Titans (13 page)

My friend and I spill into the smaller, more dimly lit room. A jazz band plays on a stage, and a few circular tables dot the outskirts of a parquet dance floor. A white light shines an illuminated
GB
over a jockey’s shoulders as she dances with her partner.

“Does that GB stand for Goat Bagels?” Magnolia asked.

“Sounds reasonable,” I say. “Or maybe Gigabytes?”

“Ghost Bashers?”

“Green Berets?”

“It stands for Gambini Brothers,” someone new says.

I turn toward the sound of the voice, and groan when I see the blond dude who won the sponsor race. “Yeah, we know. We were joking around. You do know what a joke is, don’t you?”

Magnolia stabs a finger into his chest. “It’s you.
You’re
a joke.”

The boy’s jaw tightens, but he manages to keep whatever insult he has between his teeth. Instead, he asks, “Would you like to dance?”

“With you?” I laugh. “You must be kidding. Don’t you remember who I am? I’m the poor, jealous girl who’d never sit in a Titan saddle.”

“I remember you.”

“Then you’ll understand why I’d rather give you the middle finger than this dance.”

The jockey looks past me at something, and I follow his gaze. Two cameramen stand near the corner of the room, media badges hanging from their necks like feed bags. I know instantly who they are. Not journalists. Not real ones, anyway. They’re from the
Titan Enquirer
, an online newspaper that runs petty gossip from the tracks every summer.

“You’re trying to get their attention,” I say.

Surprisingly, he doesn’t deny it. “I won the race, and you’re the girl who caused a buzz. It’d do us good to be seen together.”

“Oh, yeah, why’s that?” Magnolia bobs her head so hard that I almost lose the angry look I’m sporting.

“More coverage means more eyeballs. More eyeballs means more money from the sponsors.”

He’s talking about endorsement contracts that extend past the summer. Sometimes, rarely, jockeys who lose the Titan Derby will still make a living outside the races if enough people remember them. They turn into a reality star of sorts for a year or two before fading to black. But the money is good during that time. It’s not something I want to be known for—scandal—but what are the chances of me winning the derby even if I acquire a sponsor?

Money is money. And family is family.

“You think they’ll care that we’re dancing?” I ask, disgusted that I’m even considering this.

“Only one way to find out.” He takes my hand, and without asking permission, he tows me toward the dance floor.

“Uh, hello?” I snarl. “I didn’t say okay.”

“Close enough.”

When I realize he’s not going to release me, I look back at Magnolia. Barney is standing beside her, and she’s waving her arms in my direction. Barney looks up with understanding, and starts to move his massive frame toward Overly Aggressive Guy. I almost smile—realizing this cocky jockey is about to get what’s coming to him—when I spot the two cameramen slinking toward us, long black camera-snouts clicking photographs as the jockey wraps his arm around my waist.

With my mind racing, I hold up a hand to stop Barney and mouth,
It’s okay
. I allow the jockey to spin me around the floor, and laugh for the camera any time my face is in their view. And when he dips me low, I allow my weight to be entirely supported by his arms without puking.

“You’re from Warren County, right?” he says between the first song ending and the second beginning.

“Yeah,” I say. “Guess that’s more important than my name.”

“I know your name, Astrid Sullivan, but you may not know mine.” He releases my waist and offers me his hand. “Hart Riley II.”

I laugh, because it seems unlikely that this dude, who surely has no soul, is named Hart. “Nice name. Fits your pedigree, I’m sure.”

He retakes my waist and does an impressive spin for the cameras. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. It’s just that … why is it always the rich who can’t let go of their names? It’s like fathers with fat bank accounts feel entitled to make seconds and thirds of themselves instead of letting their children be their own people.”

“You’ve got me all wrong.”

I stiffen in his arms. “Tell me what county it is you live in again?”

His green eyes flash, and I know I’ve got him. I smirk at the sight of his downturned mouth. He may be from the esteemed Preston Park County, or maybe Highland Village, where only gentlemen are raised, but I see the rebelliousness behind his gaze.

Someone on stage announces his name, Hart Riley, and says it’s time for him to report to the interview suites. Before he releases me, he leans forward and says, “You and I will never be more than competitors, no matter what happens. But if you’d open your eyes, you’d see we have a lot more in common than you think.”

He leans forward, swiftly kisses me on the cheek, and pulls away before I have time to knee him between the legs. The cameramen catch his golden-boy smile and the way he clutches my hand before walking away.

I wonder if they see the way my nails dig into his skin.

Several more names are called before I finally hear my own. No one else has asked me to dance, but Magnolia upholds her vow to break every heart in the room. In reality, I think she’s enjoying herself, and the male jockeys certainly relish having a pretty girl in their arms who isn’t competing with them for sponsorship.

I hear
Sulliban
announced over the speakers, and Rags makes his way to my side. “Are you ready?”

After ensuring that Magnolia is still smiling, and that Barney hasn’t gotten kicked out from stuffing mini quiches into his pockets, I nod.

The two of us pass through a side door and into a brightly lit hallway. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust, and for my mind to switch from soothing music and jovial faces to white, sterile linoleum and office space.

