Page 24 of A False Start
The minute my hands touch the puffy area, I can feel the heat radiating from it.Poor boy.
“Have you been cold hosing this? Or icing?”
He sucks on his cigarette. “No.”
I stand and brush my hands off on my scrubs as I come back to the front of the horse. “Dr. Thorne wanted us to video call her so she can watch him move. Then I’ll take some X-rays, and she’ll follow up with you.”
“I’m not spending that kind of money on this horse. Racing career is about over. Made some good money. I’ll ship him if that’s the case.”
My brow furrows. “Ship him?”
“Auction. Meat. Lawn ornament. Makes no difference to me.”
Angry tears spring up in my eyes as my gaze travels over the beautiful horse’s seal-brown coat, highlighted with dapples across his haunches. Blinking rapidly to maintain my composure, I run a palm over his velvety nose, the long white snip that covers it.
His eyes flutter shut at the tenderness of my touch and my heart twists. “This could be something very minor. We could investigate further before you take such a drastic measure.”
The man throws his head back and laughs. It’s raspy, and he sounds out of breath. Hopefully, his cigarettes will take him out.
It’s a cruel thought. But my mind is a cruel place some days. I should feel bad about it, but after all the shit I’ve seen assholes like this do—I don’t.
My molars grind against each other as I struggle to maintain some professional composure. Two years ago, I’d have gone off on this guy. My temper would have taken over and made me say things I shouldn’t. Obviously, I still think them, though, and if thoughts could kill a person, this guy would be toast.
“Oh, little girl, you’ve got some things to learn about this business.” He steps toward me as his eyes rake over my body hungrily. It makes my skin crawl. And then he props a nicotine-stained hand on my shoulder. “I could teach them to you sometime if you w—”
“Hands off if you plan on keeping them.” Griffin’s voice rumbles from behind me. Right now, it’s gritty in a whole different way, almost like it’s rusty from years of not being used. But still velvety, still full and warm. He’s standing much closer than he was mere moments ago.
The man just smirks. He drops his hand but doesn’t peel his gaze from my tits.
I hear two thumps of Griffin’s boots and then his hand is wrapping softly around my elbow, pulling me behind the shield of his broad body as he hisses out, “Eyes up here, asshole.”
I want to be angry with Griffin for intervening when he promised he wouldn’t. He was supposed to stand there and look grumpy. But now, with his body providing a wall of protective muscle between myself and the man with the greasy hair and wandering eyes, I sigh in relief.
I want so badly to be capable, and brave, and self-assured. But the fact of the matter is, deep down, men like thisscareme. Men like my father, ones with anger that simmers just barely concealed beneath the surface. Ones that know there are infrequently consequences for their actions.
If I let my mind wander down that path I would realize that, on a subconscious level, men scare me in general.
Talk about daddy issues.
“Easy, Cowboy.” The man cackles, amused and not deterred. “Just letting blondie here know the realities of life. Racehorses come and go. The bottom line is what I’m focused on.”
I watch Griffin’s body go tense before me. A vein in the side of his neck throbs and his fingers curl in on themselves.
He usually seems so unaffected, but right now, he looks like he’s ready to explode. Without even thinking, I reach one trembling hand forward and trail it down the center of his lower back. I watch the gray fabric of his T-shirt fold beneath my touch and Griffin’s body goes still.
An ache crawls up my arm at the contact, burrowing itself at the inner part of my elbow. With a small gasp, I pull back, rotating my wrist to soothe the sparks. But Griffin is still staring the other man down, so I hook two fingers into the side loop of his jeans and give a sharp tug back.
His head flicks to the side, his eyes finding mine over the crest of his shoulder. Eyes that were amused earlier today but are pure chaos right now.
“Don’t do something stupid,” I whisper, imploring him to take it down a notch. On one hand, having someone come to my defense is a new experience. On the other, the glint of violence in his eyes scares me a little bit. “Please.” I tug again.
He blinks in response. Which I subconsciously add to his range of non-verbal reactions.
“We’ll let Dr. Thorne know,” he bites out before turning around and shepherding me down the row of stalls. His calloused hand falls at the back of my neck, giving me a comforting squeeze, but he doesn’t give up his position behind me, blocking the greasy owner from seeing me at all as we retreat.
I don’t know if it’s the adrenaline, someone swooping in to protect me, or the fact that poor horse is going to be sold for meat after giving all his best racing years to an asshole, but the tears I held back start to flow, silently trailing down my face and dripping off the apples of my cheeks.
When we hit the sun outside, I hustle away from Griffin toward the Gold Rush Ranch truck that’s parked at the end of the alleyway. My escape vehicle. It’s like my feet can’t get me there fast enough. But when my hand wraps around the handle, I stop. My opposite palm lands against the glass of the window and I drop my head, trying to gather my composure before I have to spend another hour and a half in the small space with Griffin.
