by JA Huss
“Are you going to answer me?” I ask, stopping so he has to stop too.
“What do you want me to say?”
“Where have you been all week?”
He downs the rest of his drink and then sets his empty glass on a shelf the bettors use to pore over their racing forms. I decide to do the same, slamming my glass down a little harder than I should.
“I was on the East Coast. With Nolan. Some pretty weird fucking shit went down.”
“Like what?”
He looks me in the eyes. “I don’t know if I should trust you or not. I don’t know why I haven’t kicked you aside yet. But…” He sighs, like he’s really got a lot on his mind. Like he’s tired and just needs a moment to catch his breath. “Tell me why you’re here, Cindy.”
I get the feeling he needs this answer. “Something happened, didn’t it? With your friend.”
“Why are you here?”
“I just like you,” I say. It comes out soft. If he seems tired, then I must seem defeated. Because that’s kinda how I feel. Why am I stalking him? Do I really know anymore?
“Are you…” But he stops. Looks away.
“Am I what?” But he stays silent. “I’m not here to hurt you. No one hired me, if that’s what you’re after. I swear, I’m just a girl who saw your picture on the news and got obsessed. OK? And yeah, it’s weird, and wrong, and creepy. But I’m really not any of those things. I swear it. I’m just a girl who likes a guy.”
He looks at me. Finally. “That’s it?” he asks. And somewhere in that small, almost insignificant question, I find vulnerability. “That’s all this is? Just a girl who likes a guy?”
I shrug. “That’s it.”
“OK,” he says, giving in. And even though I should feel a little relief that he doesn’t push me harder about the truth, I don’t feel relief. I want to tell him. I want him to know me. I want to know him. Not in the stalker way. That’s nothing but information. And the sex didn’t give me much insight. Not the way we did it, as fuck buddies. “Maybe we can talk about it later then?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I’d really like to talk about it later.”
And then I realize that could mean two things. I’d really like to talk about it later because I don’t want to talk about it. Or I’d really like to talk about it later because now isn’t the time, but I’m dying to talk about it.
I don’t have a chance to ask him which way he took it, because he turns away and leads me through the crowd of people.
To the barn we go. It’s a longish walk, past crowds of well-dressed people holding drinks, laughing and talking easily. Pax smiles at a lot of them. Some call his name, saying hello. He’s polite, but never stops walking. He’s one of those men who always seem preoccupied with life. Always have something on their mind.
People notice this. People feel… not jealous, really. But outside of him, I can just tell by the way everyone watches us, they want to know more. Like me, I realize. He has this magnetism that draws you in, but he also has this stay the fuck away from me vibe that prevents an invasion of privacy.
It’s paradoxical, I realize. He’s a walking paradox.
He leads me down several levels until we are on the floor with the bettors. We make our way out into the paddock area, where a dozen or so good-looking thoroughbreds are prancing, eager as their jockeys are lifted up on their backs and trainers lean into whisper last-minute advice.
Paxton pulls two ID badges from his suit coat pocket and shows them to a security guard. The guard smiles, nods, waves us through.
And then… “Wow,” I say, my eyes darting everywhere at once. Things were busy out front, but the bustle back here in the barns is something else altogether. Horses walking on the coolers, being led by grooms, standing beautifully, like kings and queens, in their open-air stall doors.
This place drips with money.
“Never been to the back side?” Paxton asks.
“I have,” I say, before realizing the only other time was at Belmont, when I was stalking his mother. Dear God. What if she recognizes me? “But it wasn’t like this.”
“This is a stakes race. It’s kind of a big deal, even if it’s only for two-year-old fillies. They want to see the girls who might go far next year and this is one of the races that count. The best young ladies in Southern California are in this race.”
“Oh,” I say. “I’m not really up on racing.”
“Well,” he says, staring down at me as I gaze up. “You look the part.”
I smile, possibly blush, and then shake my head a little.
“That’s a nice dress. Were you stalking me this morning?”
“What?”
“The dress?”
“What about it?”
“You match my tie.”
“Oh.” I laugh. “No.” And it’s the truth. “I just picked something out of my trailer this morning.”
“Mmmm-hmm.” But he doesn’t believe me. And then he says, “Trailer?”
We both spot his mother at the same time and thankfully that question has the opportunity to go unanswered. Paxton’s stride lengthens slightly as he makes his way towards her. She is petting a pale yellow horse with flaxen mane as she laughs and talks with a man.
“Mother,” Paxton says, once we’re close enough so he won’t have to say the word too loud.
“Paxton,” his mother says, tsking her tongue. “Well, look at this lovely vision you brought with you. Cindy?” she asks, holding out her hand.
“Yes,” I say, nervously allowing her fingertips to grasp mine.
“Well.” She looks up at the man she was talking to with a smile. “This is a very good omen.”
“You brought us good luck, Pax,” the man says.
Pax is looking at me, then the horse. We both get it at the same time. I look like the filly, thanks to my impulsive hair change.
“Oh, my dear,” Mrs. Hawthorne says, redirecting her attention back to me. “You are adorable.”
