Chapter 17 #2
We arrive in style, it’s what everyone expects, our vintage Rolls-Royces pulling up outside the entrance.
Staff, in suits, rush out to open the door, and I step out, turning back to hold my hand out for Dove.
The boys exit their car—I made them get the second car as I wanted our Dove all to myself for the ride over.
Suffice to say, she looks even more disheveled, her eyes still have the desperation of someone who’s on the edge of pleasure and has been denied a climax.
She may have ruined us, but I’m still a bastard and not above teasing her in retaliation.
She shies away when the flashes of the cameras blind us, but I keep a tight grip on her hand, pulling her into my side as the others come and stand either side of us, giving the vultures what they want.
“Who’s the beauty, Aeron?” one shouts, and I just give my signature glare in the direction the voice came from.
“Is she your new plaything?” another voice yells, and Knox growls as Jude throws his head back and laughs.
“She’s a beautiful toy, isn’t she?” he asks the crowd, grabbing her hand and stepping forward, making her twirl for the cameras. Her posture relaxes at his antics, and when he pulls her into his side, I see him whisper something into her ear which leaves her blushing and smiling coyly.
“How’s your father, Jude? Still in Dubai?”
“Yes, and having the time of his life finding some more race winners,” Jude replies, his smile wide as he keeps our bird pressed to his side. “Speaking of, as lovely as it is chatting to you all, we must be off, otherwise, we’ll miss all the action.”
And just like that, he has them eating out of the palm of his hand as we walk through the tall glass doors into the reception foyer.
I hear Dove’s gasp as she takes in the floor-to-ceiling glass windows and the swathes of pink and white flowers and silk that decorate the vast space.
It’s busy, but not packed, full of the rich and elite, owners of the horses that are running today.
The ladies sparkle, dripping with jewels, long-flowing dresses that cost thousands covering their surgically-enhanced bodies.
The men are all in top hats and tails, thousand-dollar suits, and gold watches showcasing their wealth. Fucking sheep, the lot of them.
The manager of this venue, dressed to the nines in gray tails and a top hat, strides towards us, his face split into a wide grin.
“Boys!” he greets in a deep, booming voice, and I can’t help the grin that tugs my lips upwards.
“Uncle Rick,” I say, the breath whooshing out of me as he wraps me up in a bear hug.
“I swear you get taller every time I see you!” I roll my eyes at him as he releases me with a couple of slaps on the back.
“I stopped growing about ten years ago, Rick.”
“How old are you?” Lark’s shocked voice interrupts us, and I turn slightly to face her.
“Thirty-two, sweet Dove,” I reply, holding her gaze as her eyes widen.
“That makes you ten years older than me, you fucking pervert!”
Rick’s roaring laughter echoes around the space, people stopping their conversations to turn and stare at us. Lark’s cheeks redden again, but I’m used to the attention.
“I like this one! She’s got some gumption!
” He closes the gap between them, holding out his hand for her to take.
Without hesitation, she slips her much smaller hand into his palm, and he surprises me by bringing it to his lips and placing a kiss on her knuckles. “Rick Taylor, miss. At your disposal.”
“Lark Jackson.”
A breath whistles out between his teeth, but he doesn’t let go of her hand. Nor does he try to hurt her, which is lucky for him as, family or not, we wouldn’t let him lay a finger on our bird.
“You boys like playing with fire, huh? Fucking miscreants.” He chuckles before releasing her hand to give Jude a hug, then shakes Knox’s and Tarl’s hands. “Come, let me show you to your box.”
“The jockeys first, Rick,” I tell him, and he gives a knowing nod, switching direction and taking us towards a door marked as ‘Staff Only.’
I greet people along the way, walking next to Rick who does the same.
They all give Dove curious glances, but only the tightening of her hand in the crook of my arm lets me know that she’s uncomfortable.
Her face is serene, fucking beautiful in the room's light, and I see more than one envious stare from the women. The men all look at her with desire in their eyes, and I’m man enough not to get pissed, but feel a sense of pride at the fact that I own this beautiful creature that others covet.
Passing through the door, we enter the back part of the setup, walking down a long corridor that takes us out towards the riders’ area and stables.
The sound of men jibing each other reaches my ears as we get closer to the breakout room, a place for the jockeys to relax before a race and for them and their saddles to get weighed to ensure a fair race.
Well, as fair as any fixed race can be. Afterwards, they’re expected to mingle with the crowd and to fuck the wives of the rich men that have placed exorbitant bets and are drowning their sorrows in Laurent Perrier.
“Stand lively!” Rick shouts as he throws open the door and the rush of bodies getting up to do his bidding has my lips twitching upwards.
