Page 36 of Sizzling

He pointed toward the truck parked closest to us. “Leave,” he repeated.

“Thatch, what the fucking hell, man?” Sebastian asked, sounding as confused as I was.

He shifted his crazed stare to his brother, then back to me. “Don’t ever speak to her like that again.”

Oh. Oh. Oh fucking hell. My eyes widened, and I simply nodded, not sure if saying what I was thinking would end up with him snapping my neck or slicing my throat.

“Thatcher?” The tiny, petite jockey called his name, and he tensed even more, then turned and stalked off. Not toward her, but in the direction of the main house.

“What did you say?” Sebastian asked me in a low voice, not wanting Thatcher to hear him and come back to finish what he had started.

I shrugged, then glanced over at the jockey, who was frozen in her spot. “I’m sorry,” I told her. “I’m having a bad day, but I shouldn’t have snapped at you.”

She nodded, wringing her hands nervously in front of her. “It’s fine. We all have bad days.” The sincerity on her face was real. There was a kindness there. Sweet. She was sweet and innocent-looking.

I looked at Sebastian, and I could tell he was thinking the same thing I was. If Thatcher had some weird thing for her, then she was in deeper shit than any of us.

“Uh, Capri, do you know my brother? I mean, have you dealt with him while working here?” he asked her.

She was silent, and I could see the anxiety slowly creeping up into her features. She looked ready to run. This girl was not Thatcher’s type. Not even close.

“Not much.”

“Not much,” Sebastian repeated, not sounding convinced.

She shook her head, then sighed as her shoulders dropped some. “We were friends once. It was a long time ago.”

Sebastian’s eyebrows flew up, and he pointed toward the direction Thatcher had gone. “You were friends with him? Thatcher? My crazy-as-fuck older brother?”

The clear disbelief in his tone echoed in my head as I stood there in shock.

She smiled then. A soft smile that lit up her face. It wasn’t that she was plain or anything. She was pretty. The wholesome kind of pretty. But when she smiled, it transformed her face. The kind you stopped and looked twice at. Her eyes seemed to dance with amusement, as if she had some private joke that we weren’t privy to.

“He’s not crazy,” she said. “Maybe a little intense at times.”

“At times?” Sebastian asked, then let out a laugh.

She lifted her shoulders slightly. “Maybe it’s you that doesn’t know him.”

“Sweetheart, I’ve lived with him my entire life. I know him better than anyone. And …” He paused and looked to make sure Thatcher was gone from sight before continuing, “He is an unpredictable, sadistic motherfucker. Whatever friendship you think you had with him once, forget it. Stay clear of him, okay? He’s not stable. Never has been. Just stick to working with Bloodline and go back home. No interacting with him.”

She nodded. “That’s easy enough. He doesn’t really talk to me.”

Sebastian looked at me, then back at her. “He just slammed a friend against a fucking wall for snapping at you.”

She sighed and held up her hands. “I have no clue why he did that. Like I said, he really doesn’t speak to me. Our friendship was brief, and I thought he had forgotten about it and me … until that just happened.”

We might need to get a new jockey. That would be easier than asking Thatcher about his connection to her. King was gonna be upset over it since he was so pumped this one was working out so well. But King could deal with Thatcher if he wanted to. He seemed to not fear him more than the rest of us.

She waved then, and I looked to see JB, one of our best stable hands, walking from the stables with one of the new thoroughbreds we were currently boarding. “There he is. I’m sorry about that,” she said to me. “I need to go. That was who I was looking for.”

We both stood there as she ran over to JB, who was grinning at her like a fucking idiot. That was a nightmare just waiting to happen. If I was right and Thatcher had any kind of thing for the sweet little jockey, JB’s days might be numbered.

“You need to talk to your dad,” I told Sebastian.

“No shit,” he muttered. “Preferably before Thatcher kills JB.”

“You don’t think he’s got a … thing for her? I mean, she’s a minister’s daughter, and she’s … nice and good and shit.”

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