by K. M. Szpara
“It’ll look great! People love reunions. We’ll do a television special on your engagement. We’ll—”
“If a television special is part of the wager, deal’s off.” There is literally nothing I want less than camera operators following me around in a relationship I already have to work to maintain.
Mariah holds up her free hand. “Not part of the deal. Just something to think about.”
My heart is beating faster than it should. GenEcs aren’t a commitment, but they are intent. If I requested Javier’s GenEcs, he’d expect me to propose pending a favorable comparison to my own. And rejecting him a second time feels unnecessarily cruel.
Mariah slides her arm around my waist; our hips bump and she rests her head on my shoulder. “I want what’s best for you, Alex.”
I sigh and hold on to her. “I know.”
“If I were a man, I’d subpoena your GenEcs so hard.”
I snort.
Mariah smiles. “Our test-tube babies would be beautiful.”
“Test-tube babies? That’s not very romantic.”
“Yeah, I can’t take nine months off to be pregnant.” She makes a face. “Also? Who said anything about romance?” Her tone isn’t rude or disgusted, just matter-of-fact.
I doubt Mariah remembers, but we’ve discussed marriage before. It was the day before high school graduation, and we were lying in one of the sand traps of the old Eldridge Club, our Poplar Hill Prep uniforms wrinkled and untucked.
“Have your parents subpoenaed anyone, yet?” she asked. That only ever meant one thing.
I shook my head. “Yours?”
“I overheard them talking about it. I don’t really want to marry anyone, though, I don’t think. Maybe a friend. If I have to.”
“I think we have to.” My laugh faded and a peaceful silence warmed us.
“I’d marry you.” Mariah looked at me. “As friends.”
I remember the burning blush on my cheeks while I fumbled for a response. I ended up laughing because I couldn’t think of what to say. The idea wasn’t bad. It was practical, but awkward, eighteen-year-old-Alex was still holding on to the idea that he’d marry someone for money and love. That he wouldn’t have to settle for a friend or a financial ally, like others did. Thirty-year-old Alex hasn’t quite grown out of that.
The Dociles emerge from the stables, steered into place by jockeys with riding crops. I am suddenly aware of my pulse rippling out in waves to my fingertips where they grip the fence. While I’d rather him in nothing but briefs and a tee shirt at home, the thought of Elisha dressed like Mariah’s pony Docile isn’t unappealing.
“All you want is for me to look at Javier’s GenEcs?” I lean on the fence, again, and squint at the different Dociles, trying to discern them in their tack.
Mariah joins me. “Not even you, your lawyers. It’s that easy.”
“And if I win?”
Mariah shrugs. “Whatever.” She can afford to give me whatever I might ask.
I almost forget why I’m making this wager. This wasn’t supposed to be about me. Yet again, Elisha’s problems have become mine. “Your pony Docile,” I say.
Mariah allows surprise to show on her face. “Chesapeake?”
I stop myself from saying, Dylan, and instead say, “The one you brought today, yes.”
“I didn’t think you were into girls, Alex.”
“She’s not for me.” I can spin this truth into a lie; I’ve done it before. “I need to round out Elisha’s education.”
“Fine.” She extends a hand. “If Elisha wins, you get Chesapeake. If he loses—even second place—you subpoena Javier’s GenEcs on Monday.”
I know before I shake her hand that I might not be able to get myself out of this one. My parents will find out, then the Board—and I can’t disappoint them twice. I don’t want to commit to Javier, but I’ve already committed to Elisha. I shake Mariah’s hand.
“Deal.”
18
ELISHA
I can do this.
I can do this for Dylan.
Onyx moves with determination, sliding straps around my naked limbs and torso, tightening, fastening. The leather is brown and soft. Worn. If I close my eyes it doesn’t feel unlike the seersucker suit’s layers, buttoned, zipped, and tucked. Packaging my body in navy-blue stripes, pink cotton, leather shoes.
None of these other horses—Dociles. I forget only because they’re all dressed like horses and we’re in a stable; the scents of hay, leather, and shit hang thick in the air. It’s hard not to think of the others as horses—or would they prefer “ponies”? They’re all slender, muscular, groomed. They’re racehorses. They’ve trained and I haven’t.
