“Not yet,” he said, kissing her between her breasts. “Not yet. We have all day. We’ll take our time.”
He lowered her to a lying position again and bent over her. He kissed her bare shoulder, then her mouth again.
“We won’t hurry this,” he breathed against her lips. “We’ll take our own sweet time.”
He made the time go slowly, and he made it sweet, so sweet she thought she might die of it.
GORDON HAD RETURNED to Lubbock. Dirty and unshaved, he had not showered for three days.
His head felt odd, and it frightened him. He sensed, vaguely, that something had happened to him, something he didn’t understand.
When he’d awakened in Val Verde, he’d felt less nervous, less desperate, but he’d also felt distinctly strange. He had the unsettling sensation that some part of his brain had broken off and drifted away.
It wasn’t an important part, Gordon was sure, because he was still functioning perfectly. He’d done what he was supposed to, and done it exactly right. He’d picked up the load of goats in Val Verde and hauled them to Fort Worth. (He’d hated the goats. They all had weird, yellow eyes that were satanic.)
Now he was back in Lubbock, safe in his apartment. He would get his money from Charlie, tell him he was selling his share in the trucking rig, and that he was heading for Crystal Creek. He would make Nora and his mother take him back, and if Bubba Gibson got in his way, he would kill him.
Safely locked and bolted inside his apartment, Gordon drank two beers to fight the amphetamines that had kept him trucking the long haul from Fort Worth. His head began to buzz pleasantly.
Then he got into the shower, and he stayed there for almost half an hour. He emerged and took a pill to steady his hands. He shaved, nicking himself only once, and combed his wet hair into place.
He looked at himself critically. His skin was gray, his eyes bloodshot, and his muscles were going slack. This was what Charlie’s crazy schemes had reduced him to, this pasty-faced stranger with circles under his eyes.
He needed to lift weights again, go back to the gym. He needed to get out of Lubbock and back to where people knew and loved and protected him. Maybe he would become adviser to Dottie—tell her how to run the coffee shop and invest her money—and she would pay him.
Gordon wouldn’t actually work in the coffee shop. That kind of job was demeaning and repulsed him. But a management position—that would be good. That he could tolerate.
Yes, he would go back and tell the women how things should be done, and they would be grateful and they would obey and see to his comforts. Yes, everything would be perfect.
This time he’d prove he was the boss—especially to Nora. She’d follow his orders in his coffee shop and in his house—he’d decided to move into Dottie’s house and make it his own—and she’d obey him in bed, too.
This time he’d teach her to do things his way—or else. He’d been too easy on her before. This time he’d keep her in submission, the way she was supposed to be.
He pulled on a clean pair of jeans and a black T-shirt, then padded barefoot to the phone to call Charlie. All the way back from Fort Worth, he’d rehearsed what he was going to say to Charlie: “I want my money. I’m going to pay off Steponovich, then blow. No more of this Mexican tripping for me—I’m out of it. Put my share of the truck up for sale and send the money to Crystal Creek. I gotta go home. The women need me, and I got business opportunities there.”
He carried his vials and bottles of pills to the phone table with him because he no longer felt secure when they were out of his sight. He opened a fresh beer, drank half of it, then sat down and pushed the buttons of Charlie’s number.
“Charlie? It’s me, Gordo. I’m back. Listen, I got some news for you. I want—”
Charlie’s growling voice interrupted him. “You damn fool. You damn near blew it at the border both ways—coming and going. I got word. You were so wired you were nearly fried. You’re out. You haven’t got the guts for it.”
Gordon’s stomach lurched, and his face began to burn. Charlie was insulting his courage? Charlie was insulting his manhood? If Charlie wasn’t such a scary dude, Gordon would…would what? Kill him. He would kill him, that was what.
Gordon tried to make his voice steely. “I got too much brains for it. No more of this Mexican tripping for me—fine. I’m out of it.”
Gordon paused. He was supposed to say something else, but Charlie had gotten him all mixed up. He took a long swallow of beer.
Charlie laughed sarcastically. “Brains? You, boy, are seriously deficient in that department. But you got one thing right. No more Mexican trippin’ for you.”
