Racetrack Romance BOX SET (Books 1-3) (59 page)

Jessica tried not to wince as she handed over the last of her two-hundred-dollar advance. It was a huge bet, but the payout would make it all worthwhile.

They rushed to the front of the grandstand, breathless and excited, arriving with only four minutes to post. Maria pushed in by the rail but Jessica lingered behind, scanning the collage of faces in the reserved boxes, trying to spot Mark and his owners. No good, too many people. A sea of swarming faces stared down at her.

She turned to the well-dressed man beside her. “Sir, could I borrow your binoculars for a moment?”

“Sure, but I want them back for the race.”

“Certainly.” She looped them over her head and pressed them against her eyes. They were the cheapest glasses she’d ever used. Everything looked tiny, and she rolled the dial repeatedly, trying to put the distant faces into focus.

“They work better if you look through the other end,” Mark drawled. “Who you looking for?”

She gave a guilty start and quickly returned the binoculars to their owner. “I heard Brad Pitt was up there,” she said.

“Really? Didn’t see him.” Mark looked distracted as he stared over her head at the starting gate. “Come on, baby. Get in.”

The urgency in his voice startled her and she swung around, horrified to see their gray filly twisting from the gate, refusing to load. Aw, damn. Her bet.

“Get your butt in there!” she yelled, squeezing closer to the rail. The horse had to load. Her money was riding on Carlos and his filly. She held her breath as the jockey dismounted. The gate crew produced a blindfold.

Mark studied her face. “I assume you have a bet down,” he said dryly.

“Yes.” Her fingers tightened around the rail. “Next week’s salary.”

“What!” He grabbed her arm, tilting her around so he could see her face. “Jesus, Jessica, sometimes you scare me.”

Jessica shrugged, but she was scared as well. They both watched as the stubborn filly was led in circles. She could feel Mark’s tenseness, the tightness of his grip, the absence of his breathing and then realized she wasn’t breathing either.

But finally the filly entered the slot, and the gate crew slammed the door shut. An assistant starter whipped the blindfold off, and the crowd cheered.

Jessica relaxed a notch and heard Mark sigh.

“She likes to stalk, so hope for a good break,” he said. His arm had loosened although it was still looped over her hip.

“And the other horses you mentioned?” she asked not turning around, not wanting to do anything that might make him move his arm. “Where should they be?”

“They’re closers. Break isn’t so important.”

Jessica kept her eyes glued to the gate, willing the gray to break clean. She felt more confident now that she knew the racing scenario required. Her sports therapists had taught to always envision the perfect run, but she wasn’t sure how she could possibly envision three horses.

Maybe she could picture the jockey silks: blue, striped green and yellow. If the colors crossed the finish line in that order, she, Maria and Buddy would have a very successful day.

“They’re off!” the announcer yelled as the gates burst open.

Colors churned. A white-blinkered horse from the seven hole broke like a rocket then disappeared from sight as a crowd of horses fought for position.

The crowd groaned, a weird simultaneous sound. She stretched on her toes, struggling to see what had happened. Something bad, judging by the way Mark’s arm clamped around her waist.

“Damn. Rider’s off,” he muttered.

Jessica twisted, staring at the large screen. Mark’s gray filly still ran gamely in third, but something looked strange. And then she realized—the saddle was empty.

“Do they need a rider for the race to count?” she asked, her voice cracking.

“Yeah. Steve’s up though. Looks okay.”

Jessica stared blindly at the group of horses, now led by Mark’s riderless gray, who galloped gaily around the turn, reins flapping as she pulled away from the pack. Little good that would do.

“Why did you pick Steve to ride?” Her voice rose. “Why not Emma Rae, or someone who can at least stay on?”

“Stop thinking of yourself.” Mark dropped his arm, and she immediately regretted her thoughtless words. “It’s hard to stay on when a horse stumbles. It’s also dangerous for everyone out there. No one knows what a loose horse will do.”

“Well, your horse is going to win the race.” She sighed. “And it won’t even count.”

The jockey in striped green silks made a huge run on the outside, closely followed by the jockey in yellow. They couldn’t catch Mark’s riderless gray though, who crossed the finish line ten lengths in front. The perfect finish—all three horses on her betting ticket—except the filly had no rider.

