For the first time she noted the magnificent flower bed before his house. It stretched either side of the steps. Rosebuds nodded in the breeze, moonlight etching the petals in silvery pink and blood red.
“He’s a bit of a gardener, our John. Best not to touch his flowers.” The sheriff arched his back as he climbed to his feet and she heard a series of clicks. “Ahhh. That’s better. Miss Virginia, I suggest you seek a place to stay the night. Peckerwood is a bit of a mess at the moment and the hotel manager has been shot and possibly drowned, so I doubt you’ll get a bed anywhere except there.” He indicated the whorehouse. “Madame Betty is a fine woman, if a little brusque. May I escort you?”
“Umm.” She stooped and picked up the skateboard again. What was she supposed to be doing?
Finding a cure for Karl Thulhu and a power source for me!!!!
Blearily, she read the writing. What an insistent skateboard. Yes. But that would have to wait until morning. She was dead tired. “Lead on, sir.”
The brothel, whoops, whorehouse, was clean inside and already busy with many leather-clad cowboys. A pity her weariness overrode her leather fetish. Her eyelids were closing as she listened to the sheriff arrange a room.
Madame Betty was big and wide, and that included her breasts. The size of those zeppelin balloons meant she was probably capable of smothering a man who got too close, yet her tatas were up front and bouncy.
How?
She tilted her head sideways, checking for some amazing undercarriage boob support. But no, under the bodice area of her dress, not a crane or cantilever was to be seen, not a single steel beam was in sight.
“Are you okay, Miss?” Madame Betty was following her head tilt with some concern. “The poor girl is going to keel over any moment. Carry her upstairs for me, Sheriff. She’ll have to have the one next to a busy room, but it’s got a feather bed and a view of the main street. Last room to the right.”
“Okay dokey. Here we go.”
She was snoring on the way up the stairs and barely noticed his arms under her, except that one time he staggered and almost tossed her over the rail.
The bed was indeed soft and feathery. Her eyes slammed closed like a bank vault. No one was getting in, not even Mr. Beastwood and his invisible hand.
“Zzzzzz.”
Chapter 5
Her dreams haunted her, as did the squeak of bedsprings.
“Regale me with some of your purty words, Henry.”
“Your wish is my command. Miss Candy. Lemme see... Your delicate flower reminds me of a taco once made for me by Pancho Villa himself. Pink, squishy, and, I do believe, very tasty. Jus’ let me have a lick to check.”
A squeal rang out. “I do declare, Henry. You have outdone yerself.”
“Not yet I ain’t.”
Time blurred into blackness. The night was divided up by the ticks and tocks of a very loud clock, by bedspring squeaks...and by more noisy dreams.
“What’s that, Henry?”
“A corn cob.”
“An’ what’re ya planning to do with it?”
“Stick it up here.”
Shrieks then giggles filtered in. “Henry! Extra for that, ya know. ’Sides, you’d need something to grease the way.”
“Horse linament do?”
“No! That’d make my ass burn like hellfire.”
“Axle grease?”
“Hell, no!”
“How ’bout lard...wait, I can get freshly churned butter from the kitchen. You just wait right there. Miss Candy.”
Feet pounded down a stairway.
Virginia blinked. Or were they dreams?
Who knew whores would be so into cooking in the middle of the night?
Grumbling, she stuffed her head under the pillow and fell back into sleep.
Hours later, morning forced its way into her room, shooting spears of light through the red lace curtains and generally making a nuisance of itself. She groaned and sat up.
Someone had laid a clean dress out over the chair – blue and white, like her own dress. They’d found her some sort of underwear too. She tsked over the antique corset and left it. No idea how to fasten that without help. She lifted the huge bloomers and also decided not to wear them due to a sudden allergy to being drowned in cloth. Her panties, however, were in distinct need of washing. Underwearless for the day then? Did it matter since the hem of the dress went so far south? No.
When she ambled down the internal stairs wearing her new dress, she realized she had no money. Or nothing useful as money in 1860.