By this time Gordon was so upset, he hardly noticed the additional insult. But he remembered what he was supposed to say, and he said it. “I want my money. I’m going to pay off Steponovich, then blow. Put my share of the truck up for sale and send the money to Crystal Creek. I gotta go home. The women need me, and I got business opportunities there.”
Nothing answered him except an ominous silence. He could picture Charlie in his mind’s eye: the cropped head, the black mustache, the bulging muscles. And his killer’s black eyes. That was why he couldn’t kill Charlie. Charlie had killer’s eyes because he was a killer himself. Gordon would have to practice before he took on Charlie.
Gordon tried to swallow, but a knot seemed lodged in his throat. “Listen,” he said, and began to repeat himself, “I want my money. I’m going to pay off Steponovich, then—”
“You listen,” Charlie said. “Steponovich’s already got the money. But you owe him more. Fifteen hundred more.”
What? Gordon’s mind rocked numbly. “But how—how did he—? Fifteen hundred more? I can’t—”
“Steponovich’s lookin’ for you, Gordon. He ain’t happy with you. I give him the money to keep you safe—but you forgot interest. Steponovich wants interest on his money. He wants it now.”
Gordon took a drink of his beer and fumbled with a bottle, trying to get a tablet. His hands were shaking again. “Now? Now? Fifteen hundred? How can I—”
“Look, Gordo,” Charlie said in a patronizing voice. “You’re trouble. It’s no longer a pleasure doin’ business with you. I’ll buy your share of the rig for fifteen hundred, pay it directly to Steponovich, then you vamoose, savvy? You get outta my life, outta Steponovich’s. You go back to Crystal Creek, and you take care of your women.”
Charlie put such an ironic spin on the word women, that Gordon felt as if he’d been struck.
“Fifteen hundred?” he managed to say. “Fifteen hundred? I got three thousand invested in that rig—”
“Fifteen hundred,” Charlie said with finality. “Steponovich wants his money tomorrow. What other choice you got, Gordo?”
Gordon couldn’t get the cap off the pill bottle, and tears of frustration filled his eyes. “You’re robbin’ me,” he almost sobbed. The cap flew off the bottle with such violence that the pills jumped out and scattered across the floor. “You’re robbin’ me.”
“Wrong. I’m savin’ your sorry ass, Gordo, but I am purely tired of you, boy.”
Gordon swore. He desperately searched for something to say that would save his dignity, but could think of nothing. He blinked back tears and put a hand on his aching stomach.
“Consider it a done deal,” Charlie said and hung up.
The line buzzed in Gordon’s ear, almost the same high pitch as the buzz in his head. He slammed down the receiver. Still fighting tears, he got down on his hands and knees and, with his shaking hands, tried to collect his scattered pills.
He picked up two and stuffed them into his mouth, washing them down with the last of his beer. He tasted lint and wiry carpet fibers, but he swallowed anyway. Then he sat on the floor and stared into space.
Had Charlie sold him out? Or saved him? He didn’t know. He had set out on his dangerous mission to Mexico in hopes of paying off his debts, getting ahead at last.
Now, after nearly killing himself with nerves making the da
mned run, he had less than he’d had when he started. And Charlie didn’t want him for a partner anymore. Charlie had laughed at him, said he had no guts. Go home to your women, Charlie had said.
Gordon’s mouth twisted. He was angry, but confused. He would pay Charlie back—someday. But not now. Charlie would expect it now. Charlie was the kind you had to take by surprise. You had to hit him before he knew he was hit.
But the other people in his life Gordon could handle. Right now, the thing to do was just go home.
And nobody at home was ever going to hassle him again. Or they’d pay for it. They’d pay in blood, and it’d be a rehearsal for killing Charlie—if he decided Charlie deserved it.
“Nobody messes with me,” Gordon vowed in a slurred voice. Still sitting on the floor, he reached for the phone. He punched out Bubba Gibson’s number. He had it memorized by now. All the things he was afraid to say to Charlie, he would say to Bubba.
