Page 18 of Run for the Money

Heat prickles along my spine. I compromise and slide my fingers apart so I can look at Nick through them without giving up my hand-shield all the way. He does look serious, dark eyes fixed on my face and his jaw tense. His baseline expression is pretty tense, which makes sense given what he’s told me about his dad, but this expression is different. It’s not softer per se, but it doesn’t pierce my self-esteem as much as usual.

“Diana’s fall is not your fault. I don’t ever want to hear that bullshit again.”

“But I—”

“You were a kid. She was a kid. You know who wasn’t a fuckin’ kid? Roger fuckin’ Peart. That grown man put a teenage girl’s life in serious danger, intentionally. He traumatized a whole arena full of people, and I don’t give a shit what his intentions were, because he knew exactly how dangerous it was to slice up her gear. Diana is lucky it was just a broken leg. It could have been a spinal cord injury, or a punctured lung, a snapped fuckin’ neck. Roger Peart was such a yellow-bellied, good-for-nothing coward that instead of putting his trust in you to ride clean, he risked another girl’s life so you could win. That’s on him, and only him. Never you. Got it, Melanie?”

My heart thunders against my sternum so hard I’m half-convinced Nick can see it. I can’t tell if I’m being lectured or comforted. I’m not sure which I’d prefer.

“I knew he’d done something, and I didn’t warn Diana,” I whisper. Salt hits my tongue, a few of my tears sliding past my palms to reach my lips.

“It wasn’t your job to clean up his messes. Still isn’t,” he insists.

He shoves a stack of cocktail napkins toward me. I take the hint and grab one to soak up my tears. He’s stilllookingat me. I’m more unsteady than if I had gotten sloshed tonight. I think I might be drunk on the catharsis of talking about the break-up with someone who isn’t automatically on Paul’s side. He’s the first person I’ve told about the break-upwhose first question wasn’t, “But what didyoudo?” like it was unfathomable for Paul to hurt someone without cause.

“Look, I may not be as good a man as the esteemed Paul Walters, but I’m no idiot,” Nick says gruffly. “You’re being too hard on yourself for shit you couldn’t control. I might’ve been too hard on you, too, and I take responsibility for that. You’re…as worthy of love as anyone else.”

He grabs the whiskey sour off the bar and drains the last of it, then stands up.

“Go back to your room. Get some sleep,” he says. “I’ll come get you in the morning, and you tell me then if you want to keep competing or not. No hard feelings if you don’t.”

I expect him to walk away and leave me to my reeling thoughts, but he waits, arms folded over his chest, until I get off my barstool, too. Neither of us says a word as we walk out of the bar, through the lobby, and into the elevator. I hold my breath the whole ride up to our floor, self-conscious about how quiet it is.

My room is closer to the elevator than his. He lingers beside me a moment while I fish out my key to go inside.

“You’re going to be okay, Miss Manners,” he says. “See you in the morning.”

It’s not until he’s disappeared into his own room, my door is shut, and I’m leaning my flushed cheek against the cool metal surface that I find my voice enough to whisper, “Thank you.”

Chapter 6

Nick

Melanie texts just after dawn:

In the stables already.

I see it come in because I’m already staring at the text thread, debating whether or not to click the contact card she sent for Paul Walters. Melanie wasn’t exaggerating the pro bono thing; a late-night Google hunt unearthed a staggering number of testimonials from people he’s helped over the years, all of them glowing. There’s a real chance he could resolve my stolen identity problem without costing me a dime. But I’m having trouble getting on board with the idea.

I spent more time than I’m proud of looking into the guy’s personal life. All I came up with was a brand-new Instagram account with exactly three photos on it—all of them selfies with the new girlfriend—and an old wedding website for the brother Melanie mentioned. Like her, I couldn’t find any evidence of infidelity. I used all the tricks Edwin’s little sister taught me, and while I doubt I was as thorough as she could have been, I was pretty damn thorough.

A year deep into Paul’s brother’s wife’s mother’s Instagram, I realized I’d lost my damn mind, put my phone down, and went to bed. It’s none of my business what these people are up to, and it’s none of my business what Paul Mother Fuckin’ Teresa Walters does in his spare time. This is a professional inquiry, which I promptly resumed at five in the morning when I woke up.

Once I get Melanie’s text, I stop pretending I’m going to sleep any more. Within half an hour, I’m in line at a bakery a few miles from the show arena desperately trying to remember how she takes her coffee. I can summon dozens of mental images of her holding coffee cups, but none of them offer me any insight into the cups’ contents soI call Edwin.

“Hey boss, what’s up?” he asks.

“How does Melanie take her coffee? Do you know?”

“Any particular reason you aren’t asking Melanie this question?” he says after a beat.

“I think she’s getting ready for the final today, so I’m grabbing breakfast for her,” I say. “Do you know or not?”

There’s another short pause. “What do you mean youthinkshe’s getting ready? Did you lose her? Mighty irresponsible. If you misplace women like her, cops tend to get involved.”

I suppress a groan. “I didn’t lose her. I’m next in line—can you just tell me her coffee order, and I’ll explain later?”

“Almond milk latte, unsweetened,” he says. “Can’t believe you don’t know that.”

---