Rags walks ahead of me by one pace, and I’m not sure I mind. I don’t want to be the first to see that all three rooms are empty. He steps up to an open doorway and cranes his neck. Then he looks at me and gives his head a little shake. Once again, we’re on the move, and I’m learning just how quickly Rags and his long legs
can
move. It makes me think of those gas station scratch-off cards. How some people scratch them real slow-like, savoring the thought that they might win. And other people scratch as if their life depends on it, like if they take too long any possible win will slip off their lotto card and find residence elsewhere.

Rags would definitely be in the latter category.

When he gives me a second grimace after finding the next room empty, I cringe. Only one room remains, and there’s only one man I figure could possibly be in it. I hold my breath, hoping Rags will smile and shake hands with a guy who has a shaved head and sad eyes that’ll make me very happy.

But Rags doesn’t shake hands with anyone. In fact, when he looks inside the last room, he freezes in place and his face loses what little color it normally holds. He shakes his head like a defiant child and mutters, “Nuh-uh. No way.”

“Rusty, just hear me out,” a woman’s voice says.

“Nope,” Rags says before grabbing my arm and turning tail.

We’re halfway down the hall, me yelling about too much manhandling in one night, when the woman steps out of the room.

“I have the money for her entrance fee and anything else she needs.”

“Don’t care,” Rags says.

I rip my arm away from him and stop my forward hurtle. Has he forgotten why we’re here? “W-wait,” I stutter. “You want to sponsor me?”

The woman responds to me, but her eyes don’t leave Rags. “I do.”

Rags throws his arms up and takes two steps in the woman’s direction. “Why’re you doing this, Lottie? You trying to hurt me? Because I’ll tell you right now that won’t happen. I can’t be hurt by someone who means nuthin’.”

The woman, Lottie, clutches a brown bag decorated with gold LVs. I know that particular purse brand, Louis something-or-other, but only because Magnolia has schooled me in All Fashionable Items We Can Never Afford But Should Be Worshipped Anyway.

The lady has long, dark hair worn loose over her shoulders, and one of the largest mouths I’ve ever seen. She’s curvy in the way that turns men’s heads, and is dressed in a tailored hot-pink suit. Her makeup is flawless, no doubt bought at department stores with shiny counters and saleswomen in black blazers, versus the drugstore, where Mom picks up Maybelline mascara twice a year. From her polished heels to her gaudy earrings, this woman screams Grosse Pointe. But that part of Detroit is reserved for old-money types. And something about the way Lottie fidgets as she looks at Rags tells me her Louis Something purse hasn’t always been so heavy.

I glance back and forth between Rags and Lottie, and think about the name she used for my manager.

“You two know each other, I take it?” I say, interrupting their stare-off.

“I don’t know this woman.” Rags’s hands form tight fists. “Never have.”

“Yeaaah, that seems unlikely. Look, why don’t we all go into that room and sit down for a few. If you didn’t notice,
Rusty
, we don’t have any other interested parties. And may I remind you we were fairly confident there wouldn’t even be
one
to speak of.”

Rags points at Lottie. “I won’t be in cahoots with the likes of you. I’d rather give up now.”

I put my hands on his old man chest and shove lightly. “Okay, that’s great. But here in the real world, I need a sponsor. So if you don’t like this person for whatever reason, then take a walk and let me speak with her.”

Rags finally looks at me. “You’ll botch the negotiations.”

“Negotiations?” I laugh once and lower my voice. “Rags, there’s
no one else
. I’m going to take what I can get.”

The woman chances moving a few steps closer. “It’s
his
money I’ll be spending, Rusty. And I won’t be shy about using it.”

Rags glares at the woman for several more beats, and then turns and marches away. Right before he disappears, he turns back and yells, “I don’t like this. I don’t!” Then he glances around like he just realized how ridiculous that sounded, and lets himself out through the doorway.

Lottie waves an arm toward the room, and I head inside and take a seat, my hands beginning to sweat. As strange as this feels, I can’t help growing excited. Is there really a chance I’ll race again? Does this woman really have the fifty thousand we need?

And if so, what will she expect in return?

Lottie folds her skirt beneath her and sits across from me in the interview room. “You’re probably wondering how I know Rusty.”

“Rags?”

She smiles. It’s a nice smile. Makes me want to touch her mouth, which I realize isn’t healthy. “That’s right. He got that nickname from the engineers, didn’t he? Rusty was quite ambitious when it came to the Titans. He wanted to know everything and do everything.” Lottie’s smile dims. “He sacrificed a lot in order to spend so much time with those horses.”

I study Lottie’s face. Her eyes seem sad like the bald-headed man’s, but for a different reason. It’s obvious Lottie and Rags have history. The question is what kind, and what happened in the end. Out of curiosity, I glance at her left hand. No ring.

Lottie produces a stack of papers. “I met Rusty at Hanover Steel seven years ago. I thought he was brilliant then, and I still do. And I saw the way you raced on Sunday night. You’re a natural. A little reckless, perhaps, but a true jockey.”

My chest expands. If she’s trying to bait me with praise, she’s doing a solid job.

