Page 75 of A Photo Finish
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I standin the owner’s lounge beside my brother, looking down over the track. It’s almost time for the stakes race, and I feel like I might barf. I cross my arms over my chest and squeeze, trying to push the panic clawing its way up inside of me back down.
“You look like you’re going to kill somebody.” Vaughn takes a sip of his scotch and shoots me a playful glance. Always joking around. What must it be like to feel so carefree? I wish I knew.
I just grunt. I’m okay with looking like I might kill someone. It means my poker face is still intact because I definitely don’t want to look like I might breakdown. Or worse, like a love-struck idiot. And even more, I don’t want to talk about my past with Violet now that he knows about it. In fact, I’m a little surprised he hasn’t cracked a joke about it yet.
“Gentlemen,” I hear from behind me and turn around, coming face-to-face with a man I’ve never met before. Dark blonde hair, crooked nose, expensive suit. He looks like a total chump.
“Dalca,” Vaughn says, his voice going chilly after teasing me mere moments ago. “What can I help you with?”
Ah, this is Stefan Dalca. The man who almost took my little brother for a ride. The man who employs Patrick Cassel, the shithead who made Violet fall. I want to kill them both.
“I just wanted to apologize for Patrick Cassel’s behavior. He’s no longer employed by me.”
Okay, I want to kill him a little less now. Maybe just maim him. Break that nose again. “The person you owe an apology to is Miss Eaton.”
The man turns his hawkish eyes my way. They’re intelligent, scanning—altogether too confident. I don’t trust this guy as far as I can fucking throw him.
“I’ll track her down.” His lips tip up into a sly smile that I want nothing more than to wipe off his face. But instead, I nod. My days of flying off the handle are behind me. I’ve got different problems now. “Good luck today.” He sticks his hand out as though I’ll shake it.
I look at it and then shift my gaze up to his face. I’m not shaking this guy’s hand. All I’m giving him is an unimpressed look. Vaughn does the same.
“Okay. Tough customers,” he says with a chuckle before he swaggers away. I can see why Billie hates the guy. She’s nothing if not an excellent judge of character.
“Nice. I love it when you go all glacial like that. It’s fucking terrifying.” He drinks again with a big goofy grin on his face. “Violet is a braver woman than I am.”
There it is.I shift my eyes over to Vaughn, who looks like a kid on Christmas morning, far too excited to see my reaction to that comment.
“And Billie is a more patient woman than I.”
Vaughn barks out a loud laugh that has people looking our way as his shoulders shake. “Thank fuck for that,” he says, looking back out over the track. “There they are!”
He points toward Violet, sitting atop a shiny dark horse in matching black and gold silks, her champagne hair plaited straight down her back. I feel instantly nauseous at the sight of her out there but swallow it down.
I don’t want to be that guy. And I don’t want my snoopy little brother knowing that I feel like that guy.
DD prances beside the pony rider that leads them along the track, and I’m glad that someone is there to escort them safely. Some horses are really riled, jumping around, but not the little stallion. He prances along slowly, like he knows he’s fancy—perfectly confident. Violet looks that way too. Still and quiet, one hand smoothing up and down the horse’s muscular neck.
I shouldn’t be nervous about this race. It’s not a huge deal. It’s a qualifier. But I am. My chest is tight, and I feel like my throat is trying to crawl up out of my mouth.
I cross my arms over my chest again as they load up into the gates. I know DD gets nervous in there because I’ve heard Violet talk about it. I also know jockeys can get injured in there if things go sideways. My fingers wrap around my thumbs underneath my biceps and squeeze tightly. Maybe if something hurts, I’ll be able to get a handle on my anxiety, focus on something else.
The bell rings, gates fly open, and the line of horses surge out in a mass of pounding hooves and flying dirt. Violet and DD hang back predictably. This is their play, their move.
My teeth grind as I watch her sink into the tack. So in sync, moving in time with the horse as he stretches out underneath her. He’s a finicky stallion, but Violet doesn’t get in his way. She lets him be quirky and uses it to their advantage, making it a winning feature rather than forcing him to be a type of horse he isn’t.
They keep to the back—but not too far behind—down the first stretch. But when they move into the first turn, their focus changes. Violet shifts down lower, pushes her hands farther up his neck, and he surges up through the middle, making his way into the pack.
Exactly whereithappened. The slip. The fall. The hooves. And a still form in the dirt as the pack continued to head away toward the finish line. Like a man in the dirt was nothing.
It’s beenyears, and that image is still burned into my mind. No one stopped. No one went back. In the army, wealwayswent back. Even if it was just for pieces.
A gray horse moves out in front of Violet, and I suck in a breath. Vaughn notices, but he doesn’t say anything. He just peeks at me out of the corner of his eye. Violet backs off, playing it safe, looking for an opening. And when she doesn’t see one coming out of that final turn, she takes him wide. It means they’ll be forced to cover more ground.
But if anyone can pull the move off, it’s going to be this team. Even I know that much. Murmurs roll through the skybox as she flattens out and pushes her arms at DD while his stride eats up the ground. I know he’s not a large horse, not even especially leggy by racehorse standards, but the little spitfire doesn’t let that stop him.
It is truly a sight to behold.
