Harley throttled the massive appendage, the oil making a lewd squishing sound as he frigged it. He thrust his own hips between Neil’s thighs, inching him up the counter. “But you sure like being fondled by another man.”
Neil rocked his hips into Harley’s grip. His chest heaved with every stimulated gasp, the pectorals shuddering, the nipples peaked. “I don’t care…who the hell does it.” His eyeballs seemed to be rolling up inside his skull under Harley’s talented caresses. “Just do it!”
Harley decided he’d tortured Neil long enough. He set to frigging Neil’s penis in earnest, tweaking the erect nipple with his other fingers. His fist pumped the entire length of the elongated cock as he ran his thumb over the globule of semen that glimmered at the cockhead. Instantly Neil fell to groaning low and deep in his abdomen, the vibrations resonating against Harley’s fingertips that pinched his nipple. Neil roared loudly enough for Ivy upstairs to hear, but he didn’t seem to care, urging Harley to complete his task with a humping of his muscular hips.
Neil hissed, gasped, and moaned like a steaming teapot. “Do it, you bastard! I’m going to come all over you. I’m going to explo—Ah!”
Neil squirted so suddenly, Harley was taken by surprise. Great jets of milky semen splashed forcefully against Harley’s chest. When he pinched and pulled on the nipple, the discharge came in spurts, stimulated by his plucking. With eyes squeezed tightly shut, Neil’s face was a frozen mask of ecstasy, his hips quivering spasmodically, his warm seed running over Harley’s wrist.
Harley wanted nothing more than to shove the fellow to his knees and slide his prick down his throat—his penis was so stiff that just a slight rub against his woolen trousers would bring him off. But he wanted Neil to remember the circumstances of this wondrous orgasm—to recall who had given it to him, who had coaxed him to such explosive heights. It wasn’t a quid pro quo predicament. Harley could find release later or by his own hand. It wasn’t the most important thing.
What was important now was to capture Neil’s cherubically bowed lips with his own, to breathe in Neil’s gasps of satisfaction. He still gripped the plump, flagging cock, tenderly now rubbing his thumb over the tip as delicious jism dribbled from it. Neil kissed him back hungrily, cupping his skull in his palms and drinking him in sloppily.
Harley murmured, “Good Lord, you’re the handsomest devil I’ve ever seen.” However, when Harley withdrew, he stupidly uttered a thoughtless remark. “If you’re so dead-set on women, why is a man masturbating your big, fat cock?”
Neil’s eyes stilled then. His nostrils flared as he straightened himself against the counter. Then he fairly tossed Harley’s head away with a snap of his wrists, bouncing off the counter to turn his back on Harley and button his pants. “If you’re so attracted to women, why didn’t you continue your dalliance with Ivy in the bathroom?” he said icily.
Harley felt proud that Neil was aware of his dalliance. “Ivy is a gentle, injured creature. How unfeeling would it have been to take advantage of her vulnerability? She just left her fiancé, after all.”
Neil shot back over his shoulder, “She hardly cared about that cove! I’d say she’s much better off out here.”
“You answered a question with a question,” Harley pointed out. “If you’re such a lady-killer, why do you allow another man to frig you to completion?”
Neil half turned. He hadn’t bothered buttoning his shirt, and half the buttons were strewn on the floor anyway. He presented such a fine, sultry picture of a pleased, sated stallion, Harley already looked forward to their next run-in. Neil shrugged. “Whatever works. Right?”
And he sauntered out of the room.
Harley had to laugh. Whatever works. Neil was right. Harley wasn’t looking for a bride. What did he care? Whatever worked, until it stopped working. That was a good motto.
Chapter Nine
“I’m-a telling you, McCormack. These ape-man skeletons will reveal all! They’re the bones of our ancestors. Our family tree is just a shrub when we start comparing ourselves to these ape-men!”
Ivy assumed this was Rodney Shortridge, sitting at a table in the Bucket of Blood with bandy legs spread wide apart. His immense stomach bulged as though he secreted a watermelon beneath his shirt, and predictably he clutched a cup of whiskey. His tablemate was a respectable-looking man in a Confederate gentleman’s hat, but no one in the saloon at this noon hour wore a derby.
