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monaboyd Apr. 24th, 2006 07:24 pm)
butterfly-web.livejournal.com posting in monaboyd Apr. 24th, 2006 07:24 pm)Title: Let it Ride (Part 2/?)
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.
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 morning rose quietly, early and bright, signaling the day’s beginning to a select few. Riders paced the tack, while sleeping giants blinked awake inside their stalls. Tugging his woolen cap low to block the growing sunlight, Billy made his way through the stables, searching out the stall where he was to meet his new employer.
Mr. McKellen was his name, and he was new to America, as well as the racing business. From what Billy had learned by asking around, the man was filthy rich and none too concerned about where his dollars went, even after the mess on Wall Street. One of his most recent indulgences was a beautiful stallion, which he was eager to race.
Billy smiled in an ugly sort of way, knowing McKellen’s inexperience was the only reason he was currently employed. He turned the last corner, and found the elderly gentleman standing stiffly, hands in his pocket, his unease obvious with the large gray head poking from above the stall door. McKellen’s face brightened considerably when he saw Billy, seizing the opportunity to turn his focus from the horse. He stuck out a manicured hand for Billy to shake, wiping it fastidiously on his jacket afterward.
“Wonderful to meet you, Mr. Boyd.”
His tones were cultured, and clipped. Nodding to the horse, he spoke again. “This beauty is Shadowfax. Cost me a fortune, but I suppose it’s worth it. There certainly is a lot more to talk about in the club.” He chuckled, straightening his tie.
Smiling to humor the man, Billy nevertheless bypassed him quickly, and moved to stand in front of the glorious animal. Without hesitance, but slowly, he reached to pat the finely muscled neck and smiled again, for real this time, at the gentle snuffling.
“Hey boy. Hey there. How’re you doing, eh?” Scritching Shadowfax behind a delicate ear, Billy turned back to face McKellen.
Standing with the older gentleman was another, harder man. The face was chisled, the eyes cold. A well-worn fedora was crammed atop a scraggly mane, and two days worth of stubble served to reinforce the stone behind his eyes. Eyes that were currently sizing Billy up, and not liking what they saw.
“This is Shadowfax’s trainer, Viggo Mortensen.” A genial smile. “I’ll leave you to talk about matters, yes? I believe there is a coffee in the breakfast room calling my name. Good luck today, Mr. Boyd.”
Billy barely noticed the departure, unnerved as he was by Viggo’s glacial stare. He offered what he hoped was a pleasant expression, and extended his hand. “Mr. Mortensen.”
Viggo ignored the hand, and barked out, “How much?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“How much do you weigh? The height is gross enough, over 5’ 5”. How much are you going to be adding in the saddle?”
Bristling at the contemptuous tone, Billy clenched his jaw around his first response, and said through gritted teeth. “5’6” in stocking feet. 110lbs in the saddle.”
Viggo snorted. “Hell with that. As long as you’re riding for us, you’re not going to be over 103, you hear me? I don’t care what the hell you have to do, make weight or you don’t ride. Don’t ride, don’t get paid. McKellen doesn’t know the first damn thing about this business, and I’m not about to let whatever upstart who thinks he a jockey swindle him. Got it?”
By the end of the trainer’s speech, Billy was shaking in rage, in part from knowing the man had absolute power to enforce his edict. At this point in the season, jockeys were picked, and he’d have little chance of getting better work, if any at all. The ultimatum stood stark in front of him. Drop the weight, or he would be homeless. Again.
Mortensen gave him one more disapproving look, before gesturing to the animal above Billy’s shoulder. “Get him ready. First race is in two hours. And you’d better win.”
With those parting words, the man stormed off, leaving Billy biting a hole through his lip, fingers clenched into a silky gray mane.
*
Dom coughed reflexively, choking on the cheap cigarette smoke. He took another long drag, before flicking it into the dirt, crushing the butt under his boot heel. Calmly, as if he had every right to be there, he entered the stables. Wary of the casual observer, he walked fast enough to have purpose, but relaxed enough to not garner attention.
Glancing in through the stall doors, he tried to discern who was looking ready, and who was just plain jumpy. The big bay in the back looked half asleep still, and Dom shook his head ruefully, crossing another off his mental list. He wandered along, taking note of the chestnut, Merlin’s Wand, pawing the ground with anticipation, and another, Three Bits Four, cribbing in earnest.
Caught up in his mental calculations, Dom almost jumped out of his skin when he heard the voice talking quietly behind him. Hurrying to duck in an empty stall, he pressed his back against the oaken wall and listened, praying he wasn’t about to be caught out.
His fear eased when he realized the person was talking to his horse. It was a nice voice; vaguely Scottish, and rather young. Turning slowly, Dom raised himself just enough to peek over the stall door, to where a slight man was cross-tying a beautiful gray in the passage, combs at his feet.
As he began to brush the sleek creature, the murmurs returned, delicate whispers that seemed to put both the horse at ease, and the man himself. Dominic watched him work, watched the muscles in his back move through his thin shirt, and tried desperately to remember who it was that stood before him. The only gray on the bill was…Shadowfax, that was it. And the jockey…Boyd. Something Boyd.