Luckily, or unluckily, someone had paid for her room and breakfast.
Madame Betty ushered her to a table near the bar. “Mr. John Beastwood has kindly donated some funds, dear. You go right ahead and eat what you like. You may need the energy later.”
Her wink was so suggestive, Virginia had a moment of anxiety – torn between avoiding Mr. Beastwood in case he demanded repayment of the sexual kind, and heading straight for his front door to ask if he wanted it in installments.
Sex with six guns. Her new description for uber alpha male.
Be good. The man was not for her. She had her mission, as the skateboard said. Once upstairs again, she propped it on the chair next to her bed.
“So. Where do I find this power source or the cure?” And how did it know to bring her here, to 1860, to find the cure?
I’m more than a mere skateboard.
*sniff*
The fuel I need is somewhere underneath Mr. Beastwood’s house. The cure is somewhere in this town. The two things are somehow linked.
“Great.” She sat back. “Now what do I do? Going near Mr. Beastwood is not safe.”
Bleep.
Reconnoiter.
Go look. By checking out his house we may find a solution.
There seemed something terribly wrong about obeying the suggestions of a skateboard. As if she was setting back feminism by a hundred years. Perhaps though, it was a female skateboard?
“From now on, I’ll call you Marsha.” Fixed that problem.
For a full minute, rude words ran across the board’s surface. Most of then began with F.
“Wow. Bad board.” And why had she thought a skateboard couldn’t swear? “You’re definitely a Marsha.”
On the ground floor, the sides and back of Mr. Beastwood’s house were blank. No doors, no windows. Second floor had a balcony, as well as windows and doors, but she couldn’t get up there without looking like a burglar.
“What should I do?”
The skateboard was silent. Not a single red pixel crossed its surface.
“What then? Rodney? You want to be called that? Hernandez? Bill?”
Nothing happened.
Crap. It was sulking.
The front of the house was all that was left.
Her first stroll past yielded little due to her speed. To get herself to slow down, she paused to sniff a flower, and then to gently pick a single...red...blossom.
Awestruck, she twirled the severed stem between finger and thumb.
So pretty. The scent of the rose intoxicated. The petals were smooth as satin, luxurious as an Egyptian cotton bath towel, and as beautiful as a new set of saucepans on Mother’s Day. Okay, maybe not that last one.
A thorn pricked her thumb. A drop of blood welled and cruised down the stem.
“You touched my roses. Bad move.”
She gasped.
John Beastwood was standing over her, watching from the bottom step of the porch, dressed in a black frock coat, two feet away in distance and three hundred feet in height. Slight exaggeration there, but almost true.
Dang it, the man loomed well. Why the fuck was she saying dang it? Was there something in the water here?
“Come with me.”
Broad daylight, people walking the streets, yet he grabbed her around the neck and hauled her with him into the house. With his other hand over her mouth, she hadn’t a chance to scream.
When the door slammed shut at th
e kick of his boot, he released her mouth. She dropped the skateboard to wrestle more effectively.
After it bounced and clattered to the floor, the skateboard let out a string of bleeps that even sounded like curses. John stared at it then at her, when she sucked in a breath
“Don’t bother screaming. It won’t reach the outside. Besides, everyone knows the penalty if they touch my flowers. The sheriff told you.”
They did? He did? Taunting John Beastwood seemed a good, if perilous, idea. “You make them join your gardening club?”
He pushed her against the wallpapered hallway wall, with his grip still about her throat then curled her hair into a ringlet around his finger. “They’re always women. Always, and I keep them with me, in this house, forever.”
“Ah.” A chill crept up from her ankles, and it wasn’t the air conditioning...because there wasn’t any. Serial killer alert. “Honestly? I prefer the gardening club.”
“I’m sure you would. That position is filled. All I have open is one for an innocent virginal victim who’d like to be ravished endlessly by yours truly, the exceptionally rich, deranged, and angry, John Beastwood.”
