Thorns

by Feliz Faber

  Will found himself melting a little inside. Looking back, he saw his own emotion mirrored in Francis’s face.

  “You know, you won’t fool me ever again,” he said, delivering a slight nudge to his lover’s ribs. “You’re just a big marshmallow inside, aren’t you?”

  Francis laughed. “Got me in one, cher.” He nudged back. “As if you were any better. Come, let’s collect our bet before my teeth start hurting with all that family bliss down there.”

  After attending Arlette’s victory ceremony, Will and Francis wandered off on their own. With only four races over the course of the afternoon, the breaks were long and filled with entertainment. Will thoroughly enjoyed himself walking the grounds, listening to music here, watching a children’s pony club dressage performance there, sampling from a food cart, stopping on the panorama terrace for a glass of champagne. An air of family celebration permeated the whole event, with children and small dogs just about everywhere, and on top of it all, there were those few breathtaking, heart stopping minutes when the main players, the horses, appeared on the scene to do what they were born and bred for.

  They didn’t see much of Nic or Louis all afternoon, but the rest of the staff seemed happy enough to mingle with the crowd. They were easily recognizable by their green windbreakers with the La Thillaye logo on back. But they weren’t the only ones who waved their greetings. Quite a number of people seemed to know Francis and stopped for a chat. And all the while, he held Will’s hand. He didn’t even let go when they ran into Pauly and Jules; Will had a moment of guilty discomfort there, but all that happened was Pauly giving him a wink and a leer as they greeted Francis like a long-lost brother. Will might’ve guessed Francis was no stranger to them.

  He stowed the memory of that afternoon at Chez Jules away in the back of his mind. Whatever had happened before today didn’t have any bearing on the future.

  Because this was the best of all, that Francis was right there with him, body and mind. What they’d had before felt like rushed, stolen hours now, nothing like today’s relaxed leisure and communion. The ever-present, driving sexual tension between them simmered low to a casual intimacy, occasional touches and easy banter replacing the urgent need that always had demanded instant gratification. They had the whole day and the night ahead of them. They could wait.

  If this was what it was going to be like between them, Will could hardly wait for the future to begin.

  Louis lost his first race, the second of the day, but shrugged it off. So did Francis, who tore up his betting slip with a laugh and dragged Will back to the PMU for more.

  “Unlucky at horses, lucky in love,” he said, a sparkle in his eyes that made Will want to whisk him away into some hidden corner and kiss him senseless.

  “Are you saying you backed the wrong horse on purpose?” he asked instead. “I guess I better save my money, then.”

  “There’s no law says we can’t have both,” Francis said and stubbornly placed his bet on Louis’s ride again.

  “There’s that,” Will said, following suit.

  Louis proved himself worthy of their trust by leaving most of the field far behind this time—except for one, who stuck to Louis’s horse every step of the way until they finished neck to neck, nose to nose.

  “I’m sure my Callisto nodded,” Louis said, having returned to the enclosure from the post-race weighing. “She thrust out her neck right when we passed the finish line. We’ve won by a nose.”

  “Quite possible, but we’ll still have to wait for the commissaires’ decision,” Nic said, taking Louis’s saddle and putting it back on the horse. The bay mare munched on the bridle, tossing her head as if to confirm Louis’s claim, which eased the all-around nervous tension a little.

  The commissaires took their sweet time to reach a verdict, likely waiting for the results of the photo finish. Standing around with nothing to do but wait, Will felt this morning’s headache creep back up on him. It had been there all along, a dull pressure in the back of his head, but he’d refused to take note of it in order not to spoil the day’s joy and happiness. Now it woke with renewed fervor, the pressure turning into a throb, then a pounding.

  They’d all gathered at the enclosure, Will, Francis, and most members of the La Thillaye staff, along with Callisto’s owner. Monsieur Golla was an Alsatian businessman who’d come all the way from Strasbourg for the occasion. He greeted Francis with enthusiasm; apparently their respective firms had worked together in the past, and Golla was delighted to discover he shared a private passion with one of his business partners. Francis had introduced Will, one hand resting in the small of his back, and Golla had taken in their posture and held out his hand with a smile.

