by Renée Dahlia
‘That much?’ Jacob maintained his cynical expression.
‘Yeah, a fifty per cent takeout is crazy high, but at least everyone knows they have fuck all chance of winning.’
‘Unlike other forms?’ Jacob’s voice portrayed his utter contempt.
‘Other forms of betting, you mean?’
‘Yes. Do people not realise the system is designed to beat them?’
‘Not all systems are designed that way. In horse racing, there are people, like my brother’s partner, Toshiko, who make money from betting,’ Rachel said.
‘That’s not typical, though?’
‘No.’ She nodded once to acknowledge his point, ‘She’s pretty special—a maths genius. And horse racing is the only betting where people can win consistently.’ She pointed at him, ‘You know, I reckon that’s why your mates have gotten conned into that punter’s club Ponzi scheme—because people know winning gamblers, like Toshiko, exist. And maybe the publicity that the guy in Tasmania gets, you know, the one who spends all his gambling income on his art museum—maybe that drags more people into racing because they think they can win like him.’
Jacob nodded. ‘Makes sense. A winning gambler is probably the bookmaker’s best friend. Anyway, that’s what I dropped by tonight to talk about.’
‘What? Art museums?’ Rachel smirked.
A frown flashed on his brow, before he raised one eyebrow. ‘No. Successful gamblers, and your sister-in-law.’
‘Toshiko.’
Jacob nodded again. ‘Remember on the phone a few days ago, you mentioned that she said one of the signs it was a scam was—’
Rachel gasped, ‘—that the results would be given to people after the races, but no list of bets before.’
Jacob held his hands up, and she bit her lip.
‘Sorry for finishing your sentence. Why does that matter?’ Excitement rushed in her veins, similar to the anticipation as she sat astride a horse in the starting gates, waiting for the explosive acceleration when the gates opened, and the thrill of speed as the horse’s hooves thundered underneath her, and the wind whipped past her face. She made herself wait for the answer to the puzzle, her toes tapping on the floor.
‘I mentioned that to my mate, The Palace, and he asked if the members would get any early Melbourne Cup tips.’
‘You mean, like for futures betting. The Cup is still six weeks away.’ Rachel frowned. It was a bit early to be asking for tips, many of the internationals hadn’t had a start here yet, and the field wasn’t close to being finalised.
Jacob’s eyebrows raised up. ‘If you would let me finish …’
She nodded contritely, ‘Okay.’ Her cheeks prickled with heat, embarrassed at her tendency to leap into conversations without waiting for people to finish.
‘So The Palace asked, and he got a response through the punter’s club email …’
‘Hold on …’ Rachel had assumed that Jacob’s team mates knew who was running the club, but if it was all by email, then …
‘Rachel.’
‘Hmm?’
‘Stop interrupting.’
‘Oh right, sorry.’ Her face burned, and her gaze dropped to the carpet. She lifted her head immediately, forcing herself to keep staring at Jacob, unwilling to appear cowardly in front of him.
‘The Palace got an email which said that the Melbourne Cup was a bad betting race—’
Rachel gasped. No, it wasn’t. But the flash in Jacob’s eyes made her clamp her lips together.
‘—and the punter’s club wouldn’t be betting on it, but they could provide a few tips, so the members could have some fun.’
The heat in her face turned from faint embarrassment to outright rage. ‘That’s fucking bullshit.’
Jacob raised his eyebrows, ‘Which part?’
‘All of it. The whole “Melbourne Cup is a bad betting race” had my bullshit meter flying towards the rage end; it’s a great betting race—exposed form, big fields, long favourites. And then to follow it up with “I’ll give you some tips for fun” when he’s never given out the pre-race bets before is off-the-scale total fucking bullshit.’
‘Don’t hold back, Rachel.’
‘How can you be so calm? Your team mates are obviously being ripped off. Don’t you care?’
Jacob’s eyes narrowed and he crossed his arms over his chest.