“Here’s what I’m offering, Astrid. I’ll pay the entrance fee and any expenses you may incur along the way, including riding equipment and maintenance for the horse. In exchange, you’ll attend any and all practices your manager sets, and you’ll follow my lead when it comes to your public persona.”

I squint at her. “What do you mean,
my public persona
?”

Lottie folds her hands. “I want you to accurately represent the county you live in. So, no pretending you’re something you’re not, or wearing designer clothing to jockey social events. That sort of thing.”

I grin. “So I can keep my jeans and tennis shoes?”

“Not exactly. I want you to be relatable to the working class in the greater Detroit area, but I also want you to be someone they aspire to emulate. A role model. Not a pipe dream.”

Once again, I think about the magazines squashed between my mattress and bedsprings. My dirty little secret. She doesn’t want me to be like the models inside. She wants me to be real, but better. An improved version of Astrid Sullivan that Warren County citizens and others like them can look up to. I like the idea. I wish I’d had that when I was younger. I wish Zara had it now. But how can I be that person?

“What if I can’t be what you want me to be?” I mumble.

Lottie takes a ballpoint pen from her purse and slides it across the table. The pen cap has been chewed to bits, making it less intimidating somehow. “All I’m asking is that you try. Follow my lead off the track, and Rags’s lead
on
the track, and together we might have a shot.”

I take the mangled pen. “What about Barney? He’s been helping us. And my friend, Magnolia? I want them to stay involved.”

Lottie laughs lightly. “That’s fine. What else?”

I swallow and lean back in the chair, avoiding her gaze. “How much will I get if we win? If you’re paying for the sponsorship fee, then you’ll want a cut of the winnings. How much will be left to me and my team?”

“I’ll take back whatever we need to cover the fees and expenses, let’s say seventy thousand, and then an additional two hundred thousand to cover the risks of putting my money on the line. That’s two hundred and seventy thousand to me, an almost three hundred percent return. More than enough.” Lottie nods to the paperwork. “The remainder would be split between you and Rusty. If my expense estimates are accurate, that’d leave you with eight hundred and sixty-five thousand dollars each.”

It’s more money than I’ve ever dreamed of holding in my hands. That kind of cash would pay off our house, and Magnolia’s family’s house too. Maybe I could even invest a portion into Magnolia’s secret online store. She deserves that, and so much more.

“What about after the races end?” I ask, thinking back to the photos Hart and I supplied to the
Titan Enquirer
cameramen. “Will I be free to sign an endorsement deal if a company wanted me after the summer is over?”

Lottie opens her palms. “What happens after the summer isn’t my business. I only want to be a part of you winning.”

I chance a smile. “I want to be a part of that too.” Studying Lottie under the fluorescent lighting, I know she wants more than what she lets on; most likely something to do with Rags. But she already changed the subject once when I asked. My concern is continuing the Titan season, and this woman is offering me a way to do that. So I read the paperwork quickly, breezing over parts because she’s watching as I read and I’m afraid she’ll change her mind if I take too long.

Then I take the pen and sign my name at the bottom of each page. After she does the same, she offers me her hand. We shake and grin at each other like two love-struck morons.

“I’ll meet you at Barney’s place this Friday after the race schedule is announced.”

“You know where he lives?” I ask, fishing for information.

She shrugs her purse onto her shoulder. “I’m familiar.”

Rags is waiting for me outside the interview hallway. He sees the papers in my hand, and looks at me expectantly. I nod to tell him what he wants to know. My manager curses loudly, but I don’t miss the excitement flash across his face.

“We’ve got ourselves a sponsor,” I say. “No cost to us. And no company to report to.”

He presses his lips together. “It’ll cost me.”

I want to know what he means, but I’m too astounded that this is really happening, and I don’t want to ruin the moment. So instead, I find my best friend and we dance for hours, celebrating, before Rags and Barney insist it’s time to leave.

I fight the twosome initially, but after grabbing another two truffles, I relent, my mouth full of chocolate. After taking a few steps toward the exit, I overhear Theo Gambini listening to his younger brother talking passionately about salt mines, of all things. Theo stops listening and looks at me, tilting his head to one side as if he’s studying an alien species. Maybe it’s the buzz from securing a sponsor, but I find the courage to lift my hand and wave.

Theo hesitates. Then he raises a single finger in acknowledgment and the hint of a smile touches his mouth. It’s gone the moment his younger brother sees who he’s looking at. Arvin’s brow furrows and he runs his tongue across his teeth like he’s imagining the taste of my overcooked, ill-flavored flesh.

Arvin glares at me long enough for my stomach to turn. I didn’t think anything could rupture the mountain of hopefulness I’d constructed in my mind. But I know what Arvin is thinking when he looks at me that way—
trash
. Unworthy trash that could reflect poorly on his precious, prestigious circuit. He may promote his races to the working class, but I can’t overlook the gate that separates his expensive track and gleaming horses and privileged riders from those who are less than.

When Magnolia pulls me away, I have a healthy supply of dread coursing through my body.

The feeling is nothing compared to what awaits me at home.