Captive Thirst

2. Carlos

2

CARLOS

I always used my head—with one exception. That particular deviation had to do with the sweet spot to be found between a woman’s legs.

It was one of my great loves, along with horses, winning, and baking.

I scoured the bottom of my copper cookie sheet with a mixture of rock salt and lemon pulp. Since childhood, Nonna taught me special kitchen tricks like this when no one was watching. It all started with me asking her to teach me how she made apple pie.

She whispered in Italian, “First slice the lemon in half. Cup the rind in your palm, now rub. Circles.” Then yelled at me for show, “That’s right, little boys who don’t finish their supper, get to help out in the kitchen.” God forbid my cousins find out Carlos Drago wanted to get his hands dirty in the kitchen.

I laughed at the memory while scrubbing a stubborn spot, and then looked at the golden pasture where Native Prancer spent his free time.

The horse was a beast.

As soon he was for sale, I knew I had to have him. I’d been tracking his sire’s lineage for years, and this colt was stacked up to be a sure bet.

The clock read nine fifteen.

“s**t, no time for lollygagging.” The race started in an hour and I needed to be there with time to spare to check in on Prancer.

Indulging in one last peek out the window, the sight made my chest light and I rolled my shoulders back, chin lifting as if on a corresponding pulley.

This was what it was all about. The blood, the risks… all worth it for the view I’d fashioned on a hill side just above the Pacific, prize horses in the foreground.

I’d kill to protect my family.

Most definitely tonight would be an occasion to celebrate victory, and I’d sink my c**k into some Grade A p***y in honor of the finest colt to ever race on the Briarville track. He was going places far beyond the local derby, and this was as good a place as any to start his winning streak.

Maybe “love” was the wrong word to use to describe how I felt about that feminine sweet spot that could make any woman shiver with ecstasy when properly treated.

I hungered after it.

Chased it like an addiction, same as Prancer pursued that finish line.

I hadn’t done a hit in years.

The last time I got my hands dirty was cleaning up after a little problem for my cousin Dante before he became a made man.

Little problem in the shape of a stalker who came after Dante’s fiancé.

But arriving at the stable, watching a local reporter snatch the back of my jockey’s shirt, it made me remember the exact physical feeling of blood l**t and my trigger finger tensed at the urge to kill him dead.

I reached for the g*n shoved safely in the back of my pants, hidden from view by my blazer. “Get your f*****g hands off him!”

The pushy reporter had his nerve, but he wasn’t completely stupid. Taking a single step away from my rider, he dropped his shirt and spoke in a wavery voice, “So-so-sorry, Mr. Drago. Just trying to ask a few questions before Jorge here mounts up and races. Lots of speculation about Native Prancer and I’d really appreciate the story.”

“You got a funny way of showing your appreciation. More like mutilation if you ask me.” I snarled at him and he took an involuntary step backward.

I grabbed the nervy dude by the back of his shirt to stop his retreat, lifting him in the air using the collar as a handle, and it gave me no small satisfaction to hear him struggle for air. His dock shoes d**g over the cobblestone and I dropped him at the edge of the stable yard. “This area is for riders, trainers, and owners. Get your a*s out and stay out before I kick it so hard your vertebrae pop out of your mouth one by one like a pez dispenser.”

A small shove from me was enough to jump start his momentum as he jogged away from my horse.

The bugle played “First Call” over the loudspeaker, and I cupped my hands below Prancer’s belly, forming a step so that the jockey could mount.

“Remember, don’t give him his head right away. Hold him back until the last furlong.” I said to the rider, and he nodded his head in understanding.

Jorge was a man of fewer words than I, but I didn’t hire him for his conversation. He had a reputation of taking inexperienced colts and turning them into quicksilver. “Damn, Jorge. You need to come over more often to my cousin Lorenzo’s for dinner, you’re not only light as feather, you about flew off to the heavens when I helped you into the saddle.”

I’ll be damned if Jorge’s cheeks didn’t pink-up like a blushing girl. “I’m kidding you. Seriously though, you always make weight, I think you must be ten pounds under this time.

Jorge clucked at the horse and held him to an elegant jog until he was on the track and gate side. My stomach clenched as Prancer stretched his neck towards a competitor, threatening to bite. It was the most aggressive move a horse ever pulled and a display of dominance.

True to form, my jockey used his wimpy assed arms to turn Prancer’s head and take him for a short canter away from the gate. He rode beautiful figure eights, making me forget for a moment that this was a race instead of a dressage competition. Those broom stick arms were deceiving; must be made of carbon steel instead of human flesh.

The black beast flared his nostrils wide, and that son of a b***h had the nerve to rear and paw at the air, literally rearing to go. On cue, the audience began to cheer and whistle their appreciation, and once settled, Jorge led the racehorse at his signature prance back towards his designated spot on the track.

I’ll be damned.

When did Jorge teach my charger to dance like a Lipizzaner? It was too much. The noise from the crowd swelled from the stand like a crashing wave upon the shore, while the attendants below secured each racer into its cage.

“Come on, boy—restraint. No stupid moves and this is all yours.” I whispered under my breath, as if he could hear me.

I caught my jockey’s eye and held his stare. He nodded sharply at me as if to say, “We got this.” I squeezed the railing beneath my hands as Prancer shook his head in the cage, protesting his temporary captivity.

Sure, I could afford to pay premium price for box seating, but I preferred to be track side, smelling the fresh cut grass and sun-warmed dirt, close enough to see the clearly marked finish line and hear the sounds of thundering hooves getting louder as horses came back around the track.

We were one of a kind that horse and I: nobody caged us in, and when they tried, we broke free and ran untamed to escape the devils that chased us.