Silently, so as not to disturb the pair before him, Dom snuck from the stall, barely glancing at the rest of the horses as he hurried out of the building. There was no need; he’d made his pick.
*
For all his unusual height, sitting atop Shadowfax dwarfed Billy. The massive Thoroughbred stood nearly 18 hands; delicate feet giving way to strong hocks and powerful hindquarters. Dancing in place, the horse shook his head, letting out a piercing whinny. Billy leaned down to pat the animal’s neck, whispering soothing words.
Shadowfax settled immediately under his touch, and Billy smiled quietly, He was sensing an immediate connection with the animal, much to his surprise, as such a thing rarely happened in the past. He’d never felt like he did now, like the creature between his legs had nothing but raw power to be unleashed, and the very idea made him itch with anticipation to begin the race.
Viggo walked beside him, muttering seeming advice in a poisonous volume. He tugged Billy’s mount by the bridle, making both horse and rider resentful of the imposed control. Nearing the gate, Billy pulled Shadowfax away, urging him forward and into the small space.
To his left and right, jockeys prepared for the race, now only moments away. Helmets were checked, grips reinforced, mounts steadied. The young man next to him glanced over, crystal blue eyes going as round as saucers at the sight of Shadowfax.
“Fuck, Bill,” the emerald-clad jockey whistled, long and low. “He’s a beaut.”
Billy nodded in borrowed pride. “He is, isn’t he, Lighe?” He grinned. “Fecking amazing, really.”
Elijah returned his expression, before turning back to his own mount.
Billy could feel his heart pounding firmly in his chest. With a sudden, blinding clarity, he knew this would be it. This would be the time. With Shadowfax beneath him, there was no way he could lose.
He rose into the crouch, laughing quietly to himself, feeling the horse go taut in anticipation beneath him.
Here we go, he thought.
*
The rusted metal of the rail dug into his palms, clenching it as he did, knuckles going white. His other hand was similarly fisted, crushing a program into an unrecognizable ball. Lightly, compulsively, he rocked back and forth on his heels, whispering a mantra of pleas and hopes. His eyes never left the gray, now in the middle of the pack, but gaining, ever gaining on the big bay.
“C’mon, Boyd. Shadowfax…c’mon boy…c’mon!” His teeth sank into his lip, trying to control himself.
Boyd and the gray cut between the chestnut and St. Elmo’s Fire, moving from the rail and taking a close second as they came down the stretch, barreling across the last furlong. Dom released his grip on the rail, spinning and taking off after the charging beasts, a futile chase.
Panting heavily, he screamed after them, encouragement. Demands. “C’mon Boyd! You’re there! You’re almost there! C’mon!”
The last hundred feet and Dom stopped dead in his tracks, heart jack-hammering inside his chest. C’mon! As though in a fog, the announcer’s words came to him, slow and jumbled.
“—and coming down the line it’s Shadowfax and Potshot, neck and neck as they reach the final stretch, they’re matched pace for pace, ladies and gentleman, it’s going to be a photo finish, they’re coming, coming, at the wire and—“
Dom took a deep breath, biting down on his fist.
“It’s Shadowfax! By a nose it’s Shadowfax!”
Letting out a joyous shout, Dom punched his fist in the air, yelling his fortune to anyone that would hear.
“Eighty-four dollars! I just won eighty-four fecking dollars! Whoohoo!”
*
Billy didn’t know what was more palpable, the joy, or the shock.
Rationally, he knew he shouldn’t be so surprised by his success, but after so many failures, to be sitting in the winner’s circle, flowered wreath over his legs, hands buried in daisies…it was unreal. Too unreal. For a second, dizziness overcame him.
McKellen approached him, clapping his hands, and standing to pose near Shadowfax’s mighty head, his pleasure still not overcoming his unease with the animal. Viggo stood to the side, expression unmoved from this morning.
Pictures snapped and questions were fired, Billy trying his best to answer them, before being steamrolled by McKellen. He allowed the old man his airtime, after all, that was the whole point, right? McKellen got the money and the space in print, Shadowfax got to run as he was born to, and Billy was simply lucky to be along for the glorious ride.
After the hubbub died down, he led Shadowfax by the bridle to his stall, fulling intending to give the animal a vigorous rubdown, and a few lovely treats. Settling the horse inside, he turned to close the door, and came face to face with Viggo.
Billy shifted uneasily. “Mr. Mortensen.”
“So you can win.” The hard gaze betrayed no approval. “Don’t think it makes anything I said this morning irrelevant.”
Mortensen stepped forward, crowding Billy into the corner of the stall, and making him cringe. “You proved you can win. That means just one thing to me: you better not lose.”
With those words, the taller man delivered a parting smack to the wall beside Billy’s face, and stormed from the stall, leaving the jockey inside sick with apprehension.
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<33
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Wonderful!
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Re: Wonderful!
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Re: Wonderful!
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But I can't help wincing at nasty Viggo. Viggo's such a sweetie in real life!
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But I can't help wincing at nasty Viggo. Viggo's such a sweetie in real life!
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Aw, and yeah, mean old Viggo. He is being rather terrible. But perhaps he has a story of his own behind his callous exterior. Maybe, maybe...
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And I am also not making a lot of sense... I apologize ;)
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