Because I’m doing this for Dylan. My motivation is all that separates me from the others.
“Open your mouth.” Onyx’s face is relaxed, lips curved into a light smile. His hair is pulled back in one thick braid from forehead to neck. Everyone’s is.
I wonder if he’ll braid mine, too.
My mouth hangs open while he cinches and buckles at the top of my head and back of my neck. Onyx threads silky rope back and forth between the metal O-rings that press cold against my cheeks. When he’s finished, I reflexively try to close my mouth. The rope braid is pliable but thick, and while I can force my teeth together, it’s easier to let the bit do its job.
When Onyx points me toward a mirror, I freeze. Warm chestnut leather collars my neck, trails down my back and chest, looping and crisscrossing. It ends in a V between my legs, supporting and covering my crotch.
Onyx rubs his fingers through my hair, messing it up between the harness straps. I feel like one of the Roman gladiators my humanities tutor described. Battle ready.
I follow willingly when Onyx loops a finger through my cuff and leads me and Opal out of the stables and into the sunlight.
I stop, raise my hand to my eyes so I can see the crowd: a patchwork of colorful dresses and hats and suits, shiny bows and belts and jewelry. They tower above me in the stadiums and grip the railing surrounding the track. A pleasurable and terrifying sensation sneaks up on me, starting at the back of my neck and spreading into my limbs. Like light slicing through my muscle and settling into my nerves.
I cannot move.
“He needs blinders,” says a familiar voice, but I cannot look away from the crowds. “To keep him focused. I’ll do it.”
Thick hands tug at the straps on my head, forcing my face forward. They fit fat leather pads alongside my temples, blocking the sun’s glare until all I can see is Dutch’s face opposite mine. Like the light at the end of a tunnel I never want to reach.
I jolt in his grip, curl my fingers into my palms until my nails dig into softening calluses.
“Don’t.” Dutch looks directly into my eyes such that the chilling light returns to my body. “You can’t. Not after last time.” He pats my cheek, sighs, then loops his finger through a strap on my chest. “Now come on. I hear you’re going to win this thing. Opal, that means you have to stay behind him, got it?”
I can’t see her response, only Dutch’s concern.
You can’t. Not after last time. What does that mean?
“Bishop’s paying me nine hundred to make sure you win, Elisha.” He pauses. “That’s nine hundred thousand, by the way.”
I am too stunned to do anything but follow.
Unable to see the crowds, I stare at Dutch’s back—a blue-green blazer that Alex calls seafoam. The colors ahead are muted, brown and black leather, the occasional white, wrapped and buckled around mostly naked bodies, like gifts.
The Dociles stretch in place without interaction, then line up. I can do this. I can win. Alex thinks I’m fast, and he’s seen this race before. He monitors the times on my morning runs. He knows I can win.
I can do this.
I can do this for Dylan.
Dutch leads me into the starting gate beside Opal, slaps my ass, then closes the door. I stretch my jaw and swallow the spit that threatens to fly fro
m my mouth in the wind, then position myself. Knees bent low, hands in the dirt.
A woman in a hot-pink blazer and navy blouse walks past my gate, a whistle between her lips, checkered flag in her hand. The crowd silences, Dociles beside me stop shuffling. I hold my breath.
A high-pitched whistle pierces the air, followed by the springing of a dozen gates. I don’t wait, don’t look to see if those beside me have started. As a hundred thousand screams erupt around us, I run.
The dirt that flies up in clouds around me sticks to my parted lips and clogs up my nose. All I have to do is run. It’s only half a lap. Alex waits at the end. Alex and Dylan.
My bare feet sink into the soft earth with every step. Not one is easy, but I push harder than I ever have, picture Mariah holding my closest friend—my family—on a fucking leash.
A shoulder bumps mine. Dirt hits my calves as the others pound forward. I ignore the rub of stiff leather against my skin, the grit sticking to my sweat and working its way between my joints. The burn in my thighs propels me forward until I can no longer hear the labored breathing of Dociles beside me.
