R. J. Scott
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Surfer boy turned back to his car and reached into the back seat, pulling out a book and then thrusting it at Jack. Startled, Jack took the book and glanced down at the title Equine Therapy. The front was a picture of horse, not dissimilar in looks to Solo Cal, and Jack saw the name Sean Harris at the bottom. He turned the book in his hands.
„You wrote this?” His estimation of surfer boy rose a notch. Anyone who wrote about horses must be kind of okay.
The night sky was alive with the lights from the skyscrapers in the beating heart of Dallas. They were mirrored in the river, starkly, majestically beautiful, and Riley loved it. The magic of the city was, as always, running with the blood in his veins.
“You don't need meat at every meal," Riley offered, forking another bite of salad into his mouth and inwardly agreeing with Jack that it was certainly lacking something. Jack was quiet for all of ten seconds, and then he couldn't hold in his opinion one second more. "Are you really a Texan? I mean, really? Riley, if I have a headache, I'd put bacon around an aspirin before I take it.”
“I want Marc,” I said, and I didn’t qualify why I wanted him. I didn’t have to.
“You can’t just announce sex like that. Will you listen to reason?” Victor asked. Although I could see the resignation in his expression.
I blinked at him. What? Then it hit me what Victor had said.
“Not sex,” I said. “As the curator.”
“The curator of what?”
“An installation in the Berneux Gallery.”
He scrubbed a hand over his face. “What? There’s no such thing as the Berneux Gallery.”
“A small issue. There should be. So as a protector of the Berneux legacy, I will make sure there is.”
2. Prince Raphael
„You're all safe. I've read over your résumés and have seen the effort you've been making. The old coach was a dinosaur. We're a bit more advanced.”
„So, we're mammoths?” Todd, my defensive coach tossed out, which broke the tension nicely. „My wife would agree. You should hear her bitching about the hair on my back.”