Page 67 of My Wild Horse King

“I wish that was true, but I’ve made some really dumb mistakes. I don’t blame them for being a little leery of me.”

He’s quiet then, and I start counting the miles. He says nothing at all for thirty-one miles. That’s when I find myself asking him something. “Why did you do it?”

“Do what?” He turns to look at me. We’re finally out of the New York congestion, and we’re actually making decent time.

“You didn’t even know it was me,” I say. “You saw a horse, and six men were aiming guns at it, and you leapt right into the middle of it.”

“Ah.” He sighs, his hands shifting on the steering wheel and tightening a little. “The moronic move that has prompted the Russian maniac to visit the United States, presumably to kill me.”

“Yeah,” I say. “That.”

“I’m not sure.”

“Oh, come on.”

“I’m really not.” He shakes his head slowly. “I hate horses. And all my life, I’ve witnessed the misery that follows any kind of gambling. I hate taking risks. I hedge all my bets in life, and I always take the safe path.”

“Except when someone wants to shoot a random horse on the streets of New York City.”

“I guess.” The corner of his mouth is turning up, though.

“If it’s any consolation,” I say, “every gamble I make always turns out badly for me.”

“When people say ‘if it’s any consolation,’ it never is.”

“I suppose not,” I say. “But at least you have a sister who loves you.”

“Do you mean the sister with the deviated septum?”

“Huh?”

He’s smiling. “It’s a common cause of snoring.”

I turn around and crane my neck, but with her head canted sideways on Aleksandr’s chest, their noses are inches apart, and I can’t tell which of them is making the wheezing-rattle that’s coming from the back seat.

“Seriously, though.” I lean the back of my head against the side window so I can kind of see Gustav’s profile while I pretend to look straight ahead. “My brother Boris would hand me over to Leonid on a silver platter if he thought it would win him points.”

“And yet, I haven’t been much better than Boris.” He frowns. “Kris has called me over and over, and every time, I’ve either ignored her call or told her I can’t help.”

“If you can’t help, then?—”

“I could’ve helped, though,” he says. “I had plenty of money. It was just that, with people who gamble like my dad, no amount is ever enough. I knew that if I helped her at all, she’d just keep coming back to me over and over.”

“But you said she did call over and over.”

His sideways grin is back. “Even sticking to my guns didn’t really work.”

“I’m surprised you could do it.” I sigh. “I think I’d have caved.”

His voice is small. Barely audible. “I would have too, but I was afraid my grandfather would find out I had helped, and trust me. If he knew I was funneling money back there, he’d have cut me off on the spot.”

“But your mother was his daughter.”

“And he gave and gave and gave to her—but it was never enough. It’s his keenest embarrassment,” he says. “It took me a long time to figure that out, but he felt like his generosity with her, his repeated gifts, made him a chump. Even thinking about it made him angry.”

“Is that why you hate horses?”

He doesn’t answer, but a muscle in his jaw pops.

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