  “It’s a honor to meet you, Mr. Yeats,” he said in his accented English, and immediately proceeded to engage Will in conversation like you would your business partner’s wife—discussing nothing too taxing, and certainly nothing of business importance, but without a trace of condescension either. Will didn’t know if he should feel amused or annoyed. He played along for a while, equally amazed at Francis’s frankness and Golla’s easy acceptance. But once Nic joined them, Will bowed out quietly. The increasing headache made it harder and harder for him to keep up a conversation. Now he regretted declining Nic’s offer of painkillers this morning.

  Leaning closer to Francis’s ear, he murmured a quick “I’ll be back.” The pressure of Francis’s hand on his back turned into a stroke for a moment before it disappeared as Will stepped aside. He missed the warm touch, but he needed to move; the press of human and equine bodies in the narrow confines of the enclosure got to him, and walking had helped with headaches in the past. Besides, it was embarrassing enough that Golla treated him like something akin to Francis’s little wife; no need to whine about headaches like a damsel in distress needing smelling salts.

  Painkillers could be found in the barn. Louis had some in the top drawer of his desk, hadn’t he? If he was going to do something against the pain, he might just as well do it right, Will thought as he headed for the barn, using the same way he’d taken with Louis the other day.

  He reached the barn area unchallenged, even with quite a number of security people walking the grounds today. It was surprisingly quiet back there. The barn alley was almost deserted except for a few lads with or without a blanketed horse in tow and the occasional suit—officials or perhaps lost visitors, Will assumed, as for all intents and purposes, the action was elsewhere right now.

  He counted yellow doors, entirely focused on finding La Thillaye’s. God, his head hurt—this threatened to turn into a full-blown migraine judging by the way his vision started to blur. He had those on occasion, if not in a long time. Still, he should’ve known better than ignoring the warning signs all day long. Or at least he should’ve thought of bringing his own fucking pills.

  In the barn, some of the stalls were open, and a couple of grooms were busy with the horses that had already run. They nodded greetings at Will, and he nodded back but headed straight for the office. Unlocked, thank God. Right now, he didn’t feel like conversation, let alone explaining his purpose here to someone whose language he didn’t speak. He closed the office door silently behind him.

  The desk drawer contained enough medical supplies to stock a small pharmacy. Will rifled through coolant spray, pain gel, and a variety of medicine packets. He didn’t know all the names but assumed that some of the medicines had to be prescriptions.

  Eventually he found a box of ibuprofen and took two with water, which he drank out of his palm from the little sink in the corner. And then he sat down in the desk chair, leaned back as far as it would go, closed his eyes, and simply waited for the drugs to do their job.

  After a while, the pressure eased and the ache faded to an indistinct hum in the back of Will’s skull again. He sighed with relief as he sat up and stretched; not a migraine, then, after all. Right when he was about to leave, his cell phone buzzed with a text from Francis.

  Did you get lost in yo
ur own pants? You’re going to miss the best fun.

  Checking the time, Will found he’d been gone for a little over half an hour. Bit long for a powder run, he had to admit.

  Freak, he thought fondly. He’s even texting in prose.

  Wanna hv fun w/me r8 here? he texted back.

  The answer came immediately.

  Always. Where are you?

  The barn seemed empty of people by now except for Minuit’s stall. Human voices and horse sounds came from within. Seeing as he was actually not supposed to be here on his own, Will was glad he could walk back out together with the lads and the horse. A run-in with the likes of Mr. Joviel was the last thing he wished for now.

  Barn, Will typed as he walked down the stable aisle toward Minuit’s stall. No sweat M on my way. He hesitated for a moment, added xxx and hit send just when he reached the open stall.

  Someone stood right inside Minuit’s box. Out of the corner of his eye, Will saw a pair of fine dress shoes, the silver tip of a vaguely familiar cane resting between them.

