Making Her Mark

by Renée Dahlia

  ‘How what works?’

  Rachel coughed. ‘The big brother, protective, thing.’

  ‘Do you think Allira wants me to step back?’ Jacob halted, puzzled. The change in direction of the conversation left him gaping. Once again Rachel made him wonder if his assumptions were off base.

  ‘I can’t comment for Allira, or what she wants, but she’s tougher than you think. She sees people for who they are.’

  ‘It’s a gift.’

  ‘Nah, it’s practice. How many addicts do you think they see in ER, trying to trick the doctors into giving them the drugs they want? Allira has a big heart, but she’s also got an almost sixth sense about whether someone is lying to her.’

  ‘A truth seeker?’ Jacob was damned proud of his little sister, and he adored the way Rachel got to the heart of why Allira was special. He swallowed, it was weird to feel jealous of his own sister. Unless this odd fluctuation in his chest was due to something entirely different?

  ‘Yeah, I mean, I don’t believe in any of that mystical shit, but it’s almost like she sees right through you into your real truth.’ Rachel’s comment surprised a booming laugh out of him, and he threw his head back, roaring with it.

  ‘You have a real way with words.’ He managed to speak through the tension releasing more laughter. Rolling his head side to side to stretch his muscles, he hadn’t realised just how tense his shoulders and neck had become until now.

  ‘Thanks, man. Maybe I’ll become a writer, or some shit, when I retire.’

  ‘And I was about to say, don’t quit your day job!’

  Rachel joined him with booming laughter. ‘Stop it. I can’t drive if I’m laughing too hard.’

  Jacob tried to stop with a big breath, but he couldn’t. The early cautious tension of their flirting released into his laughter, and he dragged in another breath.

  ‘I would hate to be the reason you crashed.’ The image of her car wrapped around a power pole had an instantly sobering effect.

  ‘Imagine putting that in the police report. What caused the accident, Ms Bassett? Well, I was talking to my housemate’s brother about betting scams, and shit, and then he made a joke and I laughed so fucking hard, I lost it.’

  ‘Well, that’s not an image I want in my head.’

  ‘It’s cool, man. I’m a good driver, almost as good as I can ride a horse.’

  ‘Almost?’ If the wild swings in this conversation didn’t give him a heart attack, or something else unsavoury, he’d probably succumb to the undercurrent of lust that hummed in his groin at Rachel’s voice. The throatiness combined with her feminine tones gave her a roughness that worked with her foolhardy approach to life. She spoke as if she threw herself at the world, and knew she’d bounce. The image of her when he first met her, with dirt all down her shoulder, and a rueful grin on her slim face helped paint a picture of someone with no fear.

  ‘They are actually quite different. In a car, I have full control, which I like. When I ride, the horse has all the power, and I’m only there to guide them.’

  ‘More like a navigator?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, that’s the perfect picture. It’s exhilarating when the partnership works, and when the horse tries their best simply because I asked.’

  ‘Sounds amazing.’

  ‘It is. Nothing beats the rush of winning.’

  ‘Hell yeah.’ Jacob loved the way his blood pumped when they won a game, the thrill of it was better than anything, more exhilarating than anything else he’d experienced. People said ‘better than sex’ which he didn’t really get because sex was an intimate joy, while winning was a public thrill.

  ‘Hey, do you want to hear a joke?’ she asked.

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Why is the fourth exit on a roundabout called the bogan exit?’

  It is? He’d heard of bogans, and didn’t everyone have that cultural cringe at the flag-waving group of rednecks who believed they were the real Australians? He’d never heard the expression relating to roads before. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because you go back to where you came from.’

  Jacob rolled his eyes as he groaned at the bad joke.

  ‘Oh, come on, I thought you’d laugh at that,’ Rachel quipped.

  ‘It’s clever, I’ll give you that, just not hilarious.’

  ‘You’re a tough judge, Jacob. Well, on that note, I’d better let you go.’ Rachel hung up before he could answer, leaving him wanting more.