The filly is nuzzling me, so my hand reaches up out of habit to stroke her nose.
“Is this your rising star?” Paxton asks, nodding towards the horse.
“Yes.” His mother beams. “Did you know she’s full sister to Aladdin’s Prince Charming, last year’s Triple Crown winner?”
“No,” Pax says. His eyes squint at the horse with more scrutiny. “I didn’t. Last year’s Triple Crown winner was one of ours?”
“How could you not know that?” his mother says, her voice high. “Paxton Hawthorne Vance—”
“I don’t keep up with the horses, Mother. You know that.”
She lets out a long breath, then turns to the man. “William, will you excuse us? We have some family business to discuss.”
“Sure thing, Mariel. You know where to find me.”
He walks off, Mariel’s gaze lingering on him for a little longer than necessary.
“William Barker?” Paxton asks, leaning down to whisper in his mother’s ear. “Really?”
“What’s wrong with William? We’ve been friends for twenty years.”
“You’re dating a trainer? What happened to, I will never date another horseman for as long as—”
“Oh, psssshhhh,” his mother says. “I say all kinds of things in the heat of the moment. William is one of the good ones. And he saw beyond this filly’s pretty looks and found her potential. I have to respect that, don’t I?”
I can’t help but feel a connection to the beautiful horse. People have a hard time seeing beyond my looks too. Which is why I dyed my hair dark in the first place. I bet if that filly had the means, she’d make herself bay, or black, or brown just to be taken seriously.
“You want to tell me why we’re here?” Pax says, impatient.
I’d like to know that as well. Family business should not include a newly acquired fuck buddy.
And then she pulls something out of her small clutch purse. Paxton steps away, my hand falling from his arm as he tries to make his retreat. It takes me a mo
ment to figure out what has him so rattled, and then I see what his mother is holding in her hand.
A silver envelope.
“What the fuck is that?” Pax says it too loud. I look around and people are staring.
“Paxton,” his mother whispers. “Your language.”
“Where did you get that?” Pax snatches the envelope out of her hands and opens the flap, takes out a silver card, glances at it. “What is this?”
“Are you done now?” his mother asks.
“Mother,” Pax says, rage filtering into the single word. “I need to know where you got this. It’s very important.”
I know the significance of the silver envelopes. Well, not entirely. But I know that a silver envelope was part of the evidence against my brother and his friends back when they were accused of raping that girl in college. I overheard my parents talking about it one night, just after he was accused.
“Um,” I say, unsure what to do. Clearly this is not a moment for an almost stranger to witness. “I think I’ll wait in the clubhouse.”
“Cinderella,” his mother coos, her eyes lingering on Paxton a moment before turning to meet mine. “Since you’ve decided to play a part in this, I think it’s best you stay.”
“How did you—”
“Know your real name?” She smirks at me. And the way she stressed the word really has me worried for a moment.
Does she know who I am? Does she know who my brother is? If she outs me right now, I can kiss anything I have with Paxton Vance goodbye. Once he knows—
“I have eyes, darling. We’ve met before, remember?”
“You’ve been stalking my mother?” Pax asks.
“Oh, calm down, Paxton. She’s a horsewoman. Didn't she tell you?”
“I did,” I say quickly. “He knows I grew up on a farm.”
Mariel keeps her gaze trained on Pax. “She comes from quite a family.”
“Tattoo artists, I hear,” Pax says.
“Yes,” Mariel says. “Some of them are tattoo artists.”
I catch the threat in the way she says some of them, but Paxton is looking at the envelope again. “Did she send you this?” Then he whirls towards me.
“Don’t be silly, Paxton. This is mine. From a very long time ago.”
“You are cordially invited—” Pax starts reading, but Mariel takes the card from his hand and presses it to her bosom, looking very nervous, losing a bit of her perfected composure.
“Do not ever read it aloud in public,” she whispers. “It’s not something you read in public.”
“Why? What the fu—” He stops the curse word, barely, then takes a deep breath to compose himself. “Tell me what this means. Things are happening again, Mother. I just got back from a very messed-up week on the East Coast with Nolan. And it involved a a certain silver envelope. I need to know what the hell this means.”
“And you will,” she says, then looks around. All three of us look around, actually, acutely aware that there are a lot of people back here in the barns. “But not here. William has offered up his office for us to talk. Let’s go there.”
She leads us through the shed row of stalls, past dozens of beautiful horses, their heads reaching for us, looking for treats as we pass them, and then stops in front of an open door to waves us in.
Pax throws up his hands. “After you,” he says. Like manners were bred into him like the joy of running was bred into these horses, and he can’t possibly enter a room before a lady, even if he wanted to.
The office smells like money, if money smelled like the track, and everything is covered in a thin layer of dust the way barn offices often are. Paxton grabs two fleece saddle pads, places one on the chair behind the desk and motions to his mother to sit there, then places the other on a chair for me.
We both sit, our dresses safe from dust, as Paxton closes the door and turns the lock. “Now,” he says, coming back to stand between us. “We’re gonna talk about this.” He looks at me. “And no one is leaving until I know everything.”