The other occupants of the long room were not all rough rowdies. Some seemed to be elegant, frock-coated leisure men, gentlemen of chance there to gamble. In the middle of the crude, bare scene, a gleaming, intricately carved bar dominated the room. Wide mirrors, neat rows of bottles, and an oversized painting of a nude woman were the focal points of this glittering monstrosity. Here, men in various stages of decay draped themselves, watched closely by the shady bartender, who had three assistants prepared to give anyone the boot.
“That’s McCormack,” Neil whispered to Ivy. “He owns the Frontier Hotel next door.”
“What on earth are they discussing? Ape-men?”
“Let’s find out. Act casual. Don’t let on what we know. I’ll introduce you.”
As they neared the table, Shortridge’s agitation increased. He flailed an arm emotionally as though it were a surrender flag, blaring, “We think us modern men are the be-all of existence, but we descend from these Cro-Magnons who walked all bent over and had giant foreheads!”
McCormack appeared to be humoring Shortridge. “See here, Rodney. I’ll venture a guess most people would take exception to being compared to a Cro-Magnon with his ass dragging on the ground.”
“Rodney.” Neil touched the brim of his slouch hat. “McCormack. I’d like to introduce you to Miss Ivy Hudson, daughter of Simon.”
McCormack lurched to his feet so stridently he banged the table and his cup of booze wobbled precariously. “Miss Hudson! I’ve heard Simon talk about his daughters often.”
Ivy doubted that. Her father had always wished to have a son and was extremely disappointed her mother had produced four daughters. But she forced herself to mouth, “Pleased to make your acquaintance,” taking his hand in her gloved one.
Rodney Shortridge, however, was a different matter. He started to rise, thought better of it, and signaled an assistant for another round. He did ask Ivy, though, “Would the lady care for a drink?”
Neil started to say, “No, we’re just—”
But Ivy cut him off. “That sounds lovely. What are you drinking?” She took a seat between the two men.
“Forty rod!” declared Shortridge. “It’s only twenty-five cents a glass, which fits in with my budget lately. It’s guaranteed to kill at forty rods’ distance!”
“All right,” Ivy said. “I’ll have that, then.”
Neil sat his lanky frame in a chair opposite her. “Now, Ivy, I don’t think your father would—”
“Are there problems at the Cow Palace?” Ivy got right to the matter while Neil shot her a warning glare.
Ivy didn’t care. She was angry. Neil had shown her how to operate the telegraph machine that morning in the depot office. But the entire time she’d been distracted by a couple of large red suck marks on his neck. He had tried to hide them by donning a particularly foppish neckerchief, but he must not have been accustomed to tying a scarf, for the knot slid loose, baring the glaring red marks.
He definitely hadn’t had those marks last night when they sat for the photograph!
She had tried to concentrate on tapping the telegraph key, but all she could think was, who was sucking on Neil’s neck? She hadn’t heard him leave the house, and her second-story bedroom was over the front door. He must have snuck some woman into the house—but then, the only sounds she’d heard after retiring were Neil and Harley talking in the kitchen.
It “got her Irish up” to think of some she-devil licking her beau’s neck. The worst part was, Neil had just asked if he could court her—just hours before necking with some harridan. This thought gnaw
ed at her stomach, made her unable to eat, and now she was drinking “forty rod” at one o’clock in the afternoon. Neil had obviously not been very serious about his intentions. He couldn’t even last one hour without kissing another woman!
She had sent her sister Liberty a message that she hoped said,
ARRIVED SAFE IN LARAMIE. FATHER WELL. WILL NOT RETURN HYDE PARK. IVY. PS KISS STORMALONG FOR ME.
Stormalong was their Newfoundland dog, and she meant much more to Ivy than any heartless, worthless man ever could! How she wished she could take that enormous bundle of fur in her arms now. She was pathetic, pining for a man she’d only known twenty-four hours! She would show Neil. She would throw herself at Harland Park, who was an army captain, after all. She had planned to court both of them simultaneously, anyway, to discover who had the truer intentions. That question had obviously already been answered.
