LITMIR.BIZ

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to the rails.

      “Have you noticed anything weird here lately?” she asked him.

      “Yes. Definitely. What the hell does that woman have on top of her head? A sailboat?” He pointed at a lady walking past their section. “Ahoy there!” he shouted at the woman in the white hat with the voluminous veil. “No one can see over your damn schooner! Full steam ahead!”

      “Merrick, please behave yourself.”

      “Why? You’re in the cheap seats. Nobody knows that YOU’RE REMI MONTGOMERY AND YOUR FAMILY OWNS SHENANIGANS, THE WINNING HORSE.” Merrick spoke so loudly everyone in a twenty-yard radius heard him. Of course they did.

      “And you wonder why I won’t ever sleep with you,” she whispered to him.

      “AND YOU AND I AREN’T SLEEPING TOGETHER,” Merrick said, still in his obnoxious booming voice. Everyone in the grandstands stared at them as they walked down to the viewing area in front of the track.

      “Remind me why I hired you again.” Remi slid her bag over her shoulder as they headed to the clubhouse.

      “Because you wanted someone outside the racing industry who didn’t give a fuck about horse racing to be your assistant. Also I’m brilliant and the sexiest man alive.”

      “Two out of three ain’t bad. Come here, I want to show you something,” she said, pausing at the track to watch the jockey weigh-in. The results of the race wouldn’t be official until the jockeys were weighed.

      “Finally. But let’s find a stall so we can have some privacy for our first time. I want it to be as awkward and uncomfortable as possible for the both of us.”

      She opened her bag and handed him a magazine.

      “Wow,” Merrick said, a word she’d never heard pass his lips before. Merrick was not easily impressed. “You don’t see horses on the cover of Sports Illustrated very often. Then again, I only ‘read’ the swimsuit issue.”

      Remi stood next to him as they stared at the cover—Shenanigans, her family’s chestnut filly, and Hijinks, the Capital Hills colt, barreled down the center of the Verona Downs track toward the camera. The picture had been snapped in the final stretch of the Lexington Stakes—a glorious action shot of two beautiful beasts running their guts out.

      “Look at that headline. The New Civil War—Hijinks Versus Shenanigans in the Horse Racing Rivalry of the Century,” Remi read aloud, trying not to roll her eyes at the hyperbole. “They called us the Hatfields and McCoys of horse racing.”

      “That’ll sell some T-shirts.” Merrick handed her the magazine.

      “This article is ridiculous,” Remi said, flipping through the pages. “It’s all about the vicious rivalry between Arden Farms and Capital Hills—two of the oldest Kentucky horse farms. Everyone’s picking a side—Team Shenanigans versus Team Hijinks.”

      “I’m still Team Edward.”

      “I saw a fight today right by the rails. It was between two guys, one wearing an Arden shirt, the other guy in a Capital Hills shirt. After this feature, the entire racing world will be betting on Shenanigans and Hijinks. They’re even selling Hijinks and Shenanigans stuffed animals..”

      “Now that’s just sick.”

      “Tell me about it. These horses are turning into money trees.”

      “You say that like it’s a bad thing. Shenanigans is your family’s horse,” he reminded her. “More notoriety, better attendance, better press, more money, more money for me, your faithful assistant who deserves a raise. Should I write this down for you?”

      “Write this down for me,” she said, handing Merrick a pen and her journal. “One hundred million and two hundred million. Got it?”

      He held up the page where he’d written the figures. “So?”

      “One hundred million is how much money is bet on the Kentucky Derby. Two hundred million is how much is bet on the Breeders’ Cup.”

      “And I wrote them down why?”

      Remi shook her head and turned to the Winner’s Circle. Her mother and father stood next to Shenanigans while the assembled press frantically took pictures.

      “You wrote them down because I want you to see how much money there is in horse racing.”

      “Fine. I’ll buy a goddamn pony.”

      “I wouldn’t trust you with a goldfish, Merrick. That’s not my point,” Remi said.

      “What’s your point then?”

      She exhaled hard and shook her head. She’d been dreading this question, because she’d been dreading the answer to it. Still, Merrick was the one person in her life she trusted right now, so she thought she might as well tell him.

      “My parents bought a new farm a couple months ago,” she said. “Satellite Farm—five hundred acres.”

      “So?”

      “They paid cash for it. Ten million dollars. We shouldn’t have had ten million dollars in cash lying around.”

      “And?”

      “I don’t know,” she admitted. “But we shouldn’t have that much money lying around. Capital Hills seems to have had a windfall, too. The auctions were this week—they dropped ten million the first three days.”

      “Damn.”

      “That’s kind of a coincidence, isn’t it? They suddenly have ten million dollars? We suddenly have ten million dollars?”

      “A slightly suspicious coincidence,” Merrick said, narrowing his eyes at her parents.

      “That’s what I was thinking. Three months ago Dad changed the passwords on the bank accounts. I can’t see how much money we have anymore. I told him a while ago to hire a new accountant, and that was his excuse—new guy, new passwords. Don’t worry my pretty little head about it.”

      “Your pretty little head looks worried.”

      “Rivalries always make for money and headlines. But, Merrick, I don’t know. Something doesn’t smell right about this. And trust me, my family and the Capital Hills family aren’t in anything together. They hate each other.”

      “I’ve noticed that.”

      “But still, I think someone at Arden and someone at Capital Hill might be stoking this rivalry in the press for a reason.”

      “What reason?” Merrick asked. “Money?”

      “Is there any other reason?” Remi asked, feeling sick to her stomach even saying that much. “Tyson Balt was at our house last night.”

      “He owns Verona Downs, right? VD for short? He really should have rethought that name. What about him?”

      “Balt’s been promoting the hell out of the Verona Downs Stakes race. Shenanigans and Hijinks are the two favorites already.”

      “You think your family is getting the money from Balt?”

      “Something’s not right” was all she would say.

      Merrick pursed his lips and whistled.

      “I don’t have the evidence yet. It’s only a hunch,” Remi said.

      “You really want to dig this hole? You might end up falling into it, Boss.”

      “I know,” she said, her stomach tightening. “But if my hunch is right, there’s a fraud being perpetuated here at Verona. I can’t look the other way even if my own family is involved. This farm has been my life for twenty-six years. I’m not going to let them fuck it up.”

      “We should talk to someone at Capital Hills. What’s their name? The Brites?” Merrick asked.

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