  Chapter 8

  Rachel put her dinner dishes in the dishwasher and wiped down the bench. Perhaps it was irrational to be annoyed by this, but why did it take the same amount of dishes no matter what volume she ate? A small steak, some vegetables, and a bit of sauce shouldn’t use this many plates and pots. She walked back to the lounge and turned on the telly, flicking through to find the racing channels. The main channel was showing Hong Kong, while the local one showed all the replays from the city. As much as she didn’t want to watch Static Alarm win and relive the curl of frustration in her stomach that had come when she’d watched today’s race live, she did want to see the other races, so she could text her agent, Matthew, about possible rides. She kept her gaze on the screen, keeping the volume low so she didn’t have to hear the annoying comments of the form analysts justifying why their tips went poorly. She went through her routine post–race day stretches, ensuring her body would be ready for the next day. A loud thumping knock of the door intruded, and she stood up straight, taking her time to open the front door. Jacob stood outside.

  ‘Why are you here? Allira is on night shift,’ she said. His eyes widened, and his upper lip curled just a tiny bit.

  ‘Well, hello and good evening to you as well.’

  ‘Fine.’ Rachel sighed. ‘Come in. I’ve just had a shit day, that’s all.’

  ‘And I’m an easy target?’

  She waved him inside, and he moved easily past her as if he owned the place.

  ‘Everyone is a target today.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Static Alarm won.’ And it burned her deep inside to see the horse win without her. They’d backed the filly up after only a week, and Static Alarm showed her toughness to win again. Rachel had been riding at a country meeting, because getting a full book of rides at a low class meeting was worth more to her financially than riding two outsiders in the city. The prizemoney was miles better in the city, if you could get on a horse with a chance of winning it, but without a decent horse, she’d taken the option to earn a guaranteed income instead.

  ‘Isn’t winning the entire point of racing?’

  ‘Yes.’ She spat out the word between clenched teeth.

  ‘I don’t understand why that’s bad.’

  ‘Because Sherlock, I wasn’t riding her, and she’s my fucking horse.’ Except she wasn’t, technically speaking, especially now that Toshiko had missed out on buying her, and that bloody dickhead, Driscoll, owned her. She’d never get to ride her first Group One winner again. The unfairness of it sucked.

  ‘What?’

  Rachel slumped onto the couch, resting her elbows on her knees. ‘Never mind me. I won on her at her last start, but I got dragged for a male jockey. He won on her today. It should have been my ride, my victory. I’m the one who showed the trainer she was capable at that grade.’

  ‘That makes no sense.’

  She sat up straight, fury bursting out. ‘Just because I was born without a fucking penis, I have to be twenty times better than the blokes just to get the same opportunities, and even when I’m the best, I still get overlooked for some guy …’

  ‘I understand.’ Jacob’s quiet voice sucked all the emotion out of the room, and she bounced to her feet.

  ‘Yes.’ She poked him in his hard chest, and a bolt of lightning rushed up her arm. ‘I had to sit in the bloody jockey’s room at Wodonga and watch Adamson ride my mare to victory, while I got to spend the day with a bunch of slow plonkers.’ She dragged in a deep breath. ‘No, sorry, I don’t mean that. I hate it wh
en people call country class horses donkeys, or whatever. I’m just mad about Static Alarm.’

  ‘It’s okay to be mad when life is unfair.’ Jacob ran his hand down her arm, from shoulder to elbow, in a conciliatory gesture, and her mouth went dry as his palm warmed her skin. Her heart skipped a beat, then raced for a different reason altogether. She lifted her head and looked up into his dark brown eyes. The depth of colour gave him a kind, protective air, and a sense that she could let herself sink against him. Calm infused her body as she wanted to let him touch her. Was this trust or just desire? He reached up and his finger touched her chin, tilting her head up. She stretched up on tiptoes, and he leaned down. Yes. Please. Her lips parted in anticipation of a kiss, his kiss.

  ‘There are so many reasons why I shouldn’t kiss you.’ Jacob ran his finger along her bottom lip, and she followed its path with her tongue, her breath catching in her throat. Please. The word refused to form into a sound.

  ‘I can’t.’ He stepped backwards and shoved his hands behind his back. She leaned forward into the space he’d left, before she swallowed and hauled herself back into a contained space, her shoulders rigid.

