Captive Thirst

3. Gabriela

3

GABRIELA

To the right, there was a shriek so loud, it nearly broke my pre-race trance but I noted it as I’d been practicing in my online mindfulness course, and let it go. I’d find out later my gate neighbor had his leg crushed against the cage so hard by his horse he’d lag behind at the start, leaving me the perfect opening.

Prancer’s stomping footsteps crunched into the warm dirt of the track as we waited for the starting gates to open. This might not be Church Hill Downs, but every time we entered the track to train, it felt like a helium balloon filled my chest. An intense focus descended over me so that when we took off, all I could see was the spot between his ears.

It was as if that special place existed to pinpoint my sight like a rifle scope, and sling shot us both towards the finish line.

There was no more sound after the starting gate closed behind us.

I knew the other riders murmured at their horses to reassure them, just as I did to Prancer. But only he and I existed in our world between the metal bars, waiting for the only sound we wanted to hear.

The bell.

If I held this heightened attention close enough, he became part of my essence. My boy felt safe. There was no need to spook, or chase off our crowding competitors, not when our priority was the prize pot and there was only one way to get there.

Straight ahead.

Fast as we could go.

The bell rang to signal the start of a race, and the starting gates clanged open.

Prancer’s body coiled beneath me and sprang ahead on the track. I balled my hands into tight fists, watching the space between his pricked-up ears, holding him back from taking the lead.

Teasing him.

His enormous heart beat its excitement hard enough so I could feel it pounding on the surface of his sweat slicked neck, and I collected his reins. “Not long now, boy. Hold back just a minute.”

I bent over him, taking in the smell of horse sweat that hovered above his mane.

Racing wasn’t a fair fight. It could be cruel. There were so many factors that could go wrong. Exactly the reason I had to hide my passion from my mom and dad. They’d lose it if they knew their precious princess was involved in a sport more dangerous than motorcycling, skiing, football, and rugby.

The sun beat down hard enough so that sweat trickled down my back and I hoped to God the binding held but didn’t have time to worry about that now.

“Easy…” I muttered under my breath, comforting myself more than Prancer.

On the back stretch I realized that I was holding my breath and exhaled my tension in a deep sigh no one but me and my horse could hear. We were all that existed in this moment, drawing breath in a world without place or time, encased in a tunnel which I knew would force shoot us out at the finish line before every other racer on the track.

It’s a certain feeling, a knowing.

Ahead of us there remained only one horse, Early Morning Victory, flung dirt at us from her galloping hooves which stuck to my goggles like bird turds, partially blocking my view.

And that’s when I let up on the reins.

The Briarville Derby was held on a Bull Ring, a small track where the oval is less than one mile and, thus, had turns tighter than a hair in a biscuit.

Prancer didn’t mind.

He’d cut his racing teeth on this track and once I loosened up my grip and let him run without restraint, he hugged the rail and shot forward ahead of the filly who was today’s favorite to win.

I scrubbed his neck, urging him faster, and leaned forward giving it all I had so that we sprinted past the finish line. It was a close call with the filly but we blasted past her and Prancer won it by at least a length.

Standing tall in the saddle, my thighs ached in a good way from straining and holding myself up during the charge towards the finish line, and I shot my fist in the air. The grandstand responded with a burst of cheering and my hands tingled, warmth radiating through my insides like sunshine.

I slowed my mount to a slow canter, and we rounded the track to the finish line again, trotting up to the winner’s circle.

What would it feel like to claim this win as my own? To have my entire hometown know that Gabriela Serrano was a winner.

Prancer and I were bound for glory.

Nevermind my dad and his plans to get my uterus planted with heirs ASAP.

A screaming crowd of hundreds he could handle, no problem. But the unexpected thwup of a champagne cork made him snort his apprehension and toss his massive head. As if this bottle of bubbly was the predator that was going to kill him.

Horses were logical in their own right. But it was dangerous to count on reliability from an animal whose best defense mechanism was to run.

Doing so could be deadly.

No matter how experienced the rider, he or she was only one bad fall from being, injured, paralyzed, or killed.

“You’re okay, boy.” I whispered, petting his velvet nose while the local press snapped pics of the black colt, his shiny, arched neck shrouded with an arc of roses.

For some reason, he’d decided I was his person. He trusted me.

“Give us a thumbs up, Diaz!” One reporter shouted as our groom shook the champagne beneath his palm, releasing the opening to spew a rainbow of golden liquid over my head.

I started at the heavy paw that landed on my right shoulder. “That’s enough pictures for now,” growled the voice behind me, “My horse and my jockey need to clean up.”

Looking down, my turquoise, satin shirt and white jodhpurs were splotched with dirt, but I wasn’t ready to retire from the winner’s circle just yet. I longed to bask a bit longer in the euphoria of my first real win.

Before I could protest, the same baritone voice lowered, and its breath stroked my earlobe speaking in a gravely whisper which tickled cold fingers up my spine, “Funny. You don’t smell like a Jorge.”

As the huge paw at my back guided me along the route back to the stables, I looked around for a place to run and hide. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to recognize the fact that I’d managed to piss off a prominent member of a local group of violent criminals.

Prancer’s owner had a nasty reputation for being a cruel man.

I could hear my father now, “What did you expect? Chasing after a career funded by gambling, laden with organized crime? What were you thinking, mija?” He only spoke inside my head, still my throat bobbed, and my hands clutched at my stomach in a futile attempt to stop the rolling pin inside that was doing its best to flatten out the dough in my stomach.

Maybe Drago would give it up and let me go. Perhaps he’d understand that I had to deceive him in order to ride.

After all, I won for him, didn’t I?

Dragging my feet, I tried to slow down his forced march to the stable, but his hand steadily bulldozed me forward.

He was so strong.

Shut up, you hussy.

I chastised myself for letting my ovaries override my survival instinct.

My reproductive organs ignored me completely. Drago shoved me into his office, backing me up against the wall, one huge hand on either side of my head. Continuing to walk all over my sensible self, my inner floozy rebelled by noting every one of his sizable attributes.

Sweet mother Mary, he’s breathtaking.

His features were carved in stone, bar one slight exception. The rippling spot above his jaw proved that in spite of his outwardly level-headed demeaner, this menacing man was breathing fire.

I raised my chin to meet his eyes and found they were mirror images of mine, hazel with gold flecks. Averting my gaze, I caught the rippling forearm to my right, and a silken tendril of warmth unfurled itself low in my belly, sending a web of desire outward to swallow up my whole body.

Unable to help myself, I started when he cleared his throat above me. “Let’s start with your real name, shall we? Or are you going to be tedious and lie to me so that I have to pull those panties off and prove you’re a female?”