  “Hello, Mr. Collins,” he said distractedly, his gaze fixed on the phone in his hand as he waited for Francis’s answer. Then his brain kicked in, and he jerked his head up to stare at a man who had no place at all to be there. He’d only just caught a glimpse of a startled frown when a hiss of breath coming from ahead made him spin.

  One of the La Thillaye grooms, Rémy, stood frozen in place by Minuit’s foreleg, one hand on the horse’s withers, the other hovering in the air holding something. The sunlight coming in through the open half of the Dutch door by Minuit’s head caught on metal and plastic and clear liquid…. A syringe?

  “Rémy? What the hell?” Will said, looking between the groom and Collins. Something was profoundly wrong here, even not counting the shock written all over Rémy’s features. Will took half a step forward, farther into the stall, trying to make sense of what he saw.

  “What’s happening here?”

  Rémy held both his hands up as if Will had pointed a gun at him. The syringe dropped slowly, faster as it neared the ground, and Will traced its way with his eyes, his heart plummeting along with the treacherous thing as he realized what it meant.

  The air hampered his limbs like syrup as he lifted the cell to his ear, automatically pressing keys, and took another step forward. Rémy’s eyes widened even more, then narrowed, his gaze flickering past Will’s shoulder. It was just by reflex that Will turned to look, right when Francis’s voice came through the phone he still held to his ear.

  Something crashed down on his bent elbow with numbing force, spinning him halfway, and sent the phone flying like a missile as his arm snapped out, then in again. For a moment, just a moment, Will felt nothing at all. Bewildered, he saw a row of buttons down the front of a dark coat pass his eyes, one after the other like a series of single-frame shots. He realized he was sinking to his knees and still wondered why when white-hot pain seared up his arm, making him howl. He doubled over, cradling his arm as his forehead hit the floor right in front of Collins’s shoes. Remy’s dusty riding boots appeared in his pain-hazed peripheral vision, and the two pairs of feet began a shuffling dance to the sound of angry voices, human and equine, the irregular dull drumbeats of hooves on litter adding a strangely disturbing bass line. Something hit the ground next to Will’s ear, and he curled up tighter, rolling and crawling away from the clomping chaos as best as he could. His back met wood, the closed sliding door of the stall across the aisle from Minuit’s, and he used it as leverage as he struggled to his feet.

  Rémy pushed hard at Collins before scuttling off and squeezing past Minuit toward the Dutch door. White-eyed, whinnying, the horse danced backward as the groom yanked the outer door open and slammed it shut behind him. Flailing, Collins staggered back into the barn aisle, then caught himself, spun, and came at Will with his cane raised, his eyes as wild and mad as the horse’s. Pressing against the wood behind him, Will watched helplessly as the cane’s silver knob moved up, up. It hung in the air, frozen for a moment before it started its downward arc toward Will’s head. He had to move, he knew it, but he couldn’t, as he failed to—refused to—believe that this was really happening, that it was murderous rage and despair he saw written all over Jeremy Collins’s no longer jovial face. Time stood still.

  And started moving again with a vicious jolt as Minuit’s rear hooves hit Collins in the back with all the force one thousand pounds of muscle, sinew, and bone could muster, flinging him at Will like a ragdoll. Both men crashed down in a tangle of limbs. What air still remained in Will’s lungs was forced out of him in a choked scream as his elbow hit the floor.

  He didn’t black out, but he must’ve lost track of things for a few seconds. When he came to, he lay slumped against the wooden wall with Collins half on top of him. The heavyset man was gasping for air, his limbs flailing weakly, his weight pressing uncomfortably down on Will’s lower chest and stomach. And there were sharp hooves still stomping dangerously close. Caught in panic at being trapped, Will mindlessly kicked free from under Collins’s weight and scrambled upright again, trying to melt into the stall door as he sucked at air in greedy, rasping breaths. The horse stopped its pacing up and down the aisle and shied away from him, backing halfway into its still open stall. There it stood, glaring at Will. He glared back; he couldn’t do anything else, drifting on the numb strangeness of the last few moments.

