Page 23 of Dark Things
“They’re normal size truck tires, Reb. You’re just a little sprite.”
I laugh as she punches my arm, mock rubbing it. While Reb could definitely put me on my ass in an all-out fight, which she has done plenty of times, this is another way of showing love. My little Pitch.
Our call signs have become something of a joke to us. Mine is Ghost because once my father decided we had to go into hiding, he changed my name to Hauntfrom Spiro, which roughly translates to spirit in Italian, so not too much imagination there.
Reb's scary just as she is. They call her Pitch because the first time she killed for Stan, she did it so ruthlessly, they decided her soul is black as pitch.
But anyone who knows Reb, knows that her soul is as bright as the sun at mid-day. What they did to her made all the shadows cover it up. So she’s my little Pitch, but really she’s the best part of me.
We pull down dirt roads and through a copse of trees. They’ve been cut down to let a truck with a trailer through, but other than that it’s like the wilds back here.
“Jesus this is some fuckingDeliveranceshit. Leave it to these country gangsters to put a damn track in the middle of the woods,” she says.
I grunt and drive us through to the other side of the area that’s been cleared out for the trailers. Some of the other jockeys and trainers are unloading their horses, but I sit and wait a moment.
“You have your knife?” I ask, turning toward her.
She scoffs, opens the door, and jumps down from the truck with no answer. I roll my eyes and meet her around the back.
“I’m only making sure we’re prepared,” I say, unlocking the latch and swinging the door wide.
“I’m insulted you thought I wouldn’t have my head in it, Ghost. Give me one instance where I didn’t havemy shit together,” she says, moving the ramp down so I can get Black Caviar to unload.
“Um, how about that time in Maryland? The three gun runners we needed to take out. You didn’t pack the extra ammo. We had to scramble to find a damn clip that fit your gun in their stash.”
I smirk at her face as Caviar walks backward out of the trailer. He snorts and throws his head a bit, but I shut him down with a firm hold, not letting him get away with his terrible behavior. This horse is beautiful, but he’s such a dick.
“Oh my god, that was one fucking time. Like seriously, are you ever going to let that go? We got them eventually, right?” she says, taking out the saddle and her helmet from the bag in the back of the truck.
Most people don’t realize that racing saddles are much smaller and more lightweight compared to an English or Western. I help her tack Caviar while she switches out her boots, tapes her number on her back and clips on her helmet.
“You know I’m not going to. I live for your fuckups,gioia mia,” I purr in her ear, grabbing her ass before pulling away.
She scowls, but I see the fire in her eyes. I want to finish this race and get the hell out of here. Cat is sleeping at a friend’s house, and I want to make Reb scream later.
We walk over to the makeshift starting gate, eyeing up the competition. There’s a lot of people here fromthe local crime rings, but others look like it’s their first time. I scan the crowd looking for anyone who’s out of place. There’s a group of guys hidden behind others, but one guy is tall like me. His hat is pulled down low, so I can’t make out his face, but his build sparks recognition. Seems my teammate wanted to come out and see what the excitement is all about. I need to keep Reb away from him tonight.
Large spotlights highlight the bends in the oval and the hay barrels they use as partitions from the track and the crowd. In the middle of the oval, instead of a rail with fancy landscaping or the manicured gardens of other racetracks, is a wall of…
“Is that fucking corn?” she asks, turning to me. She’s trying to hold in her laugh.
“I mean, we’re not in Louisville anymore. This is probably all they could get together. Cut out a track in the middle of a cornfield,” I chuckle. Is it a poor attempt to make the track pretty or so that no one notices a makeshift track in the middle of nowhere? Either way, we need to race and win tonight so that Stan stays off our asses.
People part as we bring Caviar to the starting line. The other horses here don’t even compare to what Caviar can do. He’s a well-oiled machine compared to toy cars.
“Who the fuck are you?” says a chubby guy wearing overalls and a red baseball cap. Bet you he planted that corn.
He moves, coming to crowd over us, a couple of his buddies walking with him. I could have done without this posturing.
“Graves, riding Black Caviar,” I say, handing the lead to Reb moving in front of her slightly. Caviar snorts and stamps his foot a little.
Huh, maybe he’s not such a dick. I give his neck a scritch.
“A chick? As a jockey? Are you fucking kidding me. She can’t race. This is a man's race,” he says, lifting his cap and putting it back on again.
The crowd hushes a little to see what the commotion is about, but I just smile wide.
“You know who this chick is?” I ask, slowly lifting the back of my shirt from the hem. I feel Reb coming closer to me, her free hand climbing up to the small of my back, right where my SIG is holstered.
