryan had warned me to save some energy for the end, since the last half of the race was uphill. He’d taken my tail out too, so I wouldn’t be distracted by the prostate plug. But now I was basically going to be running in assless pants.

I tried not to think about Cinnamon, who was in the six position.

You’ve got this. You’re super fast. Faster than she is.

I heard some jingling to my left, and a handler’s voice saying, “Easy . . . eeeeaaaassssyyyy.”

“False start,” called one of the PPF officials. “Back her up.”

I hated not being able to see what was going on. I stamped my foot and chewed on the bit, feeling pretty ponyish all of a sudden.

“Good boy,” Ryan whispered. I could feel him tense on the reins, and I moved my head forward to remind him to ease up. He gave me some slack.

“They’re in the gates!” called a staff member.

Suddenly the bell clanged, and the reins snapped against my shoulders. I bolted forward, listening to the creak of wheels on either side of me and the cheering of the crowd. Snowball was way in the lead—how the hell had he started so fast? I increased my pace, even though Ryan was tugging on the reins. He’d told me to save my energy, but Snowball was so far ahead that I needed to close some of this distance
now
.

Ryan pulling harder, and I almost slowed. But I could hear one of the ponies to my left starting to overtake me, and no way was I gonna let that happen. I clenched my teeth around the bit and jerked my head up, pulling the reins through Ryan’s hands and charging ahead.

I’d almost caught Snowball when we reached the turn. Ryan tugged the left rein, and I made a careful arc. But he kept tugging. Hard tugs, over and over.

Dude, Ryan. I’ve got this.

Snowball was still slightly ahead of me on the inside. I was guessing Ryan wanted me to cut behind Snowball and then pull alongside him so that I was on the inside of the turn. But that would mean slowing down, which was not gonna happen. Instead I sped up, trying to pass Snowball on the outside.

There was a clank and a jolt as the wheel of our cart collided with another. Someone was trying to pass
us
on the outside.

I pitched to the left, nearly slamming into Snowball.

We were in what I believed was known scientifically as a clusterfuck.

Ryan tugged the right rein, steering me away from Snowball, and since I couldn’t see to the side or behind me, I had to trust him that the cart on our outside was gone.

I could feel it, just like I had sometimes in practice—the moment Ryan and I stopped fighting each other and started to work as a team. He steered me wide of Snowball, which meant we lost some ground, but it got us out of the disaster area. I didn’t try to turn my head, just paid attention to his rein cues until it was just me and Snowball, racing up the hill toward the finish.

Except we were both running out of juice. I was breathing hard, trying without much luck to make my legs move faster. He was lagging big time—his driver flicked his thigh with the crop a couple of times, but Snowball was done.

Why had the hill seemed so short going down, and now seemed to stretch endlessly? I could see the orange flag marking the finish, but it was still approximately eight billion miles away. Snowball and I struggled alongside each other, huffing while the spectators cheered us on.

Suddenly, the cheering got louder. I thought at first it was because I was starting to pull ahead of Snowball, but then I heard a jingling to my right.

Cinnamon breezed past both of us at a lively trot. Her spandex onesie barely looked sweaty, and the rubies on her harness gleamed.

Oh no you don’t.

I surged forward, finding another gear. Ryan let me have my head, and I staggered toward Cinnamon, her red tail swishing in front of me like a matador’s cape. The roar from the crowd grew as I pulled alongside her. She quickened her pace.

She’s got energy to spare. She’s just toying with me.

The reins smacked my shoulders again, and Ryan tapped my right thigh with the whip. I clenched my jaw and tried to speed up.

Stan whooped and called, “Your boy’s flagging!” to Ryan.

No, he isn’t, I promised silently.
Your boy’s gonna win this thing.

I came up beside Cinnamon again, and once more, she sped up, leaving me behind. But the incline was long, and I could see her trot was getting clumsier. The entire back of her onesie was sweat-soaked now.

I pulled alongside her again, and this time when she sped up, I matched her. It felt like we were going seventy miles an hour, but really, we were barely jogging.

“Geehiihhh toihh-hrrr?” she called to me.

“Yoohhhh gquonnaa loooofff,” I called back.

She veered toward me slightly, and the wheels of our carts collided.

“Qwiiihh-ihh!”

“Giihhrff uhhwb!”

“Nehh-her!”

For Jolly Ranchers. For wings. For glory.

For Ryan.

Okay, mostly for me and bragging rights.

But also for Ryan.

She pulled ahead. Then I pulled ahead. Her driver yelled, “Hyah,” and there was a slap of leather on flesh, and then she passed me again. A second later, I felt the light sting of Ryan’s whip on my thigh, and I jumped ahead of her. Then we were neck and neck.

We could see the finish line now. Dave was there, holding up his phone. At first I thought he was just taking a video, which was not technically legal, but as I got closer, I could hear, over the cheers, the
Chariots of Fire
theme.

Oh hell yes. That was all I needed.

I rallied one more time and stuck my head in front of Cinnamon’s, just as the flag flashed by.

An hour later, I stood at the entrance to the dressage arena, my heart hammering. I was trying to go over the routine in my head, but I kept getting distracted by all the people in the stands and the music and the smell of corn dogs. And my tail, which was back in and stimulating the fuck out of my prostate. I turned to Ryan, wanting to ask him a question about the first turn, but I had the stupid bit in my mouth.

It’s all about having fun. And destroying Cinnamon. But mostly having fun.

And Ryan and I were gonna have fun. I mean, we’d fucking owned bobbing for apples and the cart race. Was there anything we couldn’t do?

Yes.

Dressage.

I’d just watched Cinnamon in her routine a few minutes before. She’d done it to a suite from
Swan Lake
. And it had been some legit fucking horse ballet.

I glanced at the bleachers. Gould caught my eye and waved, and then the others were waving too.

I lifted a hoof and waved back.

The pony before us halted in the center of the ring to wild applause. She had a cheering section that was whistling and stomping and holding up
TEAM NATALIE
signs. The pony and her handler saluted and then exited the ring, and a moment later, the judges held up their cards: two eights and a nine. Same score as Cinnamon. So really, if I could get two nines and an eight, I’d be golden.

Except every time I thought about Cinnamon’s “Swan Lake” thing, I felt a little sicker. Okay, so I wasn’t anywhere near that elegant. People loved underdogs. And they loved to be entertained.