Free Fast & Loose by Elizabeth Bevarly Page A

hardest to get to kept getting farther and farther away, and the faster he tried to run, the more unattainable it became. Then he realized Craggedy Ann was craning her neck and looking around the room, as if she were searching for something—someone—too. And then his anxiety rose, because what if she found that person before he had a chance to get to her? He might never see her again.
    Then he realized how foolish he was being. He didn’t even know the woman’s name, had exchanged maybe two dozen words with her, none of which had been especially warm. Hell, he didn’t even like her, weird sympathizing notwithstanding, which was probably only a result of indigestion, anyway. What did he care if he never saw her again?
    Nevertheless, for whatever reason—probably the aforementioned indigestion, or maybe jet lag, or, hell, it was probably from the damned concussion he got every night banging his damned head on the damned ceiling in the damned bedroom—seeing Craggedy again felt a little bit like good luck. And like everyone else in the Thoroughbred business, Cole was just superstitious enough to believe he needed all that he could get.
    He inched forward again, smiling and shaking hands and replying as quickly and politely as he could to everyone who wanted a piece of him. Just when he was within inches of being able to call out—or better yet, reach out—to her, Craggedy turned away and melted into the crowd. He lunged forward in the direction into which she’d disappeared, pushing aside a man who stepped in front of him without even caring how rude the action may have been interpreted. But he was immediately encircled by throngs of people again. He pushed himself up on tiptoe, and since he was already taller than the majority of people there, was able to see a good many of the heads surrounding him. But none sported a crop of ragged red curls that invited a man’s finger to loop itself inside one.
    As quickly as she had appeared, Craggedy Ann was gone. And so, Cole realized, was the last of anything that might have resembled a good mood.
     
    “HE’S NOT HERE, EITHER, BREE,” LULU SAID AS SHE curled a finger through a belt loop of her friend’s jeans so she wouldn’t get separated from her amid the crowd at the Maker’s Mark Lounge. Heavens, if this was what Fourth Street Live was like on a Monday night, Lulu would continue to confine her visits to Borders. The only thing that made her more anxious than being the center of attention was being in a huge crowd. What kind of person actually enjoyed this kind of lifestyle?
    “He has to be here,” Bree replied, surging forward through a trio of men who were nearly twice her size, and who each gave her a thorough once-over as she passed. She was completely oblivious to their once-overs, since they didn’t look like their net worth collectively was more than a buck-and-a-half. “He wasn’t in Felt or Sully’s or the Hard Rock. This is the only place we haven’t checked yet. He’s here, I tell you.” She swiveled her head first right, then left, then right again. “Somewhere.”
    “We missed him,” Lulu assured her friend. “He was probably getting into his car just as we were getting out of yours.” She looked at her watch, then thrust her arm forward, in front of Bree’s face. “It’s almost one o’clock. Who in their right mind stays out this late at night?”
    Bree glanced over her shoulder at Lulu and made a big production of looking at the scores of people thrashing around the place.
    “Okay, okay,” Lulu conceded as the music pumped louder and the pulsating of the crowd notched upward. She raised her voice accordingly, fairly shouting as she added, “Lots of people stay out this late. I bet Cole Early’s the early-to-bed, early-to-rise type. Don’t those horse people get up at the crack of dawn to exercise their pets?”
    “Thoroughbreds aren’t pets,” Bree yelled back. “They’re worth millions of dollars, a lot of