I can see the finish line. There are no crowds in my narrow view. Nothing but a chalk-white line, heavy breathing, and dirt. I’m going to fall if I run any faster. That’s okay. I can fall over the line. I can do this. I can win.
Run, Elisha.
Run.
I don’t stop when I cross the white line. The speed runs its course through my body, until I can think about my legs without tripping over them. I can’t see any other Dociles and I don’t want to. The silence breaks. Folks cheer. I grab at the leather blinders that limit my vision. I can’t even tell how I did without help.
A body stops mine. A soothing voice says, “Calm down.” The hands that cover mine belong to Alex, this time, not Dutch. His face appears on the other end of the tunnel and he’s smiling. “It’s okay. You did it. You won.”
He hooks fingers under the braided rope that gags me, leverages it onto my chin, and kisses my lips. My eyes close like the first time he kissed me and I lean into him, holding on so I don’t fall over with exhaustion.
“Good boy.” Alex releases the rope and it slides back into place between my lips. I could take it off, myself, but I think that’s the type of thing Dutch meant when he said not after last time. I can’t step out of line because I’ve already embarrassed Alex, once.
It’s okay. The leather and rope are soft and comforting, holding me tight. Besides, I did it. I won.
“Congratulations,” I hear Mariah say before she steps into view.
“Thank you,” Alex says. He rubs his hand over the back of my neck.
“An admirable performance,” says a new voice, medium pitch, clear. “Your Docile is quite fast.” I have to move my whole head to see who’s speaking. Beside Mariah stands a petite Latino man in baby-blue slacks and a red suit jacket. His dark brown eyes flit between Alex’s and the ground, like he’s nervous.
“That he is,” Alex says. “I didn’t know you were going to be here, or I would’ve made a point to say hello.”
“Luckily, I found Javier over by the stables,” Mariah says, a gleam in her eye. “Care to join us for a drink? We have a chalet.”
“Ooh, of course.” Javier’s smile is warm. “As long as Alex doesn’t mind.”
The tension on Alex’s face breaks. “Not at all. You’ll be my guest.”
Leather stings my thigh, turning my head. A tall woman dressed like a jockey, with a rough, high-pitched voice, clicks her tongue and says, “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
I look to Alex for direction, see him take his hand from me and wipe the dirt off on a moist towel that he hands back to a passing Docile. He ignores me, engaged with Mariah and Javier.
The jockey clucks again and swats her crop against my thigh. “Come on, pony.”
I stumble away from her crop. Alex catches my eyes and nods, less to me and more to the jockey. She strikes me again and I pick up the pace, heading toward the stable.
Every time I look over my shoulder to find Alex, I feel the crop’s sting. Eventually, I stop peeking, though it takes all my willpower to face forward and go through the motions. To accept the jockey’s direction and the crop’s feedback. That my only job right now is to be wound down and cleaned up so I can be returned to Alex.
Deep breaths.
I accept my narrowed world and focus on the stables, growing larger as we near them. Jockeys lead Dociles in and horses out. All I have to do is follow their orders.
It’s simple.
Relax.
“That’s a good boy.” The jockey smooths her hand through my hair. “Into the last stall.”
I go without the crop’s reminder. The stone floor beneath my feet is wet and cool against the warmth of May. She moves silently and rhythmically, loosening and removing the straps of my harness. I feel the warmth of blood flowing again, my circulation unrestricted.
The stall door clangs shut.
“You’ve looked better,” the jockey says. She removes my head harness and the silk rope from between my teeth.
I blink, the room bigger without blinders. She tosses my tack onto the ground. My eyes widen and I see her fully for the first time, as she removes her helmet.
“Eu—” I cough, my mouth still dry and dusty.
She cracks the top off a plastic water bottle and thrusts it into my hands.
I drink half the bottle. “Eugenia,” I say, mouth wet and dripping. “What are you doing here?”
“Checking on you.”
“I’m fine,” I say.
“You’re dressed like a horse.”
