shuhaige
Chapter 2
Chapter 2
We drive, patrolling the same length of road over and again, James fiddling endlessly with his
equipment, trying to find some trace of the signal, but without success.
At length, we pull up by the front of a small diner. Nearer the City, such a place would be open twenty-
four-seven, but here, in this lonely spot, it lies closed, the windows dark.
Michael’s breathing is heavy, and even in the dim light, I can see his whitened knuckles as he grips at
the steering wheel, staring up and out.
James watches him for a moment….
His closest friend….
“What are you thinking about?” he asks, his voice soft.
Michael’s reply is a wounded snarl. “What do you imagine?”
“Well of course, Charlotte. Something specific?”
Am I in the way here?
They want to talk...
…. Not that I can go anywhere...
Just stay quiet....
Try to give them some privacy...
Michael sucks in breath. “I was thinking about that noise she makes. You know the one, when she’s
good and aroused, getting close to coming, sort of a cross between a moan and a wail…”
His words stab at me with an unsettling familiarity….
Elizabeth....
…. That breathy silence of hers when I'm building her climax....
Her eyes on me....
Her beautiful submission....
James is very still. “Yeah.… It’s a good sound, isn’t it.…”
The two fall silent for a long moment. I can’t see James, but for a moment, Michael catches my eyes in
the rear-view mirror. Then, looking away again, “Shall we move on? See if a different area gives us a
signal?”
James taps at his keyboard, bringing up another window. “Yes, I think so.”
*****
Seven Years Ago
Horse and rider canter into the yard, assorted pairs of eyes watching their arrival.
It’s a fine sunny day and everyone has found work to do outside. Brett, wearing faded overalls, touches
up blistered paint on the sheds, giving her a wave as she passes. Old Jacob, busy clearing a blocked
drain in the yard, wearing his usual stinking rags, follows her with his rheumy gaze. © NôvelDrama.Org - All rights reserved.
Tom, stripped to the waist to keep the muck off his shirt, helps. Well-muscled from hard physical work,
he’s a handsome sight. Some girl called Carol must have thought the same, judging by the tattooed
rose carrying her name which curves from shoulder to chest.
But handsome is as handsome does, and his good looks are spoiled by his slit-eyed scowl as, seeing
Jenny, he turns away.
Jenny’s stance now is very different from the first time she mounted Maggie. Sitting straight, her spine
is a smooth curve from shoulder to hip. Her thighs move rhythmically in a rise-and-fall with Maggie’s
movement. And her hair, long and loose, sways in time with the motion.
Mrs Collier holds the reins for her as she dismounts. “You're becoming a fine rider, Jenny.”
The girl grins, bright and enthusiastic. “Am I?”
“You are. You know,” says the woman, “Maggie here was fine for you when you first started. She’s a
good horse for a learner, but you’ve come on a lot. You need a ride with a bit more challenge now.”
Jenny's head twists and Mrs Collier's eyes follow her to where a silver-grey stallion struts around the
ring like moonlight on hooves. “No, not Dancer. He's a challenge for even the best.” Jenny’s face falls,
but Mrs Collier continues, “No, in fact, we were thinking of buying another mare for breeding. We
thought you might like to come with us when we take a look at what’s on offer.”
Jenny’s emerald-eyed gaze widens. “I can choose my own horse?”
“Um, no, not exactly. We’re a commercial operation here and we have to be practical. But if we narrow
it down to two or three we think might be suitable, you could tell us which one you like best. Good
enough?”
“Oh, yes!”
*****
“So, what do you think, Jenny?” Mrs Collier’s voice is bland, but her eyes narrow as she watches the
teenager.
Jenny watches the horse circling the ring on a lead-rein. The mare is handsome, her chestnut-gold coat
glinting in the sunshine, black mane and tail rippling with the breeze. Certainly, she’s been presented to
look her best. Jenny’s head tilts as she zeros in on some feature. “Do you think she’s walking as she
should? She looks to me as though she’s favouring the near hind a bit.”
Mrs Collier sucks at her teeth. “And I’d agree with you.” She swings around. “Riley, what are you trying
to foist on me? I thought we’d known each other too long for you to try that kind of cheap trick on me.”
The dealer flushes, but with barely a break in his musical Irish lilt, “Well, how about that lady over
there?” He points across to another enclosure.
Mrs Collier casts an eye across, then, “Jenny?”
“She’s a good horse for a youngster,” says Riley. “Her last rider was a girl just about your age.”
“Why did they sell her?” asks Mrs Collier, the scent of wrath still floating under her words.
Riley seems unmoved. “Moving back to the City, so they told me.”
Jenny walks across, then around the pen, eyeing the mare from all sides; a lovely bay roan, with mane,
tail and lower legs, all in a glossy black, her face is a shade of copper heading for pink.
“She has a pretty face,” says Jenny.
“So she does,” says Mrs Collier. “Take her round then, Riley.”
The Irishman gives a nod to the stable lad, who clips on the lead-rein, takes the mare to the ring, and
with a click of the tongue, first trots, then paces her. Her movement is smooth and graceful, lithe
muscle gliding easily under satin skin.
“She’s a darlin’ is this one,” says Riley. “An ideal mount for a middle-grade rider.” He cocks an eye at
Jenny. “Want to swing a leg over and take her around yourself?”
The mare is saddled, and Jenny mounts her smoothly, the horse nickering softly as her rider settles. As
the two first walk, then trot around the ring, Jenny’s smile grows broader.
Eventually, Mrs Collier reins her in. “Do you like her, Jenny? Enough for her to be your horse to look
after and ride?”
“Oh, yes. She's beautiful.”
“Good, that's agreed then. If you want to raise the invoice, Riley, I'll get a bank draft sent across.”
“What's she called?” asks Jenny.
“This little lady?” says the man, slapping the glossy neck. “She’s called Charlotte.”
*****