‘Stop. Stop before you say something you shouldn’t.’ A prickly, electric energy crackled in the air between them, and Rachel couldn’t stop her gaze dropping to his bare forearms. His biceps bulged under his t-shirt, and the lines of strength in his forearms made the outrage in her gut turn into lust, like a magical rock which exploded inside her, spreading heat through her torso and limbs. Oh fuck. If she’d wanted to jump him earlier this evening, this was worse, and her muscles shook with the effort of staying on her side of the room. Rage sex was by far her favourite sort, and the air hummed with possibility. She glanced at the front door. When was Allira due home? She needed to be saved from herself before she did something she’d regret.
‘Don’t be scared of me.’ Jacob misinterpreted her glance.
‘I’m not.’ She breathed in, filling her lungs in an attempt to slow her galloping pulse.
‘Rachel.’ Damn him for saying her name with an awe that sent a delicious shiver down her spine. Only a week ago she’d promised herself she’d take time to be single, to wait before she listened to her libido: her libido had betrayed her before, she shouldn’t trust this feeling. She blew out a short breath and pressed her hand to her collarbone. The intensity of desire inside her outdid any she’d felt before with anyone else. She pulled in another breath, letting it out slowly. It was only strong because she’d forbidden herself. It had to be because of that, it couldn’t possibly be real. It wasn’t allowed to be. The timing was all wrong.
‘Don’t mind me. What are you going to do about your mates?’ Her voice was all scratchy and she coughed. He dropped his arms, so they hung loose at his side, then lifted one hand to scratch his temple. The rubbing of his fingertips against his short black hair sounded loud in the room, louder than the quiet whispers of the races on the telly.
‘I don’t know. If they are already invested in this, then they might not want to hear that it’s a con.’
‘Why are people so complicated?’ Rachel sighed. The lust didn’t go away, it never did around him, but it began to ease, down to a manageable level as they both focused on the real problem. She wanted to roll her eyes. Listen to her, telling herself lies. Life was easier before she knew Lisa was a mongrel cheat, and she yearned for a simpler time when sex was comforting, fun, and didn’t have this wild unfulfilled longing.
‘Is that a rhetorical question?’ A snippet of a smile flashed on Jacob’s face.
‘Are you teasing me?’ She didn’t want him to flirt with her, except that she did, because she was a glutton for punishing herself.
His eyes glittered, drawing her in. ‘Would you like me to?’
‘No,’ she shouted, then said it again at her usual volume, ‘no.’
‘Ahh, that’s a shame. I think I’d enjoy teasing you.’ His eyes sparkled with humour, and she gaped at him.
‘Can we keep to the punter’s thing? It’s spring carnival. I can’t, right now.’ Did that scramble of words even make sense?
‘I can wait.’
Rachel shook her head. ‘That’s not what I meant.’ A panic made her heart race, and her chest felt tight, like his teasing stole the air from her lungs and made her throat tight. If there was any time of the racing calendar when she needed to focus on work, and not be distracted by sex, it was the spring carnival.
‘Do I scare you?’ The words might have scared her, except for the cheeky tone of them. He’d slowly been walking towards her, and now stood only a step away. He smelled like home, the earthy dry dirt of the farm with a hint of gum tree and masculine salty sweat of hard work, and she inhaled deep as she took the final step forward to stand with only an inch of air between
them.
‘You don’t scare me.’ She sucked in a deep breath, and smirked, ‘Although if you keep mentioning it, I’m going to start wondering if there is a reason I should fear you.’ She had to tip her head back to look up at him, the usual frustration at being so damned short irrelevant. Rather than give in to her lack of height and stretch up on tiptoes, she pressed her heels down into the ground.
‘My words will never be enough to reassure you if you are determined to be scared.’ His gaze held hers steadily, his brown eyes were so dark they were almost black, reminding her of the farm dam at night, with the dark water shimmering under the moonlight. She searched the depths, trying to figure out if he teased her, or if was offended at the premise. She’d never had the good sense to fear men, not even when they held physical power and strength much greater than hers, not even when she ought to be scared. She didn’t bother to hold her keys in her fist, like many women did, when walking at night. It didn’t seem practical, if she punched someone with a loaded fist, she was just as likely to hurt her own hand. Too many times, Serena had told her not to be naïve, and to be careful.
‘I’m not determined to be scared. What the fuck, Jacob! I—’
He grinned, wide and cheeky, with a quick flash of teeth, ‘Is that right?’
