monaboyd | FIC: Let it Ride

Title: Let it Ride
Author: Butterfly_web
Rating: PG-13 (chapters will be rated individually)
Pairing: Monaboyd
Summary: It's 1930's America. Billy Boyd is a struggling jockey in the Mexican border town of Tijuana. Dom Monaghan is an amatuer boxer with loanshark on his back.
Disclaimer: Not mine. Not true. It's a bit of nothing, really.

The smell of sweat was heavy in the afternoon air; horses were coated in a fine sheen, and jockeys mopped their brows with fervor, thin silks doing nothing to assuage the heat of the Tijuana sun. The flat track was laid fresh that morning, smooth dirt yet untouched by hooves, and the mariachi band was in full swing. Mexico in the winter was a sight to behold, and its northern neighbors flocked to the races like bees to honey, eager for tequila and thrills.

Half-hour before the gate, the stables were abuzz with activity; trainers, owners, and riders rushed to and fro, stopping to grab a bridle, fill a bucket, give an order. Gleaming thoroughbreds pawed the ground in impatience, tossing proud, delicate heads. The atmosphere was one of anxiety, eagerness, and anticipation. Man and horse alike craved the win.

In the stable’s rear, Billy Boyd wiped his mouth in distaste, swallowing roughly in an attempt to sooth his abused throat. Ignoring the smell of bile, he trudged to the jockeys’ room, and once there, shucked off his low boots to stand upon the scale. 110. It would have to do. Scratching his jaw idly, he retreated to his locker to don his silks, resolutely ignoring the building tension in his chest.

At five feet six inches, he would normally be considered diminutive. In a jockey’s world, it was tall enough to be a disadvantage in securing mounts, especially when one’s competition consisted of men who barely hit five feet. It was the weight that counted, though, Billy knew, and as ridiculous as it sounded, bringing it up now might secure him dinner tonight. Didn’t make the taste any less foul.

Snapping his chinstrap and taking a bat in hand, he headed off to the track yard, where his mount, Stybba, would be waiting. The chestnut stallion was small for a racehorse, barely standing fifteen hands at the shoulder. He had a poor gait as well, and a tendency to break early and falter in the clutch. Despite this, he was a pleasant animal, well mannered and disposed; a pleasure horse if Billy’d ever seen one. But Stybba’s owner was convinced the little creature would make him rich in the races, no matter who told him otherwise.

Billy shook his head slightly as the trainer gave him a leg up. Settling himself in the shallow seat, he came to terms with the fact that he wasn’t going to win this one, and was going to pay for it. As if it were his fault the horse was little better than a damn lead pony.

But once in the gate, he forgot all that. Forgot about impending defeat, forgot Mr. Lee’s warning that this would be the last time if he lost. Forgot about everything except the feel of the beast under him, the smell of fresh dirt, and the bittersweet tug of his muscles as he shifted to a jockey crouch. His breath came shallow in his lungs, and his heart pounded inside his ears. Any second now, any second…

Brrrrrrnnnngg!

The last punch came late, as he knew it would, not stopping for the bell and crashing with brutal force into his already crooked jaw. He imagined he could taste the cracked leather of the gloves around his own blood, and staggered a bit, willing himself to remain upright. The announcer was shouting rapidly in Spanish, and he felt rough hands tug his first into the air. Dazed, he registered faintly that, despite the last blow, he’d won.

The Mexican boxer, Jose, was cursing angrily in his direction, and departing bettors, angry about their losses, spat in the dirt at his feet. But at the moment, the only thing that mattered to Dom Monaghan was the wad of bills clenched in his dirty fist. He pressed them momentarily to his lips, ignoring the drag of the rough paper against his wounds.

Stooping, head spinning briefly, he stuffed a fourth of his winnings into the bottom of his sock, and tucked the remainder in the pocket of his trousers. Gray eyes darted suspiciously across the cantina’s courtyard, before he took off in a brisk jog, eyes watering at the pain the action caused him. He slowed as he rounded the corner, now only few meters from the inn, and he allowed a sigh of relief to pass his lips.

