Getting Sassy

by D. C. Brod

  A number of people greeted Mick. They seemed pleased and maybe a little surprised to see him, and Mick acknowledged them all with a friendly response, but he kept us moving. We crossed the terrazzo patio, heading toward the smoke. I smelled grilling meat and caught whiffs of basil and tomatoes. This was no simple cookout. Severn had an outdoor kitchen, complete with range, stove, what looked like a pizza oven, and aluminum cabinets.

  I wondered if it would be feasible to simply ask Severn to give me a hundred thousand dollars—maybe I’d explain about the “misun-derstanding”—because, clearly, he wasn’t going to miss it.

  Then the crowd parted enough so I could see the grills—there were several of them—and I spotted Bull Severn hoisting slabs of raw meat onto a king-sized gas grill. I’d seen photos of him in the newspaper, but he was more impressive in person. I hadn’t realized he was this tall—well over six feet. His height, combined with his barrel chest and powerful build, would have made him a serviceable battering ram. He smiled as Mick and I approached and, shifting his fork to his left hand, he extended his right to Mick and they shook. “Glad you could make it, Mick,” he said, sounding genuine. Then he turned his attention to me and said, “You must be Robyn?”

  When I nodded, he reached for my hand. “Great to meet you. I’m Bull.”

  His grip was gentle for a man that size, almost as though he modulated according to the person whose hand was involved. I fought my initial urge to like the guy.

  Sweat dripped down his cheek, and he brushed it off with a shoulder swipe while plopping another slab of meat on the grill. I glanced around and saw there were several other smaller grills, each manned by a guy in khakis. One wrestled a chicken breast onto the grill, and I noted that Bull’s was reserved for steaks.

  While Mick ragged him about using gas instead of charcoal, I pondered why Mick had mentioned me to Bull. Again, I’m not anything special. Really. But I was beginning to wonder if maybe Mick thought otherwise and was in the midst of trying on that notion to see if I liked it, when I noticed a familiar-looking man. I didn’t anticipate seeing anyone I knew here, so I gave him a second look. It took a moment for me to recognize him as the guy who had been at Mick’s office the other day. The rude one who had interrupted my appointment. He was standing under a birch with a plastic cup in his hand filled to foaming with beer and talking with a middle-aged guy with a long, thin beard that pointed at his protruding belly. Then he glanced our way, hesitating as he saw me watching him. Those washed-out blue eyes were all the more obvious because of the thick, dark brows bunched above them. Even the pale blue, short-sleeved shirt and sueded twills didn’t soften him. He gave me a slight nod and went back to the chubby guy.

  “I want you to take a look at Blood,” Bull was saying. “He’s antsier than usual. Almost like he knows this is a big race coming up.”

  “Sure he does,” Mick said. “They always know.”

  At that moment, I could feel his attention shift. He gave my arm a squeeze and said to Bull, “‘Scuse me a second. Somebody I need to talk to.” And then he left me alone with the man from whom I planned to steal a hundred grand.

  “He’s a great guy,” Bull said, flipping a chunk of steak. “How long you two been together?”

  “Not long,” I answered, drawing my gaze away from Mick, who was being greeted warmly by a young couple.

  Bull nodded in a way that implied he wasn’t surprised.

  “How do you know him?” he asked.

  “He’s my accountant.”

  “Oh, yeah?” He regarded me with renewed interest. “Mine too. What kind of business you in?”

  “I’m a journalist.” I took another sip of the beer, which was tasting really good.

  He adjusted a steak on the grill. “No kidding.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  Now he smiled. He was a nice-looking man and, to my dismay, he had a friendly way about him. I told myself he needed that in order to con people.

  “Newspaper?” he asked.

  “Mostly freelance. Magazines, newspapers, the internet. I’ve ghosted a book.” At this point I decided to leap in, figuring if I waited for Mick to come back and broach the subject, the opportunity might never be as good. “Actually, I’m working on a book now on the relationship between thoroughbreds and their owners and trainers.”