I cast my eye over the brightly-colored small men, it always surprises me how tiny some of them are; one of the few sports where smaller is better. They’re all standing to attention, giving me a respectful nod as I catch their eye. They know who runs this show.
“Morning, boys,” I say, and I can see the quirk of several lips as many of them are approaching retirement—mid-thirties for a jump jockey—thus making them older than me. I’m an asshole and like to remind people of their place. “I take it you’ve got all you need for today?”
There’s a chorus of ‘yes, Mr. Taylor’ and ‘yes, sir’. I see my little Dove’s lips twist, and turn my gaze on her, narrowing my eyes when she blinks up innocently at me.
“Something to say, Dove?”
“No, sir,” she replies in a husky whisper that has blood rushing south to my dick. By the way that she smiles at me, she knows the effect she has when she calls me sir. No worry, I’ll be punishing her for her teasing soon enough.
Giving her a wink that has her smile faltering, I turn back to the men and call one of them over.
“Good luck today, O'Sullivan,” I say, placing my hand on his shoulder and bringing him closer. “Unfortunately, Bluebonnet is feeling peaky, so you’ll have to pull back on the last furlow.”
“Understood, Mr. Taylor,” the jockey replies, a serious look in his eyes.
“I hear that your eldest just got a place at Harvard Law, congratulations. The dean himself told me only yesterday that he was looking forward to welcoming such a promising young man.”
“T–thank you, Mr. Taylor, we hadn’t heard anything yet,” O’Sullivan stutters, his eyes widening as his cheeks flush.
“The dean is here today, I’m sure he’ll want to give you the acceptance letter in person after the race,” I tell him, making sure he understands the offer is conditional.
“Understood, sir, thank you.” He gives another nod, not flinching when I slap him on the back.
“Take a few bottles of champagne home to celebrate,” I tell him before releasing my hold and letting him return to the others.
“What was that all about?”
I look down to see Dove’s stare on me, her auburn brows slanted in a frown.
“Hm?” I ask, knowing full well what she’s asking about.
“That. The telling him to pull back, and then the whole thing with Harvard?”
“It’s how we clean the money, Nightingale,” Jude interjects, coming up behind her and wrapping his arms around her. I find I like the way she sinks into him with no hesitation, relaxing in his hold. I roll my eyes at him, but figure that we’re not letting her go so where is the harm?
“Clean the money?”
“We place huge bets on the horse with the best odds, most likely to win. Sometimes it does, but sometimes it doesn’t,” Tarl says from next to us, and she looks to the side at him.
“Why would you want it to lose?”
“Bookies keep the bets, Little Bird,” Knox adds, and her head swivels to look at him, Jude still hanging around her.
“And…you own the bookies…” she trails off, her eyes going wide as realization hits. “So either way, you clean your money and make some money. No wonder you’re so fucking rich.”
I laugh.
“It’s not the only way we make money, but yes, it can be a very lucrative venture,” I tell her, holding out my hand for her to take again. She places her smaller hand in mine, and electricity runs up my spine at the contact. She really is the Tailors’ Ruin.
“How else do you make your money?” she asks as she steps away from Jude, and I indicate to Rick that we’re ready to go.
“If I told you, then I’d have to kill you.”
Her brows shoot up into her hairline at my words.
“Holy shit, Aeron! Did you just make a joke?!” she teases, and I give her a blank look, my left eyebrow arching, but can’t stop the way my lips try to copy her smile.
“Hell has been known to freeze over occasionally, Nightingale,” Jude says, and I switch my glare to him. Like the fucker he is, he just laughs and skips ahead.
She groans when we reach the base of a staircase, the one that leads to our owner’s box.
“Fucking seriously? In these shoes?”
I don’t have time to make a smart remark as no sooner are the words out of her mouth than Knox sweeps her up into his arms. She shrieks, the sound turning into a giggle that has us all straightening up, even Rick.
“She’s a rare one, that’s for sure,” he comments when we follow her peals of laughter as Knox jogs up the stairs. “Where has old Rufus Jackson been hiding her?”
The mention of Lark’s father’s name has my teeth grinding, remembering exactly how he’s been treating his daughter for the past ten years, and then an evil smirk tilts my lips upwards.
“Are our guests all settled?”
“In the box next to yours as you requested,” Rick replies, a dark eyebrow lifted in curiosity, but he doesn’t question me further, keeping his thoughts to himself as we walk through the doors into the Tailor box.
Dove is no longer in Knox’s arms. Instead, she’s standing frozen as she gazes out of the window towards the balcony next to ours.
“D–dad?”