Page 33 of All Jacked Up

Shakespeare: I’ll be cheering for Stolen.

She’d never known Crosby. I doubted he’d ever spoken to her. Hell, there was a good chance he’d said something hurtful abouther at some point. He wasn’t cruel, but he had been a teenage boy who didn’t think about others’ feelings. But she was cheering on his horse regardless, and I knew it was because of me. And, dammit, that made my chest warm or some weird shit—I didn’t know.

Turning my attention back to the screen, I watched as the announcers talked about the odds, and we already knew that Stolen came in third with the lineup of who was predicted to win. But that didn’t matter. I’d seen some not in the top five take the win. My hand gripped the phone tighter as the room went silent, except for my heart hammering in my chest so damn hard that I was afraid it might do damage.

I tried not to think about Than right now and how he was handling this. He was a big boy. If Stolen didn’t win, he’d survive. Just like he’d made it through the darkest days of our lives. After Crosby was killed.

The gates flew open, and I stopped breathing as I gripped the edge of the sofa, watching as the horses shot out. Gathe sucked in a breath so hard that it was audible. I didn’t take my eyes off the sofa to see why. I knew why. Stolen was coming around the number one pick to win. Neither was out front yet, but they were real damn close. Bane didn’t believe in a jockey taking a horse to the front of the pack right out of the gate. Even if the horse had the ability to, he went with holding them back just a touch until it was time to allow the horse to break free.

The final stretch. The announcer calling out names and positions over the television faded away as my eyes stayed on Stolen. Hooves beating down on the dirt track seemed to keep the same pace as the beating in my chest.

Stolen and Running Board were nose-to-nose as the voices on the television grew louder.

“And Stolen does it in the Breeders’ Cup Classic!” was the last thing I heard over the television before Gathe let out a loud,“Hell yeah!” jumping up from the sofa.

Forge was the only other one sitting, and he, too, sprang up with a fist in the air and a loud shout.

I sucked in a deep breath as relief rushed through me. When I glanced over at Locke, he grinned and nodded his head once. He was quieter, but he had been feeling it as hard as I had. For Bane’s sake mostly.

Gathe turned around, his eyes slightly shimmering with emotion. “I swear I might fucking cry,” he said as he laughed.

My phone buzzed as other phones began to ring and go off.

Shakespeare: Congratulations!

Me: Thanks. Sorry you lost money. Ask me next time before you go throwing money on a horse.

Shakespeare: Oh, I might have fibbed a little about that.

Smirking, I replied.

Me: So, you didn’t bet on a horse.

Shakespeare: No, I did. But I bet on Stolen. I’ll be buying myself the Louis Vuitton I’ve had my eye on for the past month. I work too hard to toss my money out on a horse justbecause it’s pretty.

Me: And why did you pick Stolen?

I asked even though I had an idea I already knew.

Shakespeare: You’re the reason I started betting on horses. Might as well bet on the ones that are connected to you.

I stared down at her words, liking them entirely too much.

Forge slapped me on the back as he walked past me. “Come on, man! Skinny-dipping in the pool. No one tell Bane.”

I glanced up and nodded, although I wasn’t feeling like it. I’d rather go back to my room and text with Noa. Admitting that had me turning and heading for the patio door. I wasn’t looking at my phone again tonight.

Boundaries, Ransom. You need to set some mental fucking boundaries.

Eleven

Noa

Chewing the tip of my pen, I stared down at the notes I’d written. My block was just getting worse. It wasn’t like I could scrap forty thousand words and start over. Those had been hard words. The struggle with this one was real.

My eyes shifted to my annoyingly silent phone. It had been that way for three days. Since the Breeders’ Cup race.

Sure, other people had called or texted. Jellie did both. My editor texted, and the random spam calls came in, but not one text from Ransom. And let’s be honest here—that was who I was talking about. I shouldn’t have said I bet on horses because of him. I’d probably weirded him out. He was afraid I’d gone stalker girl or something.

---