Page 55 of Point of No Return

“Is that what you call being stabbed nowadays?”

Crew cocks a grin. “I believe the word you used wasshank.”

I shrug before he closes the door and climbs into the passenger side. The drive out to the stadium is much shorter than I remember it. I see the three high towers in no time at all.

But rather than pulling around toward the private drive-in like last time, the car pulls around a narrow stone spiral that drops beneath the stadium. The private entrance is lit with a thin arch of light, and when we roll to a stop beneath it, I spot my husband waiting.

Crew props the door open, offering me a hand to help me down. Skar makes no attempt at conversation, but I grin when Crew hands me off to him, his hand warm around mine.

“So, security detail this time. Expecting dinner and a show again?”

He squeezes my hand in warning, the only indication he heard me, before he guides me through the door ahead of him. While I expect the usual prim socialites and club members inside, I’m surprised when I find the stone hallway empty. The faint sound of the races beckons from the end of it, and gated stalls line either side.

My heels echo off the stone, and when Skar opens the main gate for me, the scent of fresh hay hits us. Grassy, earthy, warm- followed only by a quick huff of air. Then everything else filters in.

The hay beneath my feet, the smell of leather, something wholly animal. Equestrian. Thirty stalls come into view ahead of us. A few horses are being walked in and out of their proper places, followed by trainers and riders dressed in full riding gear.

We come to a stop at one of the stalls where an older man is bent over with a horse’s foot nestled between his legs, hoof in his hands. The beast’s russet main is braided tight to its neck, its saddle leatherbound to its back. I watch in amazement as the older man drops the horse’s hoof. The horse chortles.

The man tips his head toward Skar in greeting. “She’s up for a good ride today.”

“Is James still Jockey?” Skar carefully releases the rope tied to the horse’s muzzle, petting a tattooed hand down its snout.

“He’s ready. Waiting in the den.”

“What’s her name?” I find myself blurting, but as I look over the animal’s brilliant red coat and lean muscles, I don’t care enough to hide my marvel.

The older man pats the horse’s flank. “This here is Lo Rider. Today’s her eleventh birthday.” He smiles toward me. Skar gently coaxes her forward, this easy look of concentration on his face. Clad in an all-black suit with a giant horse standing at arms-length, he looks so out of place. Yet he’s so calm, so at ease, that I know he’s done this a million times.

“She’s our good luck charm,” the man continues but I merely look toward Skar as he guides her a few inches closer.

“Can I touch her?”

He nods, and I gently let my hand wander down her thick neck just as he’d done. “I thought you’d prefer to see the race from a different angle this time.”

Lo chortles, arching into my hand as I smile. “You’re not wrong.”

The man opens the door to the stall, beckoning me inside carefully. Lo towers over me, all muscle and strength, and when she startles just slightly, I jump back quickly enough that I bump Skar’s chest.

“Easy,” he utters, his arms on either side of me as he calms the horse.

“Has she won before?” I look up at him, and he answers without really looking at me:

“A few titles, but nothing quite this large scale.”

“Isn’t eleven old for a race horse?”

“She’s the oldest racing tonight,” he answers, his arms dropping to his side. I try to ignore the look he gives me. A cross between confusion and curiosity.

“She’s beautiful,” I tell him, stroking her again as the older man guides her back and a jockey dressed in scarlet and gold appears behind us.

“We gotta get going,” Crew calls from outside the stall, and I watch as the jockey, James, gathers his helmet and gear. Skar pats her one last time before he’s guiding me back outside.

“Is she Tyson’s?” I ask as we step through another doorway that leads toward the lower part of the stadium.

This time, people swarm, carrying drinks, talking, listening to the sounds of the commentators echoing out of the stadium speakers. Skar’s palm is a warm, gentle reassurance between my shoulders.

“She was my mother’s,” Skar answers as we key into a familiar elevator.

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