Read Online Fast & Loose by Elizabeth Bevarly - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Elizabeth Bevarly
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that would become the Kentucky Derby Experience. Simply put, he’d wanted to be himself for a little while before shouldering the mantle of King Cole.
He should have known better. Rock ’n’ roll had groupies for its bands. Major League had Baseball Annies for its players. NASCAR had Track Bunnies for its drivers. Thoroughbred racing had something similar for its trainers that no one had yet formally christened. So for lack of a better phrase, Cole had always dubbed such women—because they were overwhelmingly female—Trainer Hangers. Of course, his profession wasn’t the only one in the industry that had its overly enthusiastic fans. He’d also found names for Owner Followers, Horse Nuts, and Jockey Junkies. But, all modesty aside, the trainers were the elite members of Thoroughbred society, often better known and more recognizable even than the owners. Certainly they were the most flamboyant members of the horse world. And just like rock stars and pro athletes, many of them commanded, whether actively or not, a lot of attention from—mostly female—admirers.
Cole was one of those many. And, truth be told—at least early on in his career—he had actively courted the limelight. But now that the limelight dogged him wherever he went, he was starting to wish for a little more shadow time. During racing’s off-season, he had more success deflecting the unwanted attention—not that it was always unwanted, mind you, even now—but it never went away entirely. And during race time, in racing cities like Louisville or Mar or Saratoga or Baltimore, trainers were treated like royalty. Usually, that didn’t bother Cole at all. Usually, he welcomed the attention. Usually, he reveled in the way women pursued him. Usually, he let the women catch him.
But there were times, infrequent though they may be, when he just wanted to be left alone, to enjoy himself without the added distraction of being King Cole. Especially when he was facing the biggest race of his career.
He glanced down at his watch for perhaps the tenth time in as many minutes and sighed loudly enough that he hoped the blonde on his left—Randi? Rhonda? Renee?—would get the hint. Naturally, she didn’t. Instead, she wrapped her perfectly manicured fingers around the premium Bourbon Cole had just ordered and hadn’t yet had a chance to taste and lifted it to her own mouth for a sip.
She grimaced after sampling it. “Even though I grew up in Kentucky,” she purred in a voice he was reasonably certain she had altered for effect, “I absolutely loathe Bourbon.”
Cole was about to ask her why she’d felt compelled to drink his then, but refrained. “Let me order you something else,” he offered magnanimously. To himself, he added, And then go away .
Before Randi/Rhonda/Renee had a chance to reply, the brunette on his right piped up, “I’ll have a screwdriver.”
Cole shuddered. How could anyone do something as heinous as adding juice to a perfectly good spirit like vodka? In spite of his revulsion, he started to lift a finger to signal the—female—bartender. But she was there before his hand was even fully in the air, ignoring the people who had clearly summoned her before he had, slapping a cocktail napkin down on the bar in front of him.
“What can I get you, Mr. Early?” she asked.
He turned to look at the brunette, wishing like hell that he could remember her name. Susie? Cindy? Sally? “Sarah,” he finally said out loud when he recalled it, relief washing over him, “would like a screwdriver.”
“Vicky,” she corrected him. “Vicky would like a screwdriver.”
Damn. He hadn’t even been close.
“But I can be Sarah if you want,” she offered, leaning in even closer to curl her own perfectly manicured fingers over his thigh and give it a gentle squeeze. “In fact, for you, Cole, I can be anybody—or anything—you want.”
“So can I,” Randi/Rhonda/Renee said from his left.
The redhead behind him—Barbie? Bobbie?
He should have known better. Rock ’n’ roll had groupies for its bands. Major League had Baseball Annies for its players. NASCAR had Track Bunnies for its drivers. Thoroughbred racing had something similar for its trainers that no one had yet formally christened. So for lack of a better phrase, Cole had always dubbed such women—because they were overwhelmingly female—Trainer Hangers. Of course, his profession wasn’t the only one in the industry that had its overly enthusiastic fans. He’d also found names for Owner Followers, Horse Nuts, and Jockey Junkies. But, all modesty aside, the trainers were the elite members of Thoroughbred society, often better known and more recognizable even than the owners. Certainly they were the most flamboyant members of the horse world. And just like rock stars and pro athletes, many of them commanded, whether actively or not, a lot of attention from—mostly female—admirers.
Cole was one of those many. And, truth be told—at least early on in his career—he had actively courted the limelight. But now that the limelight dogged him wherever he went, he was starting to wish for a little more shadow time. During racing’s off-season, he had more success deflecting the unwanted attention—not that it was always unwanted, mind you, even now—but it never went away entirely. And during race time, in racing cities like Louisville or Mar or Saratoga or Baltimore, trainers were treated like royalty. Usually, that didn’t bother Cole at all. Usually, he welcomed the attention. Usually, he reveled in the way women pursued him. Usually, he let the women catch him.
But there were times, infrequent though they may be, when he just wanted to be left alone, to enjoy himself without the added distraction of being King Cole. Especially when he was facing the biggest race of his career.
He glanced down at his watch for perhaps the tenth time in as many minutes and sighed loudly enough that he hoped the blonde on his left—Randi? Rhonda? Renee?—would get the hint. Naturally, she didn’t. Instead, she wrapped her perfectly manicured fingers around the premium Bourbon Cole had just ordered and hadn’t yet had a chance to taste and lifted it to her own mouth for a sip.
She grimaced after sampling it. “Even though I grew up in Kentucky,” she purred in a voice he was reasonably certain she had altered for effect, “I absolutely loathe Bourbon.”
Cole was about to ask her why she’d felt compelled to drink his then, but refrained. “Let me order you something else,” he offered magnanimously. To himself, he added, And then go away .
Before Randi/Rhonda/Renee had a chance to reply, the brunette on his right piped up, “I’ll have a screwdriver.”
Cole shuddered. How could anyone do something as heinous as adding juice to a perfectly good spirit like vodka? In spite of his revulsion, he started to lift a finger to signal the—female—bartender. But she was there before his hand was even fully in the air, ignoring the people who had clearly summoned her before he had, slapping a cocktail napkin down on the bar in front of him.
“What can I get you, Mr. Early?” she asked.
He turned to look at the brunette, wishing like hell that he could remember her name. Susie? Cindy? Sally? “Sarah,” he finally said out loud when he recalled it, relief washing over him, “would like a screwdriver.”
“Vicky,” she corrected him. “Vicky would like a screwdriver.”
Damn. He hadn’t even been close.
“But I can be Sarah if you want,” she offered, leaning in even closer to curl her own perfectly manicured fingers over his thigh and give it a gentle squeeze. “In fact, for you, Cole, I can be anybody—or anything—you want.”
“So can I,” Randi/Rhonda/Renee said from his left.
The redhead behind him—Barbie? Bobbie?
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