Show Me (Thomas Prescott 4) by Nick Pirog (best ereader for textbooks .TXT) 📗

Page,” I said, though I was nearly certain this was she.

Her brown eyes directed me to the entrance, and she said, “Give me a minute.”

I nodded and exited.

A minute later, the two men led Dwayne Johnson from the stable with a post-coital twinkle in his large amber eyes. His now flaccid dong hung like the world’s largest piece of strawberry taffy. He glared at me and snorted.

I’d never felt so emasculated.

The two men gave a quick howdy, then led Dwayne to one of the horse trailers. They drove away, and Victoria Page walked from the stable. She had a noticeable limp, dragging her left foot slightly.

“First time you see two horses going at it?” she asked.

“What makes you think that?”

“Just the look on your face back in there, like you saw a ghost.”

“I expected a bit more foreplay.”

She laughed.

I said, “That guy horse was enormous.”

“That’s Diamond. He won the Futurity two years ago.”

“Futurity?”

“The All-American Futurity. Race down in New Mexico.”

“He’s a racehorse?”

“One of the best.”

“He run in the Kentucky Derby?”

She shook her head. “Those are thoroughbreds.” She looked toward the horses across the way. “These are quarter horses. Different breed. They run shorter distances.”

“Got it.”

I thought back to Dwayne/Diamond. “Does that big guy still race?”

“He’s retired. Now he just does what you saw.”

“Goes around screwing.”

“Pretty much.”

“So he’s a gigolo?”

“Basically.”

“How much do his services cost?”

“You wouldn’t believe it if I told you.”

“Try me.”

“What you just saw cost a hundred grand.”

“That’s some expensive semen.”

“Yes.”

“How long have you been doing this?”

“My dad passed away about fifteen years ago and left me some money. That’s when I bought my first horse. Been doing it ever since.”

She took a long inhale, then said, “But I’m guessing you aren’t here to buy one of my horses.”

I shook my head.

“Then why are you here?”

I told her.

Victoria Page handed me a glass of water and then took a seat on a chair opposite the couch I was sitting on.

I declined her offer for something stronger, but this didn’t stop her from pouring herself a martini with two blue cheese olives shipwrecked at the bottom of the glass.

We were in a sitting room. There were two giant windows, with satin curtains glowing in the afternoon sun. Hanging on the walls were a series of watercolors, beautiful landscape paintings filled with horses. On the far side of the room was a glass display case filled with a collection of trophies and ribbons.

Victoria took a small sip of her martini, set it down, and said, “I can’t believe it’s been four years.”

“Does it seem longer?”

She’d taken off her hat and she ran her fingers through her shoulder length hair, which on closer examination was dyed a near scarlet.

“It’s funny,” she said. “It seems like it happened a lifetime ago, but it also feels like it was yesterday.”

I nodded. I could relate.

She could sense it in my eyes and asked, “What happened to you?”

“Which time?”

Her eyebrows raised slightly.

I explained, “I’m a magnet for mayhem.”

This earned a small smile.

She seemed reluctant to talk, and I decided to regale her with a couple stories, which should give the vodka time to loosen her up.

Truthfully, of all the crazy stuff that had happened to me—being shot, falling off a cliff, drowning, being held hostage by South African pirates, going to third base with Becky “Valtrex” Del Vicio—by far, the most traumatic was being attacked by a pack of wolves.

According to my therapist—my sister Lacy—this wasn’t just because I nearly bled to death in the middle of the forest or because I had to get more than a hundred stitches or because I still couldn’t throw a frisbee very well, it was because the trauma was planted years earlier when I was a child.

Young Thomas Prescott was nine years old when he went on a field trip to the zoo. He thought the exhibit was full of dogs and he wanted to pet those dogs. So Thomas climbed the fence and squirmed his way up the ravine and he went to pet the dog. Which was a fucking wolf.

The wolf was shot by zoo security, and I escaped with only a few stitches. But I did wet my bed for the next five years.

But back to the present.

“There was this big black one,” I told Victoria. “His name was Cartman.”

“Cartman?”

“Yeah, like from South Park.”

“What is that?”

“It’s a show. One of the park rangers helping with the wolves’ release named him. But it kind of fit. You could just feel him plotting behind his eyes, figuring out a way to eat you.”

I ran through the rest of the story. The snowmobile. Only room for Erica. Hearing the wolves howl. Seeing them coming. Running through the open snow to the trees. Trying to climb one but unable to find footing. Then the first wolf leaping. Smashing into me, his jaw clamping on my shoulder. Fighting for my life.

I leaned back on the couch and took a few long, deep shuddering breaths. Okay, so maybe I was exaggerating just slightly, but I wanted Victoria to know I could empathize with her trauma. And, to be brutally honest, the memory of the wolves, with their jaws locked into my flesh, did quicken my pulse.

“Here,” Victoria said, offering me her drink, “take a sip of this.”

I took a sip, then handed back her drink. “Thanks.”

“That sounds terrifying,” she said. “When I tell my story to most people, I know few can relate.”

She popped one of the olives in her mouth and said, “It was the only time in my life I remember having no control over the outcome. I was at the mercy of this man and, I suppose, God’s will.”

I nodded, but didn’t dare speak.

“I was making cookies for my niece’s bake sale. I make incredible chocolate chip macadamia nut cookies.” Her lips flexed into a smile ever so briefly. “I ran out of butter so I made a run to Save-More. While I was there, I picked up one of those gossip mags.” She let out a