In spite of being three hours ahead of everyone here, he was sure he felt three times as exhausted, and he just hadn’t had it in him to look around for something else. Besides, the music playing was decent, and, even more important, there had been plenty of seats at the bar when he entered. So he’d loosened his necktie spattered like a Jackson Pollock painting and unbuttoned both the amber suit jacket and top two buttons of the plum-colored dress shirt he’d had on since before dawn, and he’d claimed one of the empty seats for his own.
They hadn’t stayed empty for long, however, because within minutes of sitting down, the seats on each side of Cole had been occupied, by women whose names, like the nightclub/restaurant/bar’s, he could also no longer remember. Nor could he recall the name of the woman standing behind him who had crossed the room immediately behind the other two to press her spectacular breasts into his back—those Cole did remember. And probably would for some time. They’d chatted him up while he ate his dinner—making the enjoyment of it pretty much impossible—and consumed three drinks for his every one. Although he’d made numerous—polite—attempts to make clear his desire to be left alone, they were either too inebriated or clueless to take the hints. The same way the women just like them at a restaurant the night before had been. And the same way the women just like them at yet another bar the night before that had been.
What a jerk he’d become, he thought. He was a disgrace to his gender. Whining about an overabundance of beautiful women who wouldn’t leave him alone. At this rate, he was going to have to trade in his membership card to Studs Unlimited for one from Sissies Anonymous instead.
Within hours of his arrival in Louisville, though, the vultures had begun circling. And not just the fans, like the trio of beauties smothering him now, but the press, too. Not a single night had passed since he’d come to town that he hadn’t been spotted by someone from the local news and pressed for an interview—TV, newspapers, periodicals, websites, it didn’t matter. All of them wanted to talk to Cole. And Cole, mindful that publicity was always—always—a good thing, had happily talked to all of them. Or, at least, he had pretended it was happily. He just hoped he could keep it up. If the next two weeks were like the last three or four days had been, however, he was going to be stretched too thin to be good to anyone. Including Susannah and Silk Purse.
Not that he wasn’t used to being recognized and courted by the press. No matter where he found himself, Cole was always surrounded by admirers. But he’d hoped his reputation hadn’t preceded him to Louisville yet. He had wanted his time here to be fairly anonymous for a while, so that he might enjoy a gradual immersion into the adventure that would become the Kentucky Derby Experience. Simply put, he’d wanted to be himself for a little while before shouldering the mantle of King Cole.
He should have known better. Rock ’n’ roll had groupies for its bands. Major League had Baseball Annies for its players. NASCAR had Track Bunnies for its drivers. Thoroughbred racing had something similar for its trainers that no one had yet formally christened. So for lack of a better phrase, Cole had always dubbed such women—because they were overwhelmingly female—Trainer Hangers. Of course, his profession wasn’t the only one in the industry that had its overly enthusiastic fans. He’d also found names for Owner Followers, Horse Nuts, and Jockey Junkies. But, all modesty aside, the trainers were the elite members of Thoroughbred society, often better known and more recognizable even than the owners. Certainly they were the most flamboyant members of the horse world. And just like rock stars and pro athletes, many of them commanded, whether actively or not, a lot of attention from—mostly female—admirers.
Cole was one of those many. And, truth be told—at least early on in his career—he had actively courted the limelight. But now that the limelight dogged him wherever he went, he was starting to wish for a little more shadow time. During racing’s off-season, he had more success deflecting the unwanted attention—not that it was always unwanted, mind you, even now—but it never went away entirely. And during race time, in racing cities like Louisville or Mar or Saratoga or Baltimore, trainers were treated like royalty. Usually, that didn’t bother Cole at all. Usually, he welcomed the attention. Usually, he reveled in the way women pursued him. Usually, he let the women catch him.
But there were times, infrequent though they may be, when he just wanted to be left alone, to enjoy himself without the added distraction of being King Cole. Especially when he was facing the biggest race of his career.
He glanced down at his watch for perhaps the tenth time in as many minutes and sighed loudly enough that he hoped the blonde on his left—Randi? Rhonda? Renee?—would get the hint. Naturally, she didn’t. Instead, she wrapped her perfectly manicured fingers around the premium Bourbon Cole had just ordered and hadn’t yet had a chance to taste and lifted it to her own mouth for a sip.
She grimaced after sampling it. “Even though I grew up in Kentucky,” she purred in a voice he was reasonably certain she had altered for effect, “I absolutely loathe Bourbon.”
Cole was about to ask her why she’d felt compelled to drink his then, but refrained. “Let