“It’s—it’s really not all that bad.” I hug my arms against my chest and shrug, already missing the snug feeling. Suit or harness, it makes no difference. Besides, I was happy to win for Alex.
Or for Dylan. Both? The memory of his pride warms me from the inside out.
Eugenia snaps her fingers so close to my face that I recoil. “Wake up, Elisha. You’re turning into one of them.”
“I’m—No. I’m not.” I back away from her, eyeing the clasp on the door.
“Okay, what can you tell us about Bishop Labs’ new contract with the ODR?” She stalks forward, closing in on me.
“I don’t know anything secret.” It’s the truth. That’s not my business.
She corners me. “Bullshit. You live with him. He brings you to work.”
“Not all the time, and I…” Where’s Alex? I peer over my shoulder through the iron bars. Pony Dociles and their jockeys mill around, undressing, cleaning. Would any of them help if I called? Would they believe me?
Alex would believe me. He believes me. He’s the only one.
“Come on, Elisha. Help us help you.” She’s so close, the brim of her helmet bumps into my forehead. “Help us help your family.”
“They’re fine, please. I don’t need help. I need to clean up, get back to Alex.”
“You’re going home soon, right?”
“I don’t think so. The horse race hasn’t even—”
“No, Elisha, not the Third’s home, your home. Where your parents and sister and the Falstaffs live.”
“Oh, I…” When did I start thinking of Alex’s as home? “I guess it’s almost been six months.”
Eugenia leans back and sighs. “I’m too late.”
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing, Elisha.” She throws a sopping-wet sponge at me. I barely catch it. “Clean yourself up. Get back to your master.” She flings the stall door open and leaves. The latch clangs shut behind her.
“He’s not my master,” I whisper. Drops of water clear paths down my dusty chest and dampen the downy hairs on my thighs.
I don’t move—can’t move. I’m doing what I’m supposed to. What Alex wants me to do. I close my eyes and allow the calm to reverberate through me.
I’m exactly where Alex wants me.
Doing what I’m supposed to. I don’t have to worry about anything—not Eugen
ia or Empower Maryland or my family, who are out of debt and living on my stipend—only what I’m supposed to do. Right now, I’m supposed to clean up for Alex.
I drag the still-heavy sponge down my left arm and wring out the dirty water over a drain. Wet the sponge, wipe myself clean. First my left arm, then my right. My face, shoulders, and chest. Back, legs, genitals. I bend over the bucket to wash beneath my fingernails and sit on a towel to clean my feet.
When I’m dry, I find my clothes in one of the cubbies and pull them on. Each article brings me one step closer to safety—to Alex. The socks and underwear cling, soft and comforting. Pants and button-down perfectly tailor to my body. The brown leather belt and bow tie fasten me in like tack. I shrug on my blazer, button it, and smooth the fabric over my shirt.
When I breathe in, my body pushes the suit’s limits and I relish the pleasurable tightness. “Okay,” I whisper. “Everything is okay.”
I open the stall door and wind carefully around the jockeys directing Dociles with crops and leads, in and out of leather, under hoses. I leave the stables, alone.
* * *
Tom tips his hat when he opens our car door. “Good evening, Dr. Bishop. Elisha.” His knowing smile is for me.
I feel gross, again. Like I need another sponge to wipe away the dirt he has on me, even though my skin and suit are immaculate. Clean, ironed, pressed.
“Evening, Tom,” Alex says.
“You received a delivery, sir.” Tom holds out a black box tied with a black silk ribbon.
Alex takes it. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure. Any luck at Preakness?”
“Yes, actually.” He smiles and rubs my back. I lean into his touch, eager for his protection. Tom won’t bother me while I’m with Alex. “Elisha’s quite fast.”
“You participated in the Docile races?” Tom asks me.
“Yes,” I mumble, avoiding his eyes. Why does Tom make me feel bad about it, when Alex makes me feel accomplished, empowered, and safe?
“Put some more money in Dr. Bishop’s pocket?”
I don’t know how to answer—don’t even think it’s Tom’s business. Why he thinks he’s entitled to our personal lives.