Shortridge seemed confused for a few moments, and then a flash of enlightenment spread over his face. “The Cow Palace, yah! Well, as you know, Neil, I’ve been sinking into a hopeless mire ever since Minerva passed. Oh, thank you kindly, Bob.” Shortridge gulped half his mug of forty rod without wincing. “So the ranch has fallen into some disarray. My wife passed,” he told Ivy, “in the most incomprehensible manner. A rattlesnake shot her!”
Ivy smiled. “A rattlesnake?”
“Yah! Ace Moyer, who owns this groggery, was the one who figured it out. He was on his way to see me at the Cow Palace to discuss how many beeves he’d need for his menu. He came racing into my hacienda, shrieking that a snake had shot Minerva!”
Ivy inquired, “So her body was right next to the snake, which was holding a shotgun?”
“Yah! No! Yah!”
Neil explained patiently, “Actually, Ivy, there was no body at first. I’m sure the rattlesnake thing was all a fantasy. Sure, we found a snake coiled around her rifle, pressed against the trigger. But we found the actual body—Rodney, you don’t want to discuss this!”
Neil was right. Rodney’s face was already lower than his shoulders and on its way to becoming one with the tabletop.
Ivy took a sip of the forty rod and choked. A few drops of the vile stuff came back up into her nostrils, her eyes watered, and she had to take her handkerchief from her reticule. Neil stood, came to her side of the table, and patted her ineffectively on the back.
“Now, now,” he said, annoyingly. “I warned you about that stuff. It’s made of pure combustibles, not fit for man or beast.”
Defiantly, Ivy raised the mug and forced another couple of swallows down. The liquid stayed down this time, burning a hole in her stomach. “Stop that!” she snapped. “I’m perfectly capable of holding my liquor.” She could barely see through her watery eyes, but it looked as if Shortridge was about to keel completely. “Rodney? About your—”
Rodney pounded a fist on the tabletop. “These damned ape-men, I tell you! They’ll be the ruination of us all!”
McCormack said mildly, “Shortridge has been going on about these skeletons discovered in France.”
Rodney bawled, “Along with bones of extinct critters, tools, and skulls! Reindeer antlers, I tell you!”
“Yes?” Ivy said politely. “And what does this have to do with—”
“I found a skull once!” Rodney proclaimed. “A bison skull was sitting right outside my hacienda door not long after Minerva was found in that pile of manure! Bob! More forty rod!”
Ivy lifted Neil’s hand from her shoulder and tossed it away in irritation. Swallowing more of the acerbic whiskey, she turned to McCormack as the most logical fellow in the room. “So the snake didn’t shoot her? She was smothered by shit?”
McCormack chuckled, probably not accustomed to women saying “shit.” Or perhaps not accustomed to women at all. “Why, yes. It was decided she’d fallen into the manure pile, perhaps after being shot—by the snake or not, we don’t really know—and suffocated to death when a hand dumped a load of manure on top of her. Now, Rodney. Can you hand me your tobacco? I’ve got a yen for tobacco.”
But Rodney was caught up in the drama of his blubbering. His mouth all askew, he clung to the tabletop as if it were a mountain of morality he had to climb. “A skull…with earrings attached! Oh, bury me now on the lone prairie…Those damned ape-men! Oh, the lack of humanity!”
McCormack rose and went to shake Shortridge by the shoulders. Shortridge lashed out with both hands as though shooing away a swarm of bees. “I ain’t got no tobacco, McCormack! Why do you keep bugging me about that? I don’t even smoke tobacco.”
“Because. You’ve got it sticking out of your pocket right here.” McCormack lifted a tobacco pouch from Shortridge’s waistcoat pocket. Satisfied, he sat down opposite his friend and removed a pipe from his own pocket. When he withdrew the tobacco plug from the pouch, that’s when Ivy saw it.
The pouch. Missing its drawstring. And there was a picture of a bison on the label.
A drawstring could easily have been used to strangle old Gentry.
Neil must have noticed at the same time, for he stepped in front of Bob and whisked the jug of forty rod from his paw. That brought Shortridge back to life, and he sat erect with blazing yet bleary eyes.
“What you want to go and do that for, Tempest?”
Neil held the jug up high as a temptation. “I’ll give it to you when you tell me where you got that pouch of tobacco. The one that’s in your pocket.”
Shortridge patted his torso with curiosity. Ivy had to pick up the pouch and deposit it directly in front of Shortridge, where he stared at it as though it were an ape-man femur. “I ain’t never seen that before in my life!”