  As he flipped a large filet, I continued. “I’m thinking it could have wide appeal. Racing fans, of course. But there are a lot of women who grew up loving horses—who still love them—and who want to read about more than the racing. Sort of a relationship book, you know.”

  Just then a small, blond woman came up to Bull and put her arm around his waist. Small enough to tuck her head under his arm, she was pretty in a polished sort of way, and I suspected the flawless bronze tint of her skin had been sprayed on.

  “This is Robyn Guthrie, honey. She’s with Mick. Says she’s writing a book on horses and their owners.”

  “And trainers and jockeys,” I added. “And maybe their grooms. I figure those are the people most likely to know the horse.” I paused. “Most owners aren’t all that involved, but Mick tells me you are.” Mick had said no such thing, but I guessed that Bull liked to think of himself as a hands-on kind of owner.

  “Where is Mick?” the woman said, looking around.

  “He’s talking to Rudy,” Bull told her.

  She must have spotted him then, because I saw her focus in that direction just before she turned back to me.

  “I’m Gwen Severn,” she said, taking a sip of her wine. She wore a white silk halter dress with a four-strand necklace comprised of polished blue stones with diamond-set spacers. At least, I assumed they were diamonds and also assumed that the blue stones weren’t glass. In all, it was a bit much for a cookout, and I had to wonder what she reserved for fancy occasions.

  “So,” she said, “tell me about this book of yours.”

  “I’m just starting it. I want to write a couple of chapters, put together an outline and see if my editor likes the idea. I figured Bull’s Blood would make a great first chapter.”

  “Who’s your publisher?” Gwen asked. Her nails were manicured and polished a shell pink color, and she tapped one against the side of her wine glass.

  I named the publisher I had ghosted the book for and added the name of the editor I’d worked with. I’d anticipated this question, just not from Bull’s wife.

  She nodded as though she’d heard of both.

  “Gwen here is a publicist.” Bull had released her and gone back to the slabs on his grill.

  “Do you work for yourself or an agency?” I asked.

  “Myself,” she said. “I’ve got a few clients in publishing.” Then, “Have you heard of Reginald Simms?”

  I had. Simms had latched onto the coattails of the second-coming publishing phenom. From what I’d read about it, his book told the story of the apocalypse from the point of view of an escaped convict.

  The lukewarm reviews were no doubt assuaged by the fact that it had been lounging in the middle of the best-seller list for a month.

  “I’ve heard some interesting things about the book.”

  “Thanks to me,” she said with a smile. Her eyes were just a little too cold to pull off gracious.

  “So honey,” Bull said, “do you think a book about racehorses and their relationship with their owners and trainers is marketable?”

  “Maybe,” she said. “All depends on how it’s done. I heard you mention it’s a book that might appeal to women.”

  I nodded. “Relationships.”

  She shrugged. “Could work.”

  “What’s the name of the book you ghosted?” Bull asked.

  “I can’t say,” I replied. “Part of the contract.” Actually, that was a blessing. The book I’d ghosted for a psychologist, 12 Ways to Let Love into Your Life, had nearly put me into a diabetic coma.

  “That’s why it’s called ‘ghosted,’ honey,” Gwen explained. “No one’s supposed to see or hear fr
om the real author.”

  “That’s right,” I said. “We shed a little ectoplasm on the pages and move on.”

  Bull chuckled while Gwen eyed me in a way that could only have been sizing me up. Without turning toward her husband, she asked, “Are you going to introduce her to Blood?”

  “I’m thinking I might let Mick do the honors.”

  I looked around for Mick. Didn’t want to lose track of him and be stuck here dodging eye daggers from Gwen. Just then I saw him coming toward us. He started to smile, but then something—or someone—caused it deteriorate into a scowl that didn’t abate much as Gwen released her husband and hooked her arm through Mick’s—she was adept at latching onto men—and gave him a peck on the cheek, which he accepted without overt enthusiasm. Even in heels, she was an inch shorter than him. They made a cute couple.