She glanced away, then back at him, ‘Are you teasing me?’
‘Rachel.’ He spoke her name with a reverence and she wanted to shut her eyes and just breathe it in.
‘Hmm?’
‘I always forget how small you are. You always seem so much bigger. I can’t imagine you being afraid of anything.’ He placed his hand on her back, his large palm covering half her back, and sending jolts of heat whipping up her spine. She wanted to melt against him, to succumb to the weight of lust and just let it flow into her. No, she shook her head, she’d done this so many times before, and it always ended badly. Her spine tensed, rigid.
‘Relax, Rachel.’ He wrapped her in a hug, cradling the back of her head with his other hand. His hard body seared against hers and her knees wobbled. Hell. Why was she fighting this?
‘What have you done to me?’ he asked, in a grave whisper. She bristled.
‘What have you done to me? I don’t need this complication in my life.’ She hadn’t meant to sound quite so snarky, but one touch from him had her forgetting her own purpose, her own decisions. He stroked his hand down her back, gentle, then stepped back, releasing her from his arms but not moving far enough away for her liking.
‘Rachel. I don’t want to ignore this …’
‘Chemistry? It’s just lust, Jacob, it doesn’t matter, and we can’t. I can’t. Not now.’
‘Why not?’
Rachel pushed him on the chest, walking away, free, but wanting to kick something, the wall or the back of the couch. Anything to get rid of this fierce energy inside her. She wanted to leap on a horse, and gallop freely with the wind rushing past her cheeks, to revel in the rhythm and speed. To go as fast as possible and run far away from the way her body betrayed her.
‘Why are you hot and then cold?’ Jacob asked.
‘Fuck you.’
‘Hey.’ He spoke quietly, holding his hands out in front of him.
She put her hands on her hips. ‘You want to know why not? Because I’m living with your sister. I’ve just left a fucking cheat, I don’t need to leap into another relationship—’
‘Who said anything about a relationship?’
His casual comment stole the breath from her lungs. ‘Fucking seriously? I’m not going to fuck you without some sort of commitment.’
‘Woah.’ Jacob stared at her with a puzzled expression. It wasn’t that hard to figure it out. She’d spelled it out for him.
She shrugged and turned away, ‘It’s just chemistry. It happens.’
‘Okay. If it matters so much to you, I’m going to walk away now. Tell Allira I’ll call her later about lunch this week.’ Jacob walked past Rachel, all the previous humour gone from his face, and left. Rachel stared at the front door as it clicked shut. How dare he accuse her of leading him on? Hot and fucking cold. Nope. He was the one who touched her, she wasn’t going to take the blame for his lack of control. She paced across the lounge, and threw her leg out, kicking her exercise ball as rage made her blood hot. The ball shot out, whacking into the wall, and knocked a mirror off. It hit the ground with a sick crunch, the frame splintering and glass breaking all over the floor.
‘Goddamn it. Are you fucking kidding me?’ The swearing calmed her down, as a rush of guilt sent a cold wave over the back of her neck. Of all the places her wild kick could have sent her ball, it had to be directly at Allira’s decorative mirror. Rachel tiptoed around the smashed glass, wondering if she should throw some salt over her shoulder, or some shit, to counter the bad luck she’d just given herself. Nah, she wasn’t superstitious, not like many of her fellow jockeys. She knew that Serena carried a tiny scrap of fabric inside her helmet, while some had precise routines they liked to go through before the races. Rachel tended to barrel on through life, and even now with the prospect of seven, or was it nine? Well, however many years of bad luck ahead of her, she didn’t worry about it.
She grabbed the little brush and shovel from under the kitchen sink and started to clean up. The action of brushing the shards of glass into the small shovel was soothing, although the guilt didn’t go away. She’d need to apologise, not her strong suit, and buy a replacement for Allira. What a shit housemate she was. She ran through her finances in her head—if she won another big race this spring, she’d be able to put a deposit on her own place. It gave her something positive to strive for, her own space, where she could be free to simply be. A place where she could hang a punching bag in the lounge if she damned well wanted to. A place without fucking crap on the walls to be broken. She sucked in a sharp breath, now she was being unfair. She knew, logically, she needed alone time, and she didn’t want to crave Jacob the way she did. The last thing she needed right now was yet another fling with someone who she didn’t know well enough to trust. One who braved her temper to tell her he just wanted a quick fuck, not a relationship. She tipped the broken glass into the bin with a satisfying crunch. Time to vacuum up the small pieces, then do some internet shopping for a replacement. She always paid her debts.
