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Authors: Sasscer Hill
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down the block and disappeared around the corner. We stepped along the wide pavement, soaking up the cool, smoke free air, and talked about horse racing, a subject my tongue handled with agility.
A face near the end of the club line stopped me cold. Dennis O’Brien stood there sucking on a cigarette, his arm around a young woman. I hadn’t seen him since he’d whipped a welt onto my face and pushed Flame Thrower into the rail. Maybe Jim thought I should let it go, but a hot eruption of anger produced a desire to tear into Dennis. I took a step toward him, but Clay touched my arm.
“What?”
“That guy over there,” I said, my voice almost a hiss.
Clay scanned the line and his touch turned to a grasp.
Then Dennis saw me, his stance becoming arrogant, his lips smirking. “Hey, little miss Nikki. Lost any races recently?” He waved his hand through the air like he held a crop, until his eyes slid to my date and he suddenly looked worried. Maybe he should have noticed the stud before he whipped the pony.
“Look, buddy,” said Clay. “Why don’t you shut up before you get yourself into trouble?”
I thought Dennis would spout off at Clay — he was that cocky. But he surprised me by shrugging and turning away.
Clay’s hold on my arm tightened. “Come on, Nikki, let’s get out of here. You’re way above brawling with trash like that.”
I digested his advice. Maybe I’d continue this fight on the racetrack. I let Clay lead me away. We moved through a canyon of tall buildings, any available stars blanketed by the murky fog of light pollution. Instead, city lights twinkled from the canyon walls, street lamps loomed above us, and car beams bounced and dipped as they swept along the broken concrete of the downtown streets.
A small, posh hotel stood between two office buildings, an elegant awning and doorman drawing us in. Clay led me into a small, quiet bar with green velvet upholstered booths. In my red dress, I felt like a Christmas card as I sank into the cushy fabric. Clay surprised me by sitting close, on my side of the booth. A waiter appeared.
“Nikki, let me order you a nightcap?”
I didn’t have to ride in the morning, but I didn’t want to lose a day from booze indulgence the night before. “I’ve probably had enough,” I said, hoping I hadn’t just committed some kind of date-night faux pas. I’d learned fancy words like that from the rich girls who ate my mother’s cooking at Miss Potter’s School. I’d been exposed to their upscale chatter during riding classes. I’d also been exposed to their derision. My head felt spongy. How much had I imbibed? Imbibed? I giggled.
Clay grinned. “You are so adorable. One last drink won’t hurt you, and this is a special night.” His fingertips traced a small circle on my wrist.
The liquor accelerated the sudden eroticism that surged through me, headed south, and pooled as liquid warmth between my thighs. I met Clay’s gaze and noted his quick intake of air.
“Bring us two champagne cocktails,” he said, his fingers never leaving my wrist, his eyes stroking my lips.
Our drinks arrived, and I grabbed the glass like a lifeline. I couldn’t remember feeling this aroused. I didn’t even know this guy.
Clay straightened up, moving away from me slightly, as if sensing my confusion.
“I met Martha Garner recently. She thinks the world of you, Nikki. A shame about that stakes mare, Gilded Cage.”
“That hurt a lot of people,” I said.
“Someone told me you had her for the Venus. You must’ve been upset.”
When I shrugged and looked away, Clay forged ahead.
“You’re a talented rider — just need some good horses that’ll let you show your stuff. I’ve got an excellent replacement in mind for Martha. This guy’s a two-year-old with pedigree up the ying-yang. He’s about two works away from his first race and he just threw in a bullet. It’s an awesome opportunity for Martha. You too, Nikki.”
“I think Martha will get
A face near the end of the club line stopped me cold. Dennis O’Brien stood there sucking on a cigarette, his arm around a young woman. I hadn’t seen him since he’d whipped a welt onto my face and pushed Flame Thrower into the rail. Maybe Jim thought I should let it go, but a hot eruption of anger produced a desire to tear into Dennis. I took a step toward him, but Clay touched my arm.
“What?”
“That guy over there,” I said, my voice almost a hiss.
Clay scanned the line and his touch turned to a grasp.
Then Dennis saw me, his stance becoming arrogant, his lips smirking. “Hey, little miss Nikki. Lost any races recently?” He waved his hand through the air like he held a crop, until his eyes slid to my date and he suddenly looked worried. Maybe he should have noticed the stud before he whipped the pony.
“Look, buddy,” said Clay. “Why don’t you shut up before you get yourself into trouble?”
I thought Dennis would spout off at Clay — he was that cocky. But he surprised me by shrugging and turning away.
Clay’s hold on my arm tightened. “Come on, Nikki, let’s get out of here. You’re way above brawling with trash like that.”
I digested his advice. Maybe I’d continue this fight on the racetrack. I let Clay lead me away. We moved through a canyon of tall buildings, any available stars blanketed by the murky fog of light pollution. Instead, city lights twinkled from the canyon walls, street lamps loomed above us, and car beams bounced and dipped as they swept along the broken concrete of the downtown streets.
A small, posh hotel stood between two office buildings, an elegant awning and doorman drawing us in. Clay led me into a small, quiet bar with green velvet upholstered booths. In my red dress, I felt like a Christmas card as I sank into the cushy fabric. Clay surprised me by sitting close, on my side of the booth. A waiter appeared.
“Nikki, let me order you a nightcap?”
I didn’t have to ride in the morning, but I didn’t want to lose a day from booze indulgence the night before. “I’ve probably had enough,” I said, hoping I hadn’t just committed some kind of date-night faux pas. I’d learned fancy words like that from the rich girls who ate my mother’s cooking at Miss Potter’s School. I’d been exposed to their upscale chatter during riding classes. I’d also been exposed to their derision. My head felt spongy. How much had I imbibed? Imbibed? I giggled.
Clay grinned. “You are so adorable. One last drink won’t hurt you, and this is a special night.” His fingertips traced a small circle on my wrist.
The liquor accelerated the sudden eroticism that surged through me, headed south, and pooled as liquid warmth between my thighs. I met Clay’s gaze and noted his quick intake of air.
“Bring us two champagne cocktails,” he said, his fingers never leaving my wrist, his eyes stroking my lips.
Our drinks arrived, and I grabbed the glass like a lifeline. I couldn’t remember feeling this aroused. I didn’t even know this guy.
Clay straightened up, moving away from me slightly, as if sensing my confusion.
“I met Martha Garner recently. She thinks the world of you, Nikki. A shame about that stakes mare, Gilded Cage.”
“That hurt a lot of people,” I said.
“Someone told me you had her for the Venus. You must’ve been upset.”
When I shrugged and looked away, Clay forged ahead.
“You’re a talented rider — just need some good horses that’ll let you show your stuff. I’ve got an excellent replacement in mind for Martha. This guy’s a two-year-old with pedigree up the ying-yang. He’s about two works away from his first race and he just threw in a bullet. It’s an awesome opportunity for Martha. You too, Nikki.”
“I think Martha will get
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