  I’m having a Mexican standoff with a horse. He drew another breath. “Shoo,” he said, but it came out more as a cough—all he could manage. The horse tossed its head and huffed; Will could’ve sworn it looked down its long nose at him. With another huff, it turned and swanned back into the stall. Will took two stumbling steps forward, fell on the sliding door. He couldn’t get his left hand to work, and the right shook so badly it wouldn’t close around the handle either. Whatever. He threw himself against the wood panel, heaved it bodily shut, and then slid slowly back down to the floor.

  He stared across the aisle at Collins, who sprawled half-upright against the stall, with bulging eyes and rounded, blue-tinged lips, looking like a landed fish. The picture struck him as oddly funny; he knew he should do something; go over and help Collins breathe, make sure the man didn’t move any further in case his spine was hurt. And yet, here he was, helpless and weak and shaking from laughter. Get a grip, Yeats, the little part of his brain that always sounded like Trevor ordered—right before Will’s body shut down on him and he finally passed out.

  When he came to next, he no longer leaned against hard wood but found himself in the cradle of a pair of strong arms, a familiar heartbeat thumping away right beneath his ear. For a moment, he didn’t know a thing beyond leaning back into Francis’s embrace, smelling his comforting scent and hearing his voice. Francis’s mouth was so close to Will’s ear that he felt short, distressed puffs of breath on his skin, and there were other voices and footfalls and people moving all around him.

  “I’m okay,” Will muttered, but it came out muffled, as his face was buried against Francis’s neck.

  The arms around him tightened, accompanied by a half-choked “Oh, grâce à Dieu, oh fuck, Will….”, and Will discovered he was actually not okay, not really, as the movement shot a jolt of pain from his elbow up to his shoulder and right back down again to the tips of his fingers and made him groan. He squirmed, pushed weakly against Francis with his good hand.

  “Ouch. Mind my arm.”

  Francis let him go a little, but not entirely, just so he could turn Will to face him. “What happened?” he asked.

  “Collins hit my arm with his cane. Feels like he broke it,” Will said. It came out on a gasp as he’d automatically tried to grab Francis’s forearms at the sudden shift of balance. As he folded the injured limb against his chest, Francis supported him until they were close together again, only face to face this time. The situation called for a kiss, so Will craned his head up. Just a small touch of lips on lips, but it was enough to smooth away the wildness around those worried eyes. />
  Francis dropped his head to Will’s shoulder with a hushed “Can’t I let you out of my sight for one damned minute….”

  You better not, Will wanted to answer, but forgot about it as something or someone bumped into him from behind, jerking him back into the here and now with another bout of pain.

  Here and now. The race. Fuck.

  “Minuit!” he gasped, twisting around.

  They were in the hallway under the tack pegs, facing the stable aisle. Will’s gaze swept across the spot where Collins still lay with someone else hunched over him—Nic, he noted casually—to Minuit’s stall, now open at both ends, the horse gone, or so it seemed….

  “They took him outside. He kicked Collins, didn’t he?” Francis said. “I wonder how you got him back into the stall, as upset— Will, what is it?” The latter as Will pushed away from him, struggling to get to his feet.

  “Help me up—ow, fuck—the race, they can’t….” Shit, his arm hurt. The pain made his head spin. He stumbled toward the empty stall, and Francis stood, catching him before he could go down again.

  “William.” Francis’s calm, collected voice grounded him. He could hear a horse neighing outside and hooves clopping on concrete. There were human voices too, Claude’s baritone and Louis’s distinctive rasp among them. Not too late, then, hopefully. Will took a breath.

  “There’s a syringe somewhere in that stall, I don’t know what’s in it, but it can’t be good. Rémy had it at Minuit’s neck, but he dropped it when I got there, that’s when Collins hit me. I think they’re in it together somehow.” As the words spouted out of him, he caught Francis’s gaze, desperate to get his meaning across. “I need to tell Louis. He can’t race, hon, what if they doped him? They’ll blame him or Nic, and if Rémy says they made him, they’ll be fucked for good this time….” He saw Francis’s eyes widen in understanding and almost sagged with relief, didn’t resist when Francis gently led him back to the wall and urged him to sit down on an overturned bucket.