  “Haven’t seen you in ages, hon. What’s been keeping you away?”

  I swear she almost drawled the words.

  “Guess you haven’t been looking hard.”

  She peered into his eyes. “You know, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about this Arabian I’ve got my eye on. I’d really like you to come take a look at her some day soon. I want to make sure I’m getting what I’m paying for.”

  Bull glanced in Mick’s direction before skewering a chunk of steak.

  “Who’s selling her?” Mick asked.

  “Russell Williams.”

  Mick shook his head. “You don’t have to worry about Russ ripping you off. He’s as honest as they come.”

  “This is a very expensive animal,” she said, leaning into Mick and pressing her breast into his arm.

  If I’d been at all possessive about my date, I’d have had my claws drawn. Instead, I was amused by the display, wondering how far this rich little tart would go for attention. I also wondered why Bull appeared to be paying more attention to his steaks’ doneness than to his wife’s flirting. Maybe I just didn’t get how these people lived.

  “Well, Mick, you know where Blood is.” Bull turned a couple of steaks and removed another two to a platter. Two new ones filled those spaces. “Help yourself to some food and then take Robyn down to the stables.”

  I felt as though I’d been dismissed, but Mick took it in stride. It gave him the opportunity to disentangle himself from Gwen.

  I wondered if she was a little drunk—this hanging on men thing seemed a little odd for a career woman of her proclaimed caliber. But she wasn’t slurring words, and her eyes were clear, so I chalked it up to either the heat or her personality.

  As we started to walk away, Bull called after us, “Mick, find me before you leave.”

  Mick nodded.

  We picked our way along the food table, and I made a plate of grilled chicken, baked beans, fruit and salad.

  I noticed that Rudy had joined a clutch of people around a picnic table. This time his gaze found mine and he kept staring, and I could still feel it long after I’d looked away.

  Mick and I ate with two other couples at a wooden picnic table with a nice view of the pond and the bank of dark clouds muscling in from the west. Sometime in the not-too-distant future, we’d be moving indoors. One of the other men had also been a jockey, and they were all horse people, so I spent much of the time, nodding, asking questions, researching “the book.”

  I was on my third beer. They had been going down with alarming ease. I know that beer wasn’t the thing to drink in order to stay hydrated on a hot day, so technically it wasn’t refreshing. It just tasted that way. And it made the questions so easy to come up with. Maybe I would actually write this silly book.

  By the time we’d finished eating, the clouds were upon us, emitting low rumbles of thunder, and the air smelled thick with rain. Waiters were hustling plates and bowls into the house as Mick and I headed toward the stables.

  As we walked, Mick took my hand. The gesture surprised me. I could remember (vaguely) the last time I’d had sex, but could not remember the last time a guy had taken my hand.

  “You told Bull I was coming?”

  Mick glanced up at me.

  “He knew my name,” I said.

  “Sure,” he shrugged. “I had to call him about something this morning, and he asked if I was bringing anybody. Why wouldn’t I tell him your name?”

  “No reason.”

  The stables were L-shaped, consisting of two long wings, each containing five stalls, with a tack room and an area for washing the horses in the corner. When we went in through the south entrance, Mick stopped and scooped up a handful of pellets from a metal dish on a ledge. “Grab a few,” he told me, and I did as instructed, trusting that he wouldn’t expect me to offer treats to a biting horse.

  We passed empty, pristine stalls on our way to Blood’s abode.

  “Where are all the horses?” I asked.

  “Blood’s the only horse Bull owns right now.” The edge in his voice made me turn toward him, but all he said was, “But he’s got big plans.”

  “I see,” I said. “He doesn’t believe in a starter stable.”

  “Nope. ‘Small’ isn’t in Bull’s dictionary.”

  The stable smells—horse, hay, leather and manure—combined with the earthy scent of rain, creating an aroma that was not unpleasant. Rather sensual, in fact.

