Dagger's Point

Chapter Thirteen

(**UNEDITED/NOT PROOF READ**)

The track is alive with people and horses, it's exciting in some manner, a part of electricity that runs through my veins. I don't know how hard it will be to find Green River, or Fred, but still I move towards the barns, waiting for someone to stop me and ask for credentials. I see a guard not too far off, but he's leaning against the building taking a smoke. So, I slip inside the first barn, in search of pink hair or green, blue and black racing colors. The first time I had seen them there was a minor cringe in the pit of my stomach, together they clash severely, but at the same time it almost works. Either way it really doesn't matter, I'm not going to be wearing those colors, it just makes me a little bit easier for me to find them in a mash of horses. Near the end of the aisle I catch sight of some bright pink hair leaning over a stall door. It's undoubtedly Fred.

"Hey Fred."

She whirls when she hears my voice, her sharp eyes looking surprised to see me.

"What are you doing here?"

"I came to watch."

"So you wouldn't mind being a groom?"

"I guess not?" I'm not dressed to be a personal assistant to some thoroughbreds but I guess it doesn't really matter. If Fred asks me to do something, I'm going to do it.

"Take Baxter here and brush him down really well. I don't want to see a single spot on him." The horse in question looks back at me with bored eyes, while a blanket hangs off one side, torn. And in that gap of fabric lays a large spot of manure on his grey coat. I wince at it, there's nothing more fun than getting a dirty, grey horse clean again. He doesn't seem very pleased with my presence as Fred throws some some bathing stuff in my direction before hurrying off to do something else. I stare at Baxter and he I, neither one of us are prepared for what is to come. I realize as I clip the lead to his halter that I have no idea where the wash rack is. Frowning I fight with the destroyed blanket, trying to discard it whilst dodging bites from the angry grey. I manage to survive with all my finger attached as I drag him from his stall and down the aisle. He is beyond pissed, as he changes from trying to drag me down the aisle, to stopping and snaking his head at me. It feels like an eternity before I make it to the wash racks, which are right in the open, something I had missed coming in.

There are a couple other horses there, each looking just as pissed as Baxter, though they all seem happy enough to cooperate. I set everything on the grooved cement, before tying him up, watching as he rolls his eyes into the back of his head, pulling back sharply; already fighting and we haven't even gotten started yet. Gritting my teeth a grab the only small hose not in use, allowing a steady stream of water to flow through it. I play with the temperature a bit until I get it perfect, and then I begin to spray it on Baxter's legs. He is beyond offended, as he pins his ears at me, hooves scraping against the cement, as he dances as if I was causing him harm. I almost wish that I was, at least in that case he would have something to justify his ridiculousness with. One of the other grooms throws a look my way, most likely taking in my street clothes and tennis shoes; I doubt that I look very professional. It doesn't take long before I am soaked with water and soap, but still I have managed to scrub any remainders of the stain from his coat, leaving him still pissed but a more vibrant grey color.

"Fantastic." Fred says when I lead him back into the barn, her eyes on me as I skirt around another farm, one of them shooting me a dirty scowl. I hope then that Baxter will give them a sour look as well, but I am out of luck as he drags me down the aisle, in search of his stall.

WIth him in his stall I am left cleaning tack, I don't mind, but the barn has begun to get increasingly hotter, as the sun rises over head. As I sit there scrubbing away I hear a familiar voice; Conan. I try not to look up at him, keeping my eye's focused on the black leather but despite my efforts I look up. He leans against a stall door talking with Fred, a smile on his face and hair still wet from a shower. If he sees me looking he doesn't show it as I quickly look back at the tack; I know I'm being ridiculous but I can't help it. I feel like a middle schooler who giggles at the first thought of a having a crush on a boy. I'm not that far off from them; in reality I should wait for him to be done talking and say something to him and take initiative because it's the 21st century. But, of course, I don't, trying to lose myself in the spanish music the plays from somewhere in the barn.