Carlos materialized beside Mark with a beige cooler over his arm. They left her and walked onto the track, talking animatedly. An outrider snagged the loose filly, turned and escorted her back to the waiting group of trainers and grooms.

The outrider grinned as he passed the reins to Carlos, and the prancing filly looked so proud of herself, Jessica felt like screaming. She looked around for someone who shared her frustration, but Maria was draped over the rail, slapping hands with a beaming Pedro. Clearly, they were both delighted with the race results.

The inquiry sign flashed but when the ambulance rolled up and Steve hopped out, his shrug was self-explanatory. Mark patted Steve on the back, grins all around.

“Russell has his horses running so fast, the riders need seatbelts,” the man on her right grumbled.

Ah, an understanding ear. Jessica waved her betting stubs in disgust. “I would have had the trifecta if that rider hadn’t fallen off.”

“Yeah, well I would have had the Pick Six,” the man said. “Twenty thousand smackers down the tubes.” He snapped his fingers in disgust and walked away.

“Mommy,” a young voice called. “The horse I patted came first! She’s so fast she didn’t need a rider to whip her.”

Jessica spotted the little girl on crutches. Ketchup stained her tiny face, but didn’t hide the brilliance of her smile, and Jessica felt a rush of shame. The filly had run well. Even a little girl recognized it. If Jessica hadn’t bet every dollar she owned, as well as her advance, she’d also be proud.

Squaring her shoulders, she smiled at the girl and trudged to the concession stands. Clearly handicapping wasn’t the cinch she’d first thought, and stooping would probably be the best way to fill Buddy’s coffee can.

***

“Yuk.” Jessica flipped over a darkened ticket, wrinkling her nose at the wad of tobacco stuck in the middle. Lemonade, beer stains, even mustard were okay, but she didn’t want to touch anything that had been in someone else’s mouth.

Race fans still trickled from the clubhouse but an army of stoopers had appeared, armed with clear plastic bags and gloves. A lone photographer snapped pictures of the deserted track but so far, security hadn’t bothered them.

She bent back down, shuffling along the concrete as she scooped tickets into her bag. She had the rhythm now—shuffle, drop, scoop but it would be much easier if she were short like Maria.

“How you doing, kid?” Maria called. “It’s almost dark, and I’m meeting Pedro to celebrate his win. Think I’ll go back and get cleaned up.”

Jessica shook her bag, letting the stubs settle. Half full. “I’m going to stay a bit longer,” she said. “Maybe check upstairs.”

No way was she walking back with Maria. It was nice that Pedro’s horse had won, but Jessica was still slightly bitter about Steve falling off. She didn’t want to hear any more replays of that particular race.

She climbed the concrete steps and shoved the door open. Amazing how fast the building emptied. The escalator was motionless, so she bounded up three staircases and pushed through several doors until the concrete changed to plush carpet.

This was the place to be. Millionaires’ row. She scooped quickly, working through the elite boxes that extended onto a balcony high above the track. A garbage can clinked—another stooper perhaps, or else cleaning staff. She ignored her aching back and scooped faster. No telling what riches she’d pick up here, but she needed to grab them before others did.

The garbage can clinked again. Someone must be concentrating on the stubs in the numerous metal bins. She’d tried that earlier but found it too messy. Must be a newbie. Smiling with a pro’s complacence, she glanced into the adjoining skybox.

Her smile flipped to dismay. A young boy rammed a half-eaten hotdog into his mouth; his other hand clutched a container of greasy fries, and he wolfed the food as though starving. Concern pushed her closer, her steps absorbed by the thick carpet.

He twisted, sensing her presence. They stared in shock.

“You,” she said, recognizing his face. He moved first, leaping sideways trying to evade her grip, but anger blasted her forward, and she grabbed his arm. “Where’s my phone? Why’d you bust my bike?”

He muttered a torrent of words, waving the hotdog, eyes large in his thin face. His arm was bony beneath the filthy shirt, and her anger dissolved. Oh God, he was skinny.

“It’s okay,” she said quickly. “I don‘t care about the phone. Or the bike. It’s okay.”

He didn’t seem to understood her words, but he obviously sensed her softening. Keeping a wary eye on her face, he rammed the hotdog in his mouth, no longer trying to bolt, seemingly more concerned she might steal his meal.