She pursed her lips and slowly rocked her head back and forth as much as she could while being partly strangled. “Seee. No. Just no. Not my thing. I’m previously engaged, not exactly a virgin, and certainly not innocent.”
“What?”
The smile she adopted was hopeful. “Truth.”
“My flowers never lie.” He lowered his head and growled, gripped her breast, then licked her from cleavage to neck. “You taste like a virgin.”
What self-respecting man growled? The licking she’d give a one-off pass to, and maybe the breast clutching. Oh hell, the growling was good too.
“Hey. Hey. Careful with the merchandise.”
But as she spoke, he was stripping away her dress. Ripping it at the shoulders, rolling it down then letting it fall. Damn. Caught without underwear, again. This was so familiar.
She was bringing spare panties next time. Ten pair.
“Where is this lover who has already taken your virtue? Where is he?” He forced her up the wall and held her there, her feet dangling, while he perused her naked form.
“You are exquisite.” He made her open her mouth. “Nice teeth. I look forward to ramming myself into every single one of your holes.”
“Dude. Your foreplay sucks.”
“You look like a virgin. You taste like one. Where is this so-called lover?”
Whoa, those eyes were getting redder. Her ophthalmologist would have a field day with this guy.
Plucking at her throat, but finding no give in his fingers, she decided she had to tell him something.
“He’s in your future, over a hundred years.” She thought through that. “Technically, if you stretched the definition, I guess –”
“You’re still a virgin.” His smile spread. “I believe you. Stranger things have happened. You were meant to come here.”
Now that she would have disputed, at length.
“I need to show you my house.”
“You do? I could take a rain check? Next Thursday at nine?”
“Now is infinitely better.”
The tour through his mansion was fast and furious.
“Smoking room. Dining. Linen closet. Dining. Bathroom. New claw feet on the bath tub. Custom made by the blacksmith.”
She peered. All curvy and snaky sculpted steel and...did they have suckers? He dragged her onward. There was little that was decorative or frivolous, only a few potted plants and a few portraits of the same young woman, with blonde hair in a neat pony tail or bun. In every picture, she seemed to be the same age, and it made her wonder if she’d died. How sad.
“Bedroom. Kitchen – that’s Rosarita cooking her famous rattlesnake and apple broth. A dose, once a week, keeps my hair sooo glossy.” He fluffed his locks with one hand.
“Seriously?” Her abductor was vain, but he did have great hair. “Hi, Rosarita! I’d love the recipe!” She widened her eyes then whispered rather loudly, “PS. Call the sheriff for me?”
The older woman grinned, her smile pushing out her plump cheeks. She waved her spoon. “Sure, I give you recipe. Have fun, jovencita.”
Clearly, not much help there.
John whisked her past the doorway. His recital and house tour went on.
How many dining rooms did you need? Though, crapola, he had truckloads of plates, saucers, candlesticks, and golden knives and forks spilling over the tables in those dining rooms.
“Stairs to the underground cave and lake...”
Down the stairs they went.
“Wait!” Her pleas fell on deaf ears.
Well, not actually deaf. The man could hear, but he was too busy dragging her by her hand, and her hair, and carrying her over his shoulder. Naked, over his shoulder. Each jolt as he took a step only emphasized her helplessness and made her pussy get all excited and run about cheering, figuratively speaking.
If it did that for real, she’d need surgery.
God, she ached.
The situation was getting to her. What girl didn’t fantasize about being dragged away over a man’s shoulder to his underground lair? Granted, she’d done this before but the allure never went away.
They reached the underground cavern – stalagmites, stalactites, and a glowing blue lake not far away.
“For your first time, this will do.” By her neck, he pinned her against a thick timber pole.
Damn convenient pole. Always, the neck. Think of how much easier it would be to escape if she was minus a neck. Then he proceeded to get naked too. One handed – so dexterous.
His many leather gun belts were unbuckled and lowered, other belts were undone. He used one to fasten her hands behind the pole and a second to tie her neck to it.