If he took some more amphetamines and started out now, he could be in Crystal Creek by twilight. He’d have Nora back in his bed. He’d make her pay for the hell she’d put him through. And she’d never cross him again if she knew what was good for her.
Oh, she would pay, she would pay.
“WHAT’S WRONG?” Ken said, tracing the pensive line of Nora’s mouth. “You look like you’re a million miles away.”
It was afternoon. They lay in each other’s arms on the daybed on the front porch. They were watching yet another storm approach from across the lake. He nuzzled her ear, trying to make her smile. He loved making her smile. But this time, he failed. Her face stayed somber.
“I’m so happy here,” Nora said softly, “until I think of Gordon. What’s he going to do when he finds out? I—worry.”
“Come here,” Ken muttered, drawing her closer. “Haven’t I told you not to worry? Don’t think of him, sugar. That part of your life’s done with.”
She looked into his eyes, her own troubled. “He’s so unpredictable lately.”
“Then don’t try to make predictions about him. He may not do anything at all.”
“But he—”
“Shhh,” he soothed her, “this is our time, yours and mine. No ghosts from the past. Don’t make me jealous.”
At last she gave him the smallest of smiles. “You? Jealous?”
“Me. Jealous. I’ve wanted you too long. And now that I’ve got you to myself, I don’t want to share.”
She drew back slightly, her hands on his shoulders. “You always say that. That you wanted me for a long time. How long? Or are you just teasing?”
He remembered how long and felt his own face grow sober. “Longer than was fittin’, I reckon.”
“How long? Tell me.”
He searched her face. He could still see traces of the serious little girl she had been. Too often he could also see the aura of hurt that Gordon had created.
He touched her face, laying the back of his hand against her cheek. “Since you were about nineteen, I guess. When you and Gordon came back to live with Dottie. One day I saw you walkin’ down the street. It was winter. You were bundled up in an old green coat. You didn’t have gloves or a hat. You were carryin’ Rory.”
“That green coat,” Nora whispered, touching her finger to his lips, “you remember that? It was Dottie’s. I didn’t have a winter coat of my own when we came back. You can remember me in that coat—really?”
“It took me a minute to recognize you. You’d changed. You’d grown up. And it was bitter cold, but you didn’t seem to notice. You just kept talkin’ to Rory, talkin’ and laughin’, like you didn’t have a care in the world.”
He put his hands on either side of her face, lacing his fingers through her hair. “But I knew you had troubles. Anybody who knew Gordon, knew you had to have troubles.”
“Dottie was good to me, though,” Nora said in a voice so soft it was nearly a whisper. “She was always kind. For Christmas that year, she bought me a coat of my own.”
He kept staring into her eyes, wanting to make the pain he could see there go away.
“I remember,” he said. “It was red—with a black collar. But I always remember you in the green one on that day. God, it was cold. And Rory was big—he must have been heavy to carry. But you just kept on smilin’ and talkin’. Then you carried him up the stairs and into the library. And I thought, My God, she’s still crazy about those books of hers. I guess it happened then.”
She smiled again, making his chest hurt. The only way to ease the pain was to draw her closer, so he did.
“You fell in love with me because I walked into the library?” she asked, snuggling against him, burying her face against his shoulder.
He held her more tightly. “Yes. No. Maybe. I fell in love when you walked into the library. That’s all I know.”
“But that was—almost six years ago.”
“I know. Believe me, I know. And then you went to work in the Longhorn. You always had a book by the cash register. You’d read when business got slow. Sometimes, I’d make my coffee last a long time. Just so’s I could sit and watch you read.”
She nestled more closely against him, and he ran his hands up and down her back, feeling the softness, the femininity of her.
“But you never said anything,” she said, her voice almost dreamy. “You never gave a sign.”
“It wouldn’t have been right. Not then. And even after the divorce, you weren’t lookin’ at any men. I knew I had to bide my time.”
Nora wound her arms around his waist and squeezed him. “I love you.” She raised her face and kissed the point of his jaw. Desire, which had been banked and glowing in him, suddenly flared into flame again.
“My God, Nora,” he said, his voice ragged. “I keep wanting you so much. I want you again. Now.”
