Page 50 of Demons

Yeah, we all wanted to win. But there was a reason why both had decided I wasn’t their jockey before even meeting with me. They’d been very interested a week ago. Begging me to come see them, offering to fly me to Kentucky.

“Yes, well, thanks for letting me know soon enough to change my plans. Goodbye,” I said in a clipped tone even worse than the one I’d used on the last one.

Slamming my hands on the steering wheel, I glared at the fast-food chain across the street. Didn’t seem like I was going to be racing a horse anytime soon. Shephard Ranch hadn’t called me either. I wasn’t sure if they ever planned to again. I might as well go get a milkshake and fries after filling up my tank.

Almost six hours in total burned on a road trip that hadn’t actually happened and a thousand calories I shouldn’t have eaten, I pulled up into my driveway. My mood had gone from bad to worse. This day had started off so promising, then plummeted in a nosedive that I hadn’t expected.

Getting out of the car, I slammed my door shut with more force than she deserved really. I loved my car, and she was getting up in age. I didn’t need to be so rough with her. Turning, I went to get my suitcase out of the trunk before making my way to the house. I was almost to the porch when my gaze fell on the familiar pink bakery box sitting in front of the door.

The small rein I had on my temper snapped, and I dropped my suitcase and stormed up the steps to jerk the box up and rip it open to find one dozen lemon crinkle cookies. Gritting my teeth, I slammed it closed and turned, heading back to my car. Opening it back up, I tossed the cookies on the passenger seat, then went to get my suitcase and tossed it back inside before getting in and heading toward Shephard Ranch.

I didn’t know what he was doing or why he was doing it, but Thatcher Shephard and all his broody, mysterious ways that kept everyone on edge had pushed me too far. He was leaving these cookies. He had to be. There was no one else who would know or even have a reason to do this. He didn’t have a reason either for that matter. Was he trying to screw with my head? What sick game was he playing here?

I sped toward the street that most of the town stayed clear of if they could help it because they all believed the Shephards’ and Salazars’ homes here meant the Mafia owned this street. I, however, did not give one diddly-squat. Thatcher Shephard needed to stop leaving me cookies. I didn’t want anything from him, except to race his horses. Nothing else.

The arched gate stood open when I arrived, and the security nodded when they saw me turn in. I forced a smile and slowed down as I approached the stables. King was walking toward his truck when I came to a stop. Reaching over, I grabbed the stupid box of cookies and got out of the car.

“Capri,” King said. “I didn’t know you were coming today.” His eyes dropped to the box in my hand.

I shrugged. “Yeah, me neither. Where is Thatcher?” I asked, not even attempting to act like I wasn’t angry as hell.

King’s eyes widened, and he rubbed his chin, then nodded his head back toward the stables. “I’ll take you to him.”

Fine. Lead the way.

“Thanks.”

He glanced at me one more time before heading toward the side entrance to the stables. I knew he was curious, and I hoped he didn’t stick around to hear what I had come to say to Thatcher because now that I was here, I wasn’t sure what I was going to say. I had the cookies, and I knew he was leaving them. I didn’t know why, but I knew it was him. I wanted him to stop it. He messed with my head. And he’d said those things in New York, then stormed away. I’d had to see him naked, screwing a woman. But I had come racing over here because of cookies.

Was I really going to yell at him over cookies?

No.

It was much more than these stupid anonymous cookies. He was confusing me and playing games I didn’t want to play. If I was some form of amusement for him—or worse, a charity case—he needed to forget my name. I could live with not being in his league, but I could not handle the other.

King opened the door to the lounge and walked inside first, leaving it open for me to follow.

“Found someone looking for you,” King announced.

Thatcher was standing at the bar with a cigarette between his lips, looking down at his phone. He took his time lifting his head to see who was looking for him, which was so freaking arrogant that I wanted to smash the cookies over his head. I was almost to him before he looked up to see me stalking that way.

His expression didn’t change or show any surprise when I reached him.

I took the box in my hand and shoved them at his chest. “Stop leaving the cookies,” I said through clenched teeth. “I don’t know what you are playing at or what your angle is, but I don’t understand it, and it’s confusing!”

He took the box and placed it on the bar.

“You can go, King,” he told him instead of acknowledging me.

“No, I think I’d better stay,” King replied.

Thatcher’s expression darkened, and a chilling gleam settled in his eyes. I didn’t have to touch Thatcher to feel the tension rolling off his body.

Finally, some sort of emotion. Even if it was a frightening one.

Reminders of King and his gun made me care a little more than I wanted to, and I turned back to look at King.

“It’s fine. This is between us. Go,” I told him.

---