Page 33

Hadley

“You’ll marry who I say, Hadley. You think this life you like to benefit from doesn’t come with sacrifice?

” The words my father tutted not long after my eighteenth birthday replay through my mind.

I wasn’t surprised that he’d use this as an opportunity to show me off to his friends and see who might step up and make an offer.

I would have much rather been in downtown Fiasco tonight, dancing to bluegrass and country, people-watching, and snacking on Kentucky specialties like Modjeskas and a slice of transparent pie.

But instead of Fourth of July fun, I was walking into a stuffy dinner party for my father’s associates who either owed a favor or were angling for one.

It usually meant being introduced to someone’s son or brother.

And in Kentucky, bastards had brothers. I was turning twenty-five this year—and even now, by most southern standards, I was old.

I plucked a glass of champagne from a passing tray and smiled at the few friendly faces I recognized.

The newly elected governor and his brother, a bloodstock agent who had just been folded into the mix, two Russian men who kept to themselves in the far corner of the room, and my father’s business partners, the Kings.

I counted three women—myself included. The other two were slinging trays of hors d’oeuvres.

It pissed me off, the lack of women in rooms like this.

Fucking boys clubs. Fiasco looked like every other quaint town in southern Kentucky—small and unassuming.

But I knew it was filled to its brim with secrets, swimming with liars, and running on agreements.

Most of those things usually transpired between people who had similar goals in mind. In this room, it was money and power.

“Heard your girl had a helluva race at the Oaks.”

I leaned against the far wall in the oversized room and looked around at the elbow rubbing and bullshit slinging, trying not to laugh.

“You heard right,” I smiled. He was a good looking older man.

I instantly liked him. “She sure did. My father is still sour that she’s not one of his.

” Some folks here were in the same boat as me, required to make an appearance.

Chief Hawkins, like most of the public officials who showed on evenings like this, didn’t have much of a choice.

It was better not pissing in Wheeler Finch’s lemonade by not showing.

My father had no problem holding grudges.

“I’m being beckoned,” he said as his brother, the new governor, and my father turned toward where we were.

He squeezed my elbow. “Let’s see how long it takes them to talk about money and bullshit committees.

” With a wink, he moved away. I shamelessly checked out the way he wore his dress uniform during today’s parade, but right now, he was more casual in jeans and his Fiasco FD T-shirt.

It made him feel more like a friend than a guest.

“Hadley,” my father called out, holding his arm up, as if that was my sign to come and pretend like we were close. With his arm around me, my father showed me off to his other guests.

“My daughter, Hadley. It was her filly that took the Oaks this year—quite an accomplishment.” I felt like I was being paraded around, exactly like one of my father’s broodmares—to be shown off and used for gain.

James Switcher had a receding hairline and an over-inflated ego. And the second my father made introductions, I knew he was angling for a setup.

“Nice belt buckle,” I said, trying to get Switcher to stop staring at my tits.

The small group laughed first, and then my father said, “Thought you two might get along—James here was just telling me all about the last rodeo he rode in.”

“Been a while now, actually. I did a bit of bull riding when I was younger. Never made it too far, but my brother is a helluva rider, and has won a great deal of championships,” he said proudly.

“Then why are you wearing it?” I blurted out, with my father’s attention flicking around to the dwindling crowd.

Judgement and sarcasm were laced in my tone, so when he stared at me without saying a word, it should have thrown out a warning. It was all I needed to know about him. A man who liked to show off other people's hard work and felt threatened as soon as someone challenged him.

Dinner conversation after that lingered around the latest plans for my father’s breeding facility.

What started as training and racing had evolved into every facet of horse racing—stallions, mares, fillies, foals, you name it, and my father had a plan on how to capitalize on every step of a horse's life. It wasn’t anything new, but for Finch & King, it would make them the kind of powerhouse that made a lot of people a lot of money.

It was another hour of smiling and pretending to give a shit before I managed a quiet escape.

I shook out my hands and rolled my neck just as I walked into the stable.

At least it was cooler here. Summers in Fiasco were always unforgiving, but this was one that felt long-winded, like a self-reflective sermon—no one asked for it.

I don’t remember feeling this hot when I was lounging on the porch with the Foxx boys.

Even in the late afternoon heat, they were more comfortable than an evening here.

It had always been that way, since the first moment I was in their company. Like I’d belonged there, with them.

“Thought you might have run off,” a voice said from the side door. I nearly jumped out of my skin. “Your father thought it might be nice for us to get to know one another a little better.”

My stomach churned at the idea. The long corridor that led to the horse stalls was a lot of steps away, and he was blocking the closest exit.

He laughed to himself, his tongue pushing along the side of his mouth just before he said, “You’re not so good at hiding your feelings.” He held his hand up to his face. “You wear them all over.

“Oh, how nice, a man who proclaims to know what a woman is thinking. So predictable,” I said with as much sass as I could muster, knowing I was alone with him.

“Made an offer your father seems to like.” His eyebrows raised, crinkling his fivehead.

He was amusing himself. “What must that be like? Knowing you’re no better than any of these horses.

Being negotiated and sold off.” My stomach clenched as he laughed again.

“Maybe we can just play for a little while, test each other out first...”

I couldn’t help the laugh that escaped. “You must have missed the part where I’m not interested. So let me spell it out for you and your uneducated ass ? —”

I didn’t know how he moved so quickly. His arm cocked back wide and came down hard. I couldn’t brace for it. I hadn’t expected it.

My neck snapped to the side so fast that it was going to feel like whiplash later.

Later ... there needed to be a later.

The momentum of the open-handed slap connecting with my left cheek had me hitting the ground.

The dirt felt cool along my cheek. I coughed and dusty dirt swirled into my mouth.

“What was it you were saying again, bitch?” he tutted. “Something about my ass, was it?” His overzealous belt buckle was far too close, hovering over me.

Get up, Hadley.

“I didn’t want to have to do that,” Switcher said with that same muted smile as he wiped his brow and tossed his hat on the workbench just to the left. “I can’t go havin’ you thinkin’ it’s okay to speak to me that way, sweetheart. Where I’m from, women know when to shut their mouths.”

My eyes instantly watered, and my breath caught in my throat.

The shock of a slap across the face should have left me speechless.

It was my mouth that caused this pinprick to get pissed off to begin with.

The point of it was to shut me up. Silence and a healthy fear have served me well, apparently, but now what?

Violence wasn’t a language I knew. I was tough by most standards, but being shoved around and looked at the way he was looking at me wasn’t in my typical wheelhouse.

I imagined most women felt that way—never ready, until they had to be.

I pushed up on my hands and scurried back up and on my feet in seconds.

This wasn’t going to be my sad story. Or a preview of my life.

I touched my cheek that was now warm, feeling higher near my eyebrow where it throbbed, and I must have hit something sharp, because there was blood on my hand when I pulled it away.

I blinked back the tears that threatened to escape when I said with a saccharine smile, “Ah yes, where you’re from—the land of overcompensating for mediocrity and massive mommy issues, I bet. ”

He blinked, trying to digest the words.

I took a deep breath before adding, “I should have known better just by looking at you ... ”

He ran his tongue over his teeth. His tooth was chipped, and where most people had two front teeth, Switcher had one front and center.

Maybe someone had broken his jaw and it was never set right.

It wasn’t noticeable at first, but I was good at pinpointing imperfections.

They were what made people memorable. Vulnerable.

Human. But the abusive womanizer with a fivehead was not the kind of person I had any interest in remembering.