Page 44 of A Photo Finish
“Are you okay?”
I press my shaking hand against my chest to feel my heart racing there, to feel my ribs heave as I struggle to catch my breath.
“Let me help you.” His voice is soft, but I don’t want this side of him. I don’t want to be coddled. Especially not by him. It makes me feel things I shouldn’t. And Patrick? I want to get as far away from him as possible.
“I’m good.” I take that final step onto the landing, striding around a groaning Patrick, desperate to get out that door and away from whatever that was.
The worst part is, deep down, I want Cole to follow me.
14
Cole
I’m way too attachedto Pretty_in_Purple. It’s beyond my comprehension. A fucking internet pen pal. And I live for her messages.
Some nights, we type back and forth until I drift off with my phone in my hands. I wake up clinging to the device like it’s a fucking lifeline. Maybe it is. Maybe she is.
Maybe that’s why I check our chat first thing every morning, hoping she’ll have written to me. Anything, even just an emoji from her, is enough to start my day off right.
I thought jerking off to girls on the internet made me pathetic. So, what does getting attached to one make me? I only have that one photo of her saved. I should be tired of jacking off to it by now.
But I’m not.
And beyond that, I imagine meeting her in real life. I imagine holding her, whispering my deepest, darkest secrets into her ear, and then feeling her arms wrap around me as I slide inside her.
It’s gone beyond wanting to fuck her to . . . whatever that would be. I’ve gone so far as wondering if she’s with someone in real life. So fucking lame. Of course she is! She’s sweet and she’s beautiful—what guy in his right mind wouldn’t want that? But it doesn’t stop me from sending a message asking her.
Golddigger85:Any lucky guys in your life these days?
She takes a long time to respond. It’s the middle of the day. I know she’s working. I’m supposed to be working too. But here I am, obsessing over a random internet girl. Agitation builds inside me, something I take out on a few low-level employees like a total dick. Like a kid who can’t control his emotions.
When my phone finally pings a few hours later, a deep sigh surges out of me. I flop down in my leather office chair and lean back as I pull my phone out of my suit pocket.
Pretty_in_Purple:Only one.
My brows squeeze together, and my forearms go tight. I knew it.
Golddigger85:Does he know about me?
Pretty_in_Purple:I don’t know. Does he?
I rear back as I do some mental gymnastics to figure out what she’s just implied. My chest puffs up a bit over a girl I’ve never met and never will.
Does she mean me?
* * *
I haveno idea where Violet went. All I know is that I got a text saying she had a ride back to the farm. But she’s still not here. So, I’m just sitting on the porch step, nursing another tumbler of scotch, with the brown horse staring back at me like I owe her something. Attention, food, who knows—it’s getting unnerving.
I can’t believe I’m letting a fucking horse make me feel bad.
As if I don’t already feel bad enough. I wanted to follow Violet when she took off, and I started out that way, until I saw she was heading straight for the track—not for the stables. Then I pussied out.
The track is such a dichotomy for me. The place that holds all my best and worst memories. On one hand, I grew up there. My dad was a popular and successful jockey at Bell Point Park. We spent a lot of time there together. On the other hand, I watched him die on that track.
The booth up top is the perfect compromise—Trixie’s idea. Exposure therapy. A removed view, no sound of pounding hooves, no crackling loudspeaker, none of the triggers that take me straight back to that day. Never mind the war,thatday is my tipping point.
I know Violet doesn’t want anyone taking care of her, but goddammit, I wanted to. I wanted to grind Patrick to a pulp and then whisk Violet as far from him as possible. The sight of his hand on her shoulder makes me see red.