  ‘Gah.’ Seriously? That was the sound she made. The air crackled between them as he retreated. She ran her hand over her ponytail, wanting to trust him, but not sure if she could trust herself.

  ‘Why did you come here?’ She wanted to ask why he couldn’t kiss her, or to give in to her impulses and pounce on him. How dare he? She shook her head. How dare he tempt her? She growled, it wasn’t his fault that he was so fucking gorgeous, and caring, and everything. It wasn’t his fault her libido hummed whenever he was nearby, and she wanted to jump him. Her self-imposed ban on sex was a bloody stupid idea. She could have sex without a relationship. She’d done it many times before.

  ‘I was thinking about our phone call, and—’

  ‘And what?’ Rachel couldn’t process the conversation, not with the arguments going on inside her head, and she started to pace away from him. Allira’s lounge wasn’t big enough for the motion she needed right now. She spun around as a rhythmic thumping noise came from Jacob’s direction. He was bouncing her exercise ball, looking slightly ridiculous as the giant ball was about three times as big as a basketball.

  ‘I didn’t pick you for a pink person,’ he said. She gaped at him. ‘You know, the ball, it’s pink. I didn’t pick you for a pretty colour like pink.’

  She rolled her eyes. When in doubt, go bold. ‘I wanted a rainbow one, but the size I needed only came in pink.’

  ‘Size?’

  ‘Yeah, I use it for balance exercises, and it needs to be a similar width to a horse.’ Rachel breathed out, releasing some of the tension, glad for the change in subject. This was a topic she could talk about with certainty.

  Jacob caught the ball and held it in front of him. ‘What?’

  ‘Here, chuck it here and I’ll show you.’

  He lobbed the ball over, and she caught it. She placed it on the ground in front of her, and knelt on it, before dragging her feet up to the right place. She anchored them by pressing into the ball, then stood up, mimicking the position she used on a horse when riding.

  ‘Wow. That’s some trick.’ Jacob’s mouth quirked up at the corners and heat flooded Rachel’s body as his gaze traced all over her.

  ‘Wanna have a go?’ She grinned as she stood up tall, then jumped off the ball.

  ‘No.’ His grin disappeared, and he shook his head.

  ‘Chicken!’

  His throat shifted as he swallowed, a sudden fresh tension infusing the air between them. Rachel knew any bloke hated being called a coward, and she opened her mouth to tease him about it.

  ‘I’d love to have a go …’ His hesitant whisper made her pause.

  ‘What’s the matter, Jacob? Scared a girl will show you up.’ She loved turning the table on him, or on the him he represented: all those blokes with fragile egos who got more opportunities than her. His eyebrows shot up, and she smiled.

  ‘No. In normal circumstances, I’m confident I could do it.’

  ‘But?’ She paused, tilting her head to stare at him. She wanted to know what was stopping him.

  ‘I can’t take any risks going into the Prelim Final next week.’

  She scoffed. ‘A balancing exercise isn’t risky. What are you talking about?’

  His nostrils flared as he stared at her unblinking.

  ‘What aren’t you telling me?’ She met his stare, searching for answers in his gaze. His head made a tiny movement, almost a shake, and his face closed down.

  ‘I can’t say. It’s finals season.’

  ‘What the hell are you worried about?’ She held her hands out in front of her. He swallowed again, and her gaze dropped to the movement of his throat. Was that his pulse she could see flickering at the base of his neck? No, surely that wasn’t physically possible.

  ‘Can I trust you?’

  She licked her bottom lip, ‘If you have to ask, then the answer is no.’ Jacob’s eyes widened and she tried not to grin, ‘But yeah, your secrets are safe with me.’

  ‘I twinged my MCL at training during the week.’ His chest rose and fell in shallow breaths, and a frown marred his expression.

  ‘MCL?’ The acronym rang a bell.

  ‘Medial collateral ligament, it’s this one.’ Jacob pointed to the inside of his knee, tracing the tiny ligament. Not recalling the name annoyed her. Knees were something Rachel knew a lot about, they’d covered them during her apprenticeship, all the names of the ligaments, and how to care for them. Being a jockey relied on having strong knees, and good balance through that joint. She tried to focus on the technicalities of the joint, except she’d never wanted to lick someone’s knee like she wanted to lick Jacob’s knee. She wanted to trace the ligament with her tongue and taste his skin. Bloody hell, she had it bad for him if she was fantasising about knees.