When a thick-fingered hand wrapped itself around his neck, he knew it was too soon.

Three men stepped out of the shadows, joining his towering assailant. Their smiles were cold, and calculating, and Dom felt his stomach drop out in fear. His hands scrabbled futilely at the iron grip around his throat, only to gasp in unrestrained panic as he felt his feet lift off the ground. Amused by his panic, the better dressed of the men began to speak.

“Senor Monaghan. Mucho gusto.” The sibilant Spanish fell from thin lips, twisted into a shark-like smile. “ You know was today is, si?”

Dom nodded frantically, choking out the words. “I…I have it! I have it!”

The leader frowned slightly, then nodded to the large man. Dom was suddenly released, falling in a graceless heap to the floor, gagging. Little attention was paid to him as the searched his pockets, pulling out his hard won prize.

“Cuarenta y dos. Seems we were lucky tonight, no?” The amused voice turned suddenly hard, and Dom cried out as a booted foot came down on his fingers. “It’s still not enough, Domito. Not nearly enough, y yo quiero mi dinero. So you better pray you find a way to give it to me. Comprende?”

He nodded, then yelped out a pained “yes!” as the heel twisted on his hand. At this, the boot was removed, and the men began to disappear back into the shadows. He remained tense, however, and his suspicions were proven valid as the leader, in parting, dealt a single wicked kick to his already much abused ribs, before buggering off.

Dom lay still for a minute, breathing shallow and rough. Squeezing his eyes shut, he clenched his teeth and did his best to resist the despair the threatened to take him. Not enough. It was all he had. He opened his eyes slowly, and pulled himself into an aching sitting position. All he had except for…he took a deep breath. Fourteen dollars. For tomorrow, at the track. Dom sighed. He’d been lucky to win tonight, but there was no way it would happen again any time soon, not as beat up as he was. So to fall on the stand-by: gambling.

One hand on the wall to steady himself, and he rose, limping back to his room, resolving to head for the track first thing in the morning.

The wooden bench was hard beneath him, unyielding and cruel, twisted knobs of unsanded board digging insistent in his back. Shifting a bit, he pillowed his arm beneath his head, and clutched his worn leather coat tighter about him.

It had been as he predicted. Stybba had come nine out of ten, and Mr. Lee had been livid. Billy had tried once more, in vain, to tell the man his horse was no good, but the wealthy bastard wouldn’t hear it. In Mr. Lee’s mind, jockeys lost races, not horses. And Billy had lost for him one too many times.

The small man snorted in disgust at the memory of Lee’s next words. He announced he was selling Billy to a friend of his, so that he could “make some kind of profit” out of him. He bit his lip in silent rage. Selling him. As if he were the goddamn horse in the equation.

Billy swallowed thickly, frustration welling up inside him. This was all such a goddamn waste. If he was still in England…but there was no going back there, not after what had happened. So there was America, or at this point, Mexico. Racing two bit ponies for table scraps and abuse, treated like the property of a bunch of aristocratic fools, many of which couldn’t tell one end of a horse from another.

Closing his eyes, he tried to ignore the grumbling in his stomach. It was times like this when he missed Margaret. She had always made him feel better, made him feel like there was hope, a purpose for things. But here, and ocean away from Scotland and his beloved sister, no such beliefs were forthcoming. There was simply anger, and despair.

He slid his free hand into his pocket, and almost as an afterthought, touched himself lightly through the thin fabric. It was the nights like these when he really needed the company, paid for or otherwise. To feel skin on skin, and to lose himself for a time in something that was nothing but pleasure. Unfortunately, he didn’t trust Mexico for these things, and he’d be damned if he’d risk his life for little more than a quick roll.

With a heavy sigh, he curled up a little more on the bench, ignoring his back’s protest at the harsh surface, and attempted to lose himself to sleep, resolving to head for the track first thing in the morning.