“It was in your pocket,” said McCormack, chomping on his pipe stem.
“All right,” Shortridge admitted. “It was in my pocket, maybe. Are you accusing me of pinching that tobacco off someone else? I don’t even smoke tobacco.”
Neil waggled the jug enticingly in the air. “Perhaps you can tell me. Where’d your ring go?” Shortridge scrunched up his face in mystification. “The one that was on your finger until recently, depicting the brand of your ranch, a C and a P intertwined.”
Ivy noticed a white band around Rodney’s left middle finger, demonstrating that he’d recently worn a ring for quite a while.
“My ring?” cried Shortridge. He attempted to stand then, stumbling back against the wooden chair. “What’s my ring got to do with anything?” He made a swipe for the jug, but Neil withheld it.
“Just tell us,” Neil said evenly, “and you can have your firewater.”
“I don’t know!” Shortridge bawled. “I lost…I woke up one morning and it was gone! You remember, McCormack! It was that night that Hewson put the lampshade on his head and we had that fandango, only there weren’t enough women, so Nichols and Oliver put on those gowns, and I got clobbered over the head with that shoe-polishing contraption!”
Ivy hated herself a little for being proud of Neil when he unhooked a pair of bracelets from his gun belt and in a flash had clicked them onto Shortridge’s wrists. He had to put the jug down to do so, and Shortridge took that opportunity to lunge for it, but his hands were locked behind his back, and he leaned comically like a flagpole.
“What are you doing, Neil?” Shortridge wailed. “Why are you handcuffing me?”
“You’re arrested for the murder of Whit Gentry.”
“That can’t be!” McCormack protested. “We were sitting right here all day yesterday. Until closing time. Con Moyer can vouch for that.”
Neil was manfully dragging Shortridge toward the door after pocketing the tobacco pouch. He did look stern and forbidding the way he shoved that buffoon about. Ivy was ashamed that this manly attitude elevated his image in her mind. Of course, she was still angry about the suck marks on his neck. But he did look rather masterful in his leather waistcoat, a six-shooter at each hip.
Ivy admired the rounded globes of his ass as he hauled the oiled murderer away, and she loathed herself for it. She should be able to s
eparate his physical beauty from the fact that he couldn’t even wait two hours for her before he’d sneaked a woman into the house—or Lupe, the maid! He must have been canoodling with Lupe. That explained why she hadn’t heard any doors opening. Or any female voices, for that matter.
Ooh! Neil had been taking advantage of a poor Spanish maid!
“Excuse me, Ace.”
At the door, a limping fellow touched the brim of his hat to Neil. “You taking in Shortridge?”
“Yep, for murdering Gentry. Say, can you verify something? He claims he was here all damned day yesterday.”
“I was!” Shortridge protested. “Vouch for me, Ace!”
“Ah, I can’t say as I know, Neil,” said Ace. “I was gone all day myself. Up at Dale Creek Bridge. But Shortridge is here, as you know, pretty much the entire day and night long. Might as well charge you rent, you odiferous scoundrel!”
“Your brother can vouch for me!” Shortridge wailed. “Where’s Con? He was here!”
But even this conversation was interrupted by a larger silhouette of a fellow attempting to get in the door.
It was Harley, who tried to squeeze himself between Neil and the murderer, but he was looking directly at Ivy. “Come quickly, Ivy. I’ve just been over at McClure Brothers, the undertakers. I want you as a witness when I develop these photographs of Gentry.”
“Certainly!” Ivy shot Neil a haughty, offended glare as they all squeezed out the door. He looked at her quizzically. She realized he probably had no idea what she was angry about, so she added, “I need to get out of here. Hell was raked to furnish this groggery with unstable killers and reprobates. I could use some civilized company.”
Harley looked quizzical, too, but allowed her to take his arm and stalk away haughtily.
Chapter Ten
“Unbelievable.”
Ivy looked from the print of Neil’s “extra” over to the glass negative of the dead man’s eye. Then back to Neil’s “extra,” because she was probably sneaking glances at Neil’s erection.
Training Ivy [How The West Was Done 1] (Siren Publishing Ménage Everlasting) Page 8