  Blood was next to the tack room. His stall was large, with black steel bars across the top half. The middle bars swung open like a window so he could stick his head out and enjoy the breeze from the overhead fan. The lower half of the stall—the “kickboard” as Mick called it—was oak with a curious little door cut into the lower left corner. Before I could ask about that door, Blood let us know he was home with a loud “harumph.” He thrust his head through the open part of the grill. His eyes widened at the sight of me, as though he remembered me from some past, hideous experience. As promised, he was big and beautiful, and when Mick reached out to stroke his neck, Blood gave us a nice view of his teeth. Mick retracted his arm, but seemed to take it in stride. He began talking to the animal, using a soothing tone and reassuring words. Blood stamped a couple of times, tossing his dark mane so that his forelock fell over one eye. Even in the dim stable light, his powerful chest muscles were evident beneath his mottled gray coat.

  “How tall is he?”

  Mick held his hand out, without trying to touch the animal. “Almost seventeen hands.”

  I did a quick calculation and determined that Blood and I were exactly the same height, if you didn’t count his head. I, too, described myself as “almost five six.”

  Finally, Blood consented to be touched, and Mick rubbed the length of the animal’s nose in a way that seemed, after several moments, to hypnotize him. While Blood was succumbing, I noticed that he was not alone in the stall. In the back corner, curled up on the straw and displaying a look that implied that it had seen everything worth seeing and had yet to be impressed, was a goat. It regarded us for several moments before deciding we were worth closer inspection. It rose from the rear first until it was at its full stature, which was maybe a couple of feet (six hands in horse height) at its withers. Bobbing its little head, which was distinguished by formidable horns and a Roman nose, it came toward us.

  “What’s with the roomie?”

  Now I understood the purpose of the mini-door the kickboard. Mick crouched in front of it and reached out for the goat. Blood retreated to the end farthest away from us and began yanking bits of hay from a trough, swishing his tail. The goat took one of the treats from Mick’s fingers. It was a coal black goat with a white, crescent-shaped mark that ran down one side, under its belly and up the other side.

  “If it weren’t for this guy here, Blood would have been gelded a year ago.”

  “How come?”

  “He keeps Blood from going completely insane.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Sassy. Short for Sassafras.”

  “Of course.”

  “He’s a pygmy.”

  As he fed the goat another treat,
he added, “This is Blood’s fifth goat. The first had horns that Blood had a habit of chewing, the second and third were scared of him, and the fourth scared Blood.”

  “He doesn’t chew on Sassy’s horns?”

  “Nope. I think Sassy here’s got just enough gumption so he doesn’t get chewed on and not so much that Blood gets even more nervous.”

  I regarded the creature with new respect. “So, Sassy is a goat among goats.”

  “I guess.”

  I glanced at the pellets in my hand. “Interesting how they form these bonds.”

  “Yeah, it is,” Mick said. “But it’s in character. Horses are herd animals. As a rule, they don’t like being alone. Some of them are more uptight about it than others, especially in a stall. Sassy here is an easygoing guy, neutered.” He glanced over his shoulder at me. “But he’s not crazy about women so don’t be offended if he tries to bite you.”

  “I’m going to try feeding him,” I said, taking up the challenge. Perhaps the beer had emboldened me.

  Sassy looked up at me and that was when I noticed his eyes—set into each amber iris was a large, rectangular pupil. I held my hand out to him. After several rather tense moments, he took a step toward me.

  “Hey,” Mick said. “He might even like you.”

  I watched as the little goat lips nibbled from my hand. They tickled. “I have a way with goats.”

  “Like I said, he doesn’t like women much.” He regarded me with interest. “But you seem to be okay.”

  “It’s what I strive for. Being okay. With goats.”

  I guess I was really okay, because Sassy decided to pass through his goat door and join us in the aisle. I patted his back and must have hit a tickle trigger, because he craned his neck and used his horn to scratch a spot on his back. I had to laugh. “Now, that’s convenient.” I gave him another treat, and as he chewed, I thought.