Black leather boots were kicked off, pants were removed, shirts unbuttoned and thrown aside.
Leather, leather, leather, leather!
Mmm. Knew it! Leather underpants.
If only she was certain she wasn’t going to be buried somewhere afterward, she’d have been happier.
Then, ohmigod, the piece de resistance. From behind his back, his tentacles unfurled, ebony ones that glistened, with cute little suckers.
His color scheme was so predictable. If the man used nail polish, it’d be black. Deep skin cleanser facial mask – black. Post-it notes – black.
Nevertheless.
“Tentacles!” she shrieked joyfully, jiggling a little against the pole. That, gave him pause.
“What? I scared you? Good.” He glowered, flexing tentacles, making them curl, uncurl, and wave about above her head.
Virginia sucked her lip into her mouth and nibbled. She hated spoiling people’s little parties.
Did she have to pop his bubble? Really?
“You did scare me! You did. Oh, the horror. Tentacles are my worst –”
“I can tell that you’re lying.” With ominous languor, several of his tentacles wrapped around and around her, caressing her body, playing. His voice dropped to that bottom of the ocean sound, like gravel shifting on sand. With her ear tickling from his breath, she considered fainting.
“When I take you, Miss Virginia...” More heavy breathing.
Gawwwd. Said like that, with him almost inhaling her ear, even her own name sounded like sex.
“When I invade your body, when I possess you, it will be your first something. That is my signature.” He nodded, eyes narrowing, one tentacle tip sliding between her legs, slippery and succulent, back and forth, up and down.
She moved her legs apart, just a little. Wouldn’t do to appear too wanton.
My, my, myyy. Her brain shut down, momentarily. “Mmm. Oh. Nngahhh.” Left a half inch.
“Nnngah? Am I getting you aroused? Wet? You feel very wet.”
“Swahili, that was Swahili for...”
Her inner voice mumbled, you’re a dick?
You are so dead. “For, have a nice day?
”
“Liar. Such a cute liar. But, I can work with this. Tell me, my dear girl, what haven’t you done that excites you?”
“Ah. Oh. Let’s see. This may take a while.” She should lie, out of loyalty to Karl. Could John really tell if she lied? She could start with the weird ones. Maybe he’d get bored?
Only took twelve suggestions before he let her go and fetched coffee, whisky, two chairs, a quill, and some writing paper.
“Now. Astronaut sex? Is that a real thing?” His voice rose in puzzlement. He licked the quill and poised it above the paper.
Chapter 6
He sat still for writing down twenty-two of her suggested weirdest of the weird fetishes that he couldn’t possibly do. Then he cracked.
Who’d have thought the man would be ingenious enough to fetch the skateboard and interrogate it? After he held it above the lake and threatened to drop it into the deep, phosphorescent water, the thing spilled the beans.
Listening to it cough up all her fetishes, she realized that, dammit, the thing could read her mind.
“Lies, all lies. You’d believe a futuristic device over moi?” Though she squeaked in surprise, he pulled her off the chair she sat on and dragged her to his discarded clothes.
“Leather fetish and you’ve never fucked a cowboy or done it in a lake?”
Face to face, John hugged her closer. He’d tucked away his tentacles while they’d talked, but his erection pulsed against her stomach.
“The cowboy part is easy.”
Grinning triumphantly, he lifted her off her feet then slid his cock along between her legs, pushing aside her lower lips like a steamship parting waves – a ten inch steamship in the shape of a schlong that no doubt carried a full crew of eager seamen...and if this simile got any crazier she’d be forced to kill the author with a fork.
“Woman, I’m always a cowboy.”
This was getting a little too serious for a first date.
“Never an Indian?”
He chuckled. “Never.”
Then he came in for a kiss, slow and with maximum eye contact, like if he looked away she might vamoose. By the time his lips met hers, she was going cross-eyed.
The Well-Hung Gun Page 3