Chapter 9
Jacob spent the next few days focused on training for the important semi-final in two nights’ time, trying not the dwell on the way Rachel had heated his blood, then screamed at him as though it was his fault for initiating contact. He’d needed to touch her, his pocket rocket. He shook his head and focused on the screen of the treadmill as he went through his warm down. Hot and cold. He didn’t understand what triggered her extreme reaction, but he knew he had to apologise for the assumption. The reality was that he’d only spoken to her a few times, it shouldn’t matter. She shouldn’t dominate his thoughts this much. The last time he’d been in a team facing a semi-final game, three seasons ago, he’d been fully focused on the match and on his team. This time around, she was there, a presence he couldn’t rid himself of, no matter how many weights he pressed, or kilometres he ran. The running made it worse, not better, as her name beat in his head in time with his footsteps. Rachel. Rachel. What was it about her?
His knee twinged as the treadmill slowed automatically, and he reacted a step too late, almost overstepping the front of the machine. He grabbed the handles to steady himself, as his heart skipped a beat. The last thing he needed now was an injury, not when playing in a grand final loomed close. Unlike three seasons ago, when they’d scraped into the prelim finals after finishing eighth on the table, this time, they had a real live chance at making the Grand Final. Ever since he’d left home, at thirteen on an AFL scholarship to go to a fancy private school, his entire life had been focused around that one special night at the end of September, playing in front of a sold-out crowd at the MCG. Everything he’d done in the past sixteen years was aimed at one achievement. Every taunting malicious comment
about being the poor kid from the sticks, the Aboriginal boy in a colourless school filled with rich kids, every shitty thing had been endured because of the grand final goal. Sure, he had plans for his life after he retired, which made him a little odd compared to his team mates who didn’t seem to think beyond their playing days, but nothing could detract from his core goal. And yet, here he was, on the verge of a semi-final, with his thoughts distracted by a ferocious jockey, with a body designed for sin. All athletic strength in a small bundle to match her boldness. He loved, no, appreciated the way she threw herself at life, covering up any anxiety with bravado. He growled under his breath.
‘Is the knee bothering you?’ Dave, one of the team fitness advisors, asked.
‘No.’ He ought to be bothered by his knee, not by Rachel, and how she managed to distract him so thoroughly without trying. ‘A little.’
‘Maybe it’s time to ice it.’ Dave checked the screen, ‘You’ve done enough of a warm down now.’
Jacob glided backwards off the treadmill and stepped onto the ground, good leg first.
‘Sure, mate.’ He walked towards the medic’s office to begin the now familiar post-workout routine. His knee, and the dodgy ligament, would get all the attention from the team’s staff doctor and physios. With two days until Friday night’s game, an unreasonable amount of attention was being paid to one little stretchy piece of his body. He had to be right for the game.
‘Hey Jacob, when are you going to stump up some cash and join my punter’s club?’ The Palace called out, as he joined him in the line for the doctor.
‘Never. I told you it’s a scam, mate. You should pull out your cash while you still can.’
‘Ahh, mate, take a risk for a change.’ The Palace grinned. Jacob had a different idea about risk compared to his friend, Willem ‘The Palace’ Grandhomme, whose parents had immigrated here from South Africa in the early 2000s when the post-apartheid buzz had died away and the economy there had started to tank. They’d taken risks to get a perceived better life, and the Palace still had a bit of the twang in his accent to go with his blond hair and eerie blue eyes, eyes that reminded him of his father’s stories about the blue-eyed devils who claimed their land generations ago. He shook off the thought. Willem wasn’t evil, he couldn’t help his eye colour or his genetics any more than Jacob could. He’d shown his true mateship by stepping up against cruel racist comments, being there for him when it counted, by saying the things that needed to be said. Friendship through action was why Jacob wanted to help Willem now. Jacob dragged a deep breath in past his clenched teeth.