“It’s okay,” she repeated. She wished Maria were here to translate. She thrust her hands in the air and backed up a step, trying to show she didn’t want his food. Watched helplessly as he rummaged through the garbage. Witnessing his hunger made bile rise like a sour wave in her throat.

A door slammed, and the rims of the boy’s eyes flashed a startled white. She reached out and touched his arm. “Don’t worry,” she said softly. “I’ll get you more food. I’ll help.”

But he was having a complete fit now, backing up and staring toward the door, muttering such a high-pitched, incomprehensible string of words, her grip tightened. “I need help,” she called, afraid he’d bolt.

“Where are you?” a man yelled. “I hear the boy. Is he with you?” The voice was harsh with a heavy accent, and doors slammed as he moved along the skyboxes, checking each room, moving toward them. Moving fast.

The sharp smell of urine cut the air. The boy’s arm trembled beneath her hand, and she glanced down, shocked at the stain darkening the crotch of his jeans.

“Do you know that man? Is he your father?” Her voice cracked in dismay. What sort of fear would make a kid piss his pants?

Impulsively she reached out and turned the door lock. Moments later the handle shook. The boy edged back, his eyes swinging from the door to Jessica. He raised his arm and made a slashing gesture across his throat.

“This is our skybox. We’re finishing our drinks,” she called, trying to inject some righteous annoyance.

“Open the door. Give me the boy.” The door handle rattled, and the voice thickened with frustration.

“What’s your name?” She wiped her sweaty palms on her jeans as her gaze scrabbled around the room. Dirty plates, race programs, glasses. No phone.

“Open the door,” he said. “No one will be hurt.”

Okay, this wasn’t good. No one ever said that except in the movies, and it was always a lie. She jerked away from the door, pressed a finger to her mouth and pointed to the sliding glass doors at the front of the box. The boy nodded and slid them open.

“Just a minute,” she called brightly. “We’ll be right out.” She grabbed her plastic bag of tickets, holding it out from her body so it wouldn’t rustle, and joined the boy by the balcony overlooking the track.

She slid the door wider, letting in a rush of dark and chilly air. The boy bolted to the left, but she grabbed his arm and pointed to the right. The balconies connected, and they vaulted over the railing, her adrenaline so pumped she kept pace with the nimble boy as he crossed two rows of boxes.

Silence now. The man had stopped pounding on the door. Must have already circled to the next box. She grabbed an empty wine bottle, tossed it in the opposite direction, then pulled the boy between the chairs as glass shattered.

They huddled in a ball, pressed into the grimy floor, watching as a figure swooped onto the balcony. Only five boxes away, not nearly far enough. Oh God, what was in his hand? Something glinted. A knife? Her breath leaked in a gasp of disbelief, and she flattened against the floor, oblivious to the discarded nachos rammed against her cheek.

Maybe it’s a beer can. Not a knife. Please, God, not a knife. Someone made a whimpering sound, and the boy’s hand pressed against her mouth.

Shit, she was making that noise. Okay, deep breaths. She tried to steady her breathing and think, but they were stuck. Too high to jump, and the back doors of the skyboxes all opened onto the same corridor. She squeezed her eyes shut, afraid the man would feel her gaze. Willed him to walk in the opposite direction. He’d already checked these boxes; surely he’d go the other way.

The boy pressed against her, his hand still rammed against her mouth. I’m the adult here, she told herself. She opened her eyes, removed his hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. If only she had her cell phone, she could call for help.

The man turned and vanished into the skybox.

She sucked in a shallow breath, trying to gather her courage, knowing they had to move. Pushed herself up on shaky legs and tugged the boy behind her. They sidled along the balcony, through a sliding door and into the adjoining box.

Similar to the first. No phone. But there had to be a fire alarm in the corridor.

The boy balked when she reached for the doorknob, but she forced a reassuring smile. There was no alternative. They had to leave. Once the man reached the end he would simply search the remaining boxes. He’d find them, stuck like rabbits in a hole.

She pushed the door open a crack and peeked up the corridor. To the right, thirty endless feet, perched a red alarm box. To the left, a staircase, headed down. She was a fast runner. So was the kid. A door opened, and she jerked backwards, holding the door, holding her breath. A dark shape flashed in the corridor then disappeared into the last skybox.