Chapter Twelve - Paxton
I have to admit, seeing Cindy as a blonde has definitely had the effect she was going for. I’m not a sucker for blondes—I like girls of all flavors equally. But, Je-sus. Bombshell is the only word to describe this woman as a blonde.
Nope, her tits aren’t any bigger today than they were yesterday. In fact, she’s not even showing any cleavage right now. That dress is the perfect combination of tailored, sophisticated, and sexy without being trashy. But she is so strikingly beautiful, it’s hard not to stare.
And the color. I have to scratch my chin as I think about the coincidence of the color. We look like a couple. A powerful, beautiful, coordinated couple.
A team.
“Read it out loud,” my mother says, handing Cindy the silver envelope and card.
“Wait,” I say, putting up a hand. “She doesn’t really need to be here. I get it, you’ve got my attention.”
“What are you talking about?” Cindy asks, ready to read like she was asked.
“Paxton,” my mother says, using that feigned voice of reason I remember all too well from my childhood. “Shut up and listen for once.”
I glare at her.
She glares back.
Do I not intimidate anyone anymore? There was a time when—
“‘You are cordially invited,’” Cindy starts. She squints her eyes. “Some of the lettering has worn off.”
“Let me see,” I say, making a swipe for the card.
Cindy slaps my hand. “You can’t see it any better than me. Just give me a second.”
I look at my mother and roll my eyes. She indulges me with half a smile. “It’s old, Paxton. The engraving has worn thin. Be calm.”
Be calm.
I take a deep breath just as Cindy continues.
“‘You are cordially invited to Pledge’—that’s a capital letter. Not sure if it’s important or not, but…” Cindy looks at me. “Just giving you the facts. ‘To Pledge Silver.’ Also capitalized.” She stops and frowns. “I don’t get it. What’s Pledge Silver?”
“Sounds like a furniture polish,” I say.
“Right?” Cindy laughs. Her whole face is different with the new hair. Fresh, and innocent, and fair. She’s not wearing the dark eye makeup today either. In fact, I’m sure she’s wearing makeup, but it’s hard to tell. She looks… natural.
“Are the two of you in kindergarten?” my mother quips. “This is very serious and you won’t be laughing when we get to the end of this day, I’ll tell you that right now.”
I want to share another smile, but Cindy goes back to reading, properly chastised.
“‘The Event’—what’s with the capital letters?” Cindy looks at my mother for an explanation. “It’s important, right? They are proper nouns?”
“Cynthia,” my mother says, getting her name wrong—on purpose, I can only assume—having a hard time with the Disney aspect of it. “We will discuss the hidden meanings once you finish. If,” she stresses, “you can manage that?”
I wait for Cinderella to correct her about her name, but she doesn’t. She takes in a silent, but deep, breath, and keeps going.
“‘The Event will start the Game of your life. You will pledge allegiance to the party, place your pieces on the board, and take your chances with your partner as you storm the world with your prowess.’” Cindy frowns. “I think they overdid it with the P words.”
“They can be dramatic, I agree. Keep going,” my mother says.
“The rest is just dates and times. The thirty-first of October.” Cindy frowns again. “Halloween. Weird. At midnight. Creepy.” She stops reading and hands me the card. “There’s no year, but that card looks… vintage.”
I look it over, but that’s it. That’s all that’s on it. “What is this?” I hold it up and look at my mother.
“An invitation, of course.”
“To what? Some fraternity?”
“No,” Cindy says. “Some kind of Skull
and Bones stuff, right?”
“Secret society?”
My mother remains silent as we work through things.
“It’s meant to like… scare people,” Cindy says. “Or make them feel special, right?”
My mother absorbs our guesses and expectant looks, folds her hands on the dirty desk, unmindful of the dust all around her. “Something like that. Yes.”
“It’s yours?”
She shrugs in my direction, noncommittal. “No, not really mine.”
“Well, where did you get it?” I feel a headache coming.
“A friend.”
“Mother,” I say, anger and fatigue getting the best of me. “What the fuck is going on? And don’t”—I point at her getting ready to point at me—“scold me about language. Weird shit is happening again. Do you understand what I’m saying?” I roll my eyes in the direction of Cindy, just to make sure she knows not to say anything too specific in front of her. But my mother waves her hand at me, like she’s unconcerned.
“This is why I’ve called you both here today.”
“Both? What are you talking about? Cindy has nothing to do with this.”
“Perhaps,” my mother says, smiling at the beautiful girl who just happened to drop into my life. “We can always hope, anyway. Can’t we?”
Cindy’s eyes go big. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“No, dear. You wouldn’t.”
I want to ask so many questions, but I know my mother better than anyone. She’s being cryptic, and when she gets in one of those cryptic moods, there’s no getting her to say more than she feels necessary. So instead, I huff out a long breath of air and sit in the chair next to Cindy, resigned to the fact that Mariel Hawthorne is in charge here.
“The letter came from the Silver Society. Have either of you… heard of it?”
“No,” I say, my patience just about done. “But I’ve certainly seen those envelopes before.”