Evermore - Alyson Noel [49]
“Where are we?” I ask, gazing at the green buildings and the sign marked EAST ENTRANCE. “East entrance to what?”
“Well, this should explain it.” He laughs, pulling me toward him as four shiny sweaty Thoroughbreds trot by with their grooms, followed by a jockey in a pink-and-green jacket, thin white pants, and muddy black boots.
“The racetrack?” I gape. Like Disneyland, it’s pretty much the last place I expected.
“Not just any racetrack, it’s Santa Anita,” he nods. “One of the nicer ones. Now come on, we’ve got a three-fifteen reservation at the FrontRunner.”
“The what?” I ask, standing my ground.
“Relax, it’s just a restaurant.” He laughs. “Now, come on, I don’t want to miss post.”
“Um, isn’t this illegal?” I say, knowing I sound like the worst kind of goody-good, but still, he’s just so—lawless and reckless and—random.
“Eating is illegal?” He smiles, but I can tell his patience is running thin.
I shake my head. “Betting, gambling, whatever, you know.”
But he just laughs and shakes his head. “It’s horse racing, Ever, not cockfighting. Now come on.” He squeezes my hand and leads me to the elevator bank.
“But don’t you have to be twenty-one?”
“Eighteen,” he mumbles, going inside and pressing five.
“Exactly. I’m sixteen and a half.”
He shakes his head and leans in to kiss me. “Rules should always be bent, if not broken. It’s the only way to have any fun. Now come,” he says, leading me down a hall and into a large room decorated in varying shades of green, stopping before the front podium and greeting the maitre d’ like a long lost friend.
“Ah, Mr. Auguste, so wonderful to see you! Your table is ready, follow me.”
Damen nods and takes my hand, leading me through a room full of couples, retirees, single men, groups of women, a father and his young son—not an empty seat in the house. Eventually stopping at a table just across from the finish line, with a beautiful view of the track and the green hills beyond.
“Tony will be right over to take your orders. Should I bring you champagne?”
Damen glances at me then shakes his head. His face flushing slightly when he says, “Not today.”
“Very well then, five minutes ’til post.”
“Champagne?” I whisper, raising my brows, but he just shrugs and unfolds his racing program.
“What do you think about Spanish Fly?” He looks at me. Smiling when he says, “The horse, not the aphrodisiac.”
But I’m too busy gazing around to answer, struggling to take it all in. Because this room is not only huge, but it’s also completely full—in the middle of the week—the middle of the day even. All these people playing hooky and betting. It’s like a whole other world I never knew existed. And I can’t help but wonder if this is where he spends all his free time.
“So what do you say? You wanna bet?” He glances at me briefly, before making a series of notes with his pen.
I shake my head. “I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”
“Well, I could give you the whole lowdown on odds, percentages, stats, and who sired who. But since we’re short on time, why don’t you just look this over, and tell me what you feel, which names you’re drawn to. It’s always worked for me.” He smiles.
He tosses me the racing form and I look it over, surprised to find three distinct names jump out at me, in a one-two-three order. “How about Spanish Fly to win, Acapulco Lucy second, and Son of Buddha third,” I say, having no idea how I got there, but feeling pretty confident in my picks.
“Lucy to place, Buddha to show,” he mumbles, scribbling it down. “And how much would you like to wager on that? Minimum bet’s two, but you can certainly go higher.”
“Two’s good,” I say, suddenly losing confidence and unwilling to empty my wallet on a whim.
“You sure?” he asks, looking disappointed.
I nod.
“Well, I think you’ve got some sound picks so I’m betting five. No, make that ten.”
“Don’t bet ten,” I say, pressing my lips. “I mean, I just picked ’em, I don’t even know why.”
“Looks like we’re about to find out,” he says, standing as I reach for