He kissed her so deeply and so passionately that both of them forgot about the pain of the past and about Gordon Jones.
All they thought about was love and how lucky they were, at last, to have found each other.
GORDON’S TEMPER smoldered when Mary Gibson answered the phone. Was Bubba such a coward that he didn’t even dare lift the phone receiver any longer?
“Where’s your stinking husband?” Gordon demanded. “Where is he? If he’s with my wife, I’ll kill him. You give him that message, hear me?”
“I suggest you give him the message yourself.” Mary Gibson’s voice was eerily calm. “He’s not with your wife. He’s where he usually is on a Saturday afternoon, on his way to see Miss Billie Jo Dumont. If you want to talk to him, why don’t you call him there—for a change?”
Gordon blinked in confusion. The buzzing in his head made him wonder if Mary had said what he thought she’d said. “He’s at Billie Jo Dumont’s?” he asked, trying not to slur his words.
“Yes.” Mary made the word one long, bitter hiss. “Where else?” Then she hung up, so loudly that Gordon winced.
He sat staring at the receiver resentfully. Had Bubba gone back to Billie Jo? Or was he really off chasing after Nora? These conflicting thoughts were painfully difficult for Gordon to sort out.
Well, he’d find out. He would call Billie Jo’s. Then, if he found Bubba there, he would take out all his frustrations on the old fool.
If Bubba wasn’t there, Gordon would tell Billie Jo she’d better watch out; Bubba was lying to her, too. He almost smiled. If Billie Jo suspected Bubba of double-dealing, she’d kill him. Gordon wouldn’t have to.
He called information and got Billie Jo’s number. She answered on the second ring.
“Hello?” she said in that syrupy voice of hers.
Gordon sneered. “I hear tell that Mr. Bubba Gibson’s there. Put him on the line. I wanna talk to him.”
“He’s not here—yet. Who is this? I don’t like your tone.”
“I don’t like your tone,” mocked Gordon. He disliked Billie Jo intensely. She always acted as if he wasn’t good enough for her.
“Maybe he’s not gonna see you. But he better not be gonna
see my wife, ’cause I have told him repeatedly that I aim to make him into dog meat if I find him near her.”
Billie Jo was not as stunned by Gordon’s announcement as he would have liked. Anger and suspicion mingled in her voice. “Gordon Jones,” she accused, “this is you, isn’t it? You have repeatedly told Bubba what? How long has this been going on? Since when?”
Gordon disliked her snotty tone. “Since the old fool forgot he had you on the string and took after my wife, that’s since when. You tell him that Gordon Jones will blast him to kingdom come if—”
“Do you mean that sorry business last Saturday?” Billie Jo demanded. “Have you been hounding Bubba since last Saturday? Nothing happened, dammit. Bubba was trying to make me jealous, is all. You let Bubba alone, or I’ll crawl right through this telephone wire and strangle you with my bare hands.”
“Don’t you threaten me,” Gordon shot back, insulted. “I said tell him that I’ll blast him to—”
“Oh, shut up, you fool,” Billie Jo snapped. “He doesn’t want your wife. If you have to threaten somebody, get the right person. Ken Slattery. He’s the one that’s got your wife—right now. They’re up at the lake together this very weekend. In the McKinney family’s lake house. Everybody knows about it. Bubba—the idea!”
Ken Slattery? Slattery? Gordon had the sensation that somebody had hit him hard, knocking his brain askew. “Ken Slattery? What you talkin’ about, woman?”
“I’m talking,” Billie Jo retorted, “about Ken and Nora in their love nest. Ken Slattery’s all she can see. She doesn’t give an old fig for you. She’s going to marry him, everybody’s betting dollars to donuts. So there.”
Gordon’s stomach pitched. “You’re makin’ this up. You tell Bubba—”
“I’ll tell Bubba you’re so stupid you don’t know when your own ex-wife is absolutely through with you, you dumbbell. And your mother, too. Everybody’s sickof you, Gordon. They’re fixing to dump you for good. Your mother was even in Martin’s office the other day, writing you out of her will. She’s disowning you, Gordon. Not that I blame her.”
The Thunder Rolls Page 19
