Rick’s roaring laughter echoes around the space, people stopping their conversations to turn and stare at us. Lark’s cheeks redden again, but I’m used to the attention.
“I like this one! She’s got some gumption!” He closes the gap between them, holding out his hand for her to take. Without hesitation, she slips her much smaller hand into his palm, and he surprises me by bringing it to his lips and placing a kiss on her knuckles. “Rick Taylor, miss. At your disposal.”
“Lark Jackson.”
A breath whistles out between his teeth, but he doesn’t let go of her hand. Nor does he try to hurt her, which is lucky for him as, family or not, we wouldn’t let him lay a finger on our bird.
“You boys like playing with fire, huh? Fucking miscreants.” He chuckles before releasing her hand to give Jude a hug, then shakes Knox’s and Tarl’s hands. “Come, let me show you to your box.”
“The jockeys first, Rick,” I tell him, and he gives a knowing nod, switching direction and taking us towards a door marked as ‘Staff Only.’
I greet people along the way, walking next to Rick who does the same. They all give Dove curious glances, but only the tightening of her hand in the crook of my arm lets me know that she’s uncomfortable. Her face is serene, fucking beautiful in the room's light, and I see more than one envious stare from the women. The men all look at her with desire in their eyes, and I’m man enough not to get pissed, but feel a sense of pride at the fact that I own this beautiful creature that others covet.
Passing through the door, we enter the back part of the setup, walking down a long corridor that takes us out towards the riders’ area and stables. The sound of men jibing each other reaches my ears as we get closer to the breakout room, a place for the jockeys to relax before a race and for them and their saddles to get weighed to ensure a fair race. Well, as fair as any fixed race can be. Afterwards, they’re expected to mingle with the crowd and to fuck the wives of the rich men that have placed exorbitant bets and are drowning their sorrows in Laurent Perrier.
“Stand lively!” Rick shouts as he throws open the door and the rush of bodies getting up to do his bidding has my lips twitching upwards.
I cast my eye over the brightly-colored small men, it always surprises me how tiny some of them are; one of the few sports where smaller is better. They’re all standing to attention, giving me a respectful nod as I catch their eye. They know who runs this show.
“Morning, boys,” I say, and I can see the quirk of several lips as many of them are approaching retirement—mid-thirties for a jump jockey—thus making them older than me. I’m an asshole and like to remind people of their place. “I take it you’ve got all you need for today?”
There’s a chorus of ‘yes, Mr. Taylor’ and ‘yes, sir’. I see my little Dove’s lips twist, and turn my gaze on her, narrowing my eyes when she blinks up innocently at me.
“Something to say, Dove?”
“No, sir,” she replies in a husky whisper that has blood rushing south to my dick. By the way that she smiles at me, she knows the effect she has when she calls me sir. No worry, I’ll be punishing her for her teasing soon enough.
Giving her a wink that has her smile faltering, I turn back to the men and call one of them over.
“Good luck today, O'Sullivan,” I say, placing my hand on his shoulder and bringing him closer. “Unfortunately, Bluebonnet is feeling peaky, so you’ll have to pull back on the last furlow.”
“Understood, Mr. Taylor,” the jockey replies, a serious look in his eyes.
“I hear that your eldest just got a place at Harvard Law, congratulations. The dean himself told me only yesterday that he was looking forward to welcoming such a promising young man.”
“T–thank you, Mr. Taylor, we hadn’t heard anything yet,” O’Sullivan stutters, his eyes widening as his cheeks flush.
“The dean is here today, I’m sure he’ll want to give you the acceptance letter in person after the race,” I tell him, making sure he understands the offer is conditional.
“Understood, sir, thank you.” He gives another nod, not flinching when I slap him on the back.
“Take a few bottles of champagne home to celebrate,” I tell him before releasing my hold and letting him return to the others.
“What was that all about?”
I look down to see Dove’s stare on me, her auburn brows slanted in a frown.
“Hm?” I ask, knowing full well what she’s asking about.
“That. The telling him to pull back, and then the whole thing with Harvard?”
“It’s how we clean the money, Nightingale,” Jude interjects, coming up behind her and wrapping his arms around her. I find I like the way she sinks into him with no hesitation, relaxing in his hold. I roll my eyes at him, but figure that we’re not letting her go so where is the harm?
“Clean the money?”
“We place huge bets on the horse with the best odds, most likely to win. Sometimes it does, but sometimes it doesn’t,” Tarl says from next to us, and she looks to the side at him.
“Why would you want it to lose?”
