“Go fuck yourself, Torres.”
“Yeah? That’s what your sister said . . .” He pauses. “Wait. No, I’m wrong. She wanted me to fuckher.”
“Who’s fuck . . .” Jack stops so abruptly that Juan crashes into him. “What the fuck?—”
Torres thumbs to them. “No wonder you’re playing so shitty, with dumb and dumber here.”
Juan takes one look at me, drops his bag, and steps toward Torres, ready to swing. It’s only Jack grabbing him that stops him from making contact.
“Violence is never the option, boys.” Torres wags a finger at him.
“I’m going to fucking kill you.”
“Save that energy for the England’s Cup,” he taunts. “You’ll need it.”
I shake my head. “This conversation is over. Let’s go.”
Holding on to Ruby’s hand, we turn, Billy, Jack, and Juan following.
“Hey, Burlington.”
I spin back before I realize what I’m doing. “What?”
“Say hi to Clementine for me.”
CHAPTER 24
Ruby
“All right,” Hendricks says, snapping another carrot in half and handing it to Maverick. He swallows it before he even chews and nudges Hendricks for more. “All right, boy. Don’t give yourself indigestion.”
Maverick seems to take the advice on board, chewing the next carrot painfully slowly and sticking his tongue out afterward like he’s trying to show us.
“Good boy.” Hendricks strokes along his neck, finishing with a hardy pat, and scans an expert eye down his body. He’s looking every inch the thoroughbred he is. Maverick was clipped after Hampshire, and it’s emphasized how much muscle he’s packed on since we’ve been here—long taut legs, the thickened hind quarters. “He’s looking good, Ruby. Filled out well.”
“He really does. Miles has been working him hard.” I nod proudly at my boy. “Yesterday on the gallops, he cut ten seconds off his time.”
“A racehorse in a past life.” He laughs, and his eyes briefly slice to mine. “I know Miles is impressed.”
I smile and nod.
“And how are you doing?”
I look over at him, leaning against the stable door. It’s strange how similar he is to Miles yet nothing like him at all. With Miles, all it takes is for him to walk into my space for my heart to race and my whole body to be on the verge of combustion. But with Hendricks . . . there’s nothing. Not even a flicker of interest.
They’re supposed to be identical, but Hendricks smells different, his energy is different, and the way he moves isdifferent.They could be strangers as far as my body is concerned.
“I’m good, thanks,” I say. “Just tired. Don’t tell Miles, but I’m actually glad we got to have a few days off.”
Hendricks laughs. “Is Miles still pissed off about last weekend?”
I’m about to say yes, but pissed isn’t quite the right word. In the week we’ve been back, Miles has been more focused than I’ve seen him before—intense bordering on extreme—and I’ve seen him blow up at the grooms more than once for the most insignificant thing.
Pissed is an understatement. He’sseething.
Days fueled by rage, and then at night, when he hasn’t worked it through on his ponies, he turns into a sex demon. Which I wouldn’t complain about so much if he was present, but he’s not. He’s elsewhere.
So last night I waved the white flag of protest, and when I woke up this morning, he’d already left for the yard. But at least I can walk.