  ‘Oh shit. Don’t do the balance ball exercise then.’ She heard the wobble in her voice and hoped he would think it was empathy for his injury, not the flickers of lust that she couldn’t contain.

  ‘Yeah. The team doesn’t want anyone to know, especially the media, and I just have to be careful until next Friday night.’

  Rachel frowned. ‘Hang on, don’t you have a duty to punters to let them know?’

  Jacob blinked at her question. ‘What?’

  ‘In racing, everything has to be reported to the stewards, especially things like that which might affect the outcome of a race. Although, of course, if a horse has an injury, they can’t race until cleared by a vet, so it’s a bit of a useless analogy.’

  ‘It doesn’t work like that in footy.’

  ‘And that’s why sports betting is a scam.’ Rachel winked at him, to let him know that she joked.

  ‘All betting is a scam.’ Jacob shrugged. She took a second to let a tight breath out between her teeth. Did he mean to incite violence in her? She put her hands on her hips and glared.

  ‘It’s not and let me tell you why.’

  Jacob’s cynical response was written all over his face and it probably said a lot about her that she wanted to wipe that snide grin off his mouth with her superior knowledge on the subject.

  ‘Not all betting is the same, so your comment is wrong before you even get to the details. The biggest scams are the pokies and the lottery.’ Rachel resisted the opportunity to poke him in the chest again, although her fingers twitched, and she clamped her hands together.

  ‘I hate the pokies.’

  ‘Me too. They are so insidious with a low takeout rate, giving the impression to punters that they are winning as they lose.’

  Jacob peered at her, with a deep furrow on his brow.

  She shrugged, and waved her hands in the air, ‘Look, I won’t pretend to understand all the maths behind it, but we did talk about the pokies at apprentice school as being really addictive. We covered all that stuff because jockeys aren’t allowed to bet on horses, but we are surrounded by it all t
he time, so heaps of jockeys end up addicted to pokies. I can’t remember the details of why they are more addictive than other forms of gambling, but it’s something to do with the speed that you lose money.’

  Jacob nodded, his eyes narrowed. ‘Makes sense. If you win little amounts often enough, you are tricked into thinking you are winning, when you aren’t.’

  ‘Yeah, it’s different to lotto because everyone knows you aren’t going to win that. Like Melbourne Mick said, it’s a tax on the mathematically illiterate.’ Rachel shook out her hands and scratched the back of her neck.

  ‘Melbourne Mick? If that’s not an underground figure, then I’m not a footy player.’

  Rachel smiled to acknowledge the truth in Jacob’s comment. ‘Yeah, he was one of the SP crowd in the seventies, famous in racing circles for his pithy quotes.’

  ‘SP?’

  ‘Starting price bookie. Man, you don’t know anything!’

  ‘Hey.’ He made the universal gesture of sports players protesting an umpire’s call with arms spread wide. She smirked at him.

  ‘It’s true. You seem so naïve.’ She paused waiting for him to answer, but he only raised his eyebrows and dropped his hands to his sides. At least, she’d managed to get rid of the frown off his face.

  ‘Anyway, in the old days, like before we were born, betting used to be only allowed at the racecourse, and SP bookies were illegal offcourse bookies who took bets based on the oncourse figures. Starting price comes from the bet being paid out at the same amount as the horse started at oncourse. It meant that anyone with spare cash, and a phone line, could set themselves up as a bookie, because they didn’t have to work out the odds themselves, just use what the oncourse bookies set.’

  ‘Right—and you wonder why people think all of racing is dodgy.’ Jacob raised his eyebrows.

  ‘That’s the old days. There are no secrets anymore, especially with internet betting. It’s a shame really, racing has lost all the smaller players, all the flavour, now that they legalised offcourse and internet betting. Just the big companies are left, raking in all the money.’ She put her hands on her hips, then tucked them behind her back, twisting her hands together. ‘I’m sure you don’t care about all that. Melbourne Mick was right about lotto. The odds of winning are tiny, and the government takes half of all the money put into the pool before anyone gets paid out.’