by Sandra Hill
What to do with everything they’d just discovered?
“Well!” Tante Lulu said, as if that said it all.
“Rusty will be so pleased,” Charmaine said. “I think.”
“Well, why wouldn’t he be? Fifty thousand buckaroos is a lot of cash to put this ranch back on its feet.”
“Twenty-five thousand, not fifty,” Charmaine corrected her.
“Oh. Thass right. Charlie’s will left everything half and half. Does that mean you’ll be hightailin’ it back to Houma, now that you can pay back the fish?”
For some reason, that prospect did not delight Charmaine, as it should have. “I don’t know.”
Tante Lulu grinned, as if she knew. “Ain’t you afeared of having yer kneecaps broken or the Mafia puttin’ a horse’s head in yer bed, or sumpin’?”
“Yeeeees,” she said uncertainly. “But I’ve always believed in putting money to work for me. Maybe there is a better use for my half.”
“Better than having kneecaps?”
Charmaine licked the syrup off her fingers one at a time. “I’ve been thinking . . . it’s only an idea at this point . . .”
“Uh-oh! The last time you had an idea for making lots of moola, you lost yer shirt.”
“This is different.”
“It allus is. So, tell me. What’s yer idea?”
“What would you think about turning the Triple L into a dude ranch? You know, hunky cowboys teaching rich city ladies how to ride horses. Stuff like that. I think it would be a way to make the ranch profitable again. And maybe we could even have a beauty spa here, too. Really, it’s a good idea. It would bring in a lot more steady income than stinkin’ cows.”
Tante Lulu looked at her as if she lost one of her last screws and said, “Ooooh, boy!”
St. Jude probably rolled his eyes, too, and said, Ooooh, boy!
In the still of the night . . .
Raoul was mentally and physically beat by the time he arrived home at midnight.
All the lights were off, except for a lamp in the living room. Even before he glanced around, he detected lemon wax in the air and knew that his very own Molly Maids must have attacked the room. It looked great, better even than it had when he’d been a boy and his Dad employed Clarence’s late wife as a housekeeper. He’d told Charmaine that she didn’t have to do all this housework, but did she listen to him? Hah! Not about this or anything else. Add Tante Lulu to her team, and he might as well wave a white flag.
As he stood under the steaming shower, he cataloged the events of the day. The cattle had brought in a depressingly low price, only thirty thousand dollars in profit for three hundred animals. How was he ever going to build up a new herd on that? Or buy feed? Or pay Clarence and Linc their back wages? Or get the much-needed new carburetor for his Jeep. Or pay the past due electric bill. Forget about the taxes. And there was always the possibility that Charmaine would demand her half.
After he’d sent everyone home about 6:00 P.M., he’d gone to see his parole officer. Not an experience he’d ever want to repeat, though he would have to, monthly, for the next year. He’d developed a sudden talent for grinding teeth. Devereaux had been especially obnoxious, deliberately trying to prod a reaction from him that could result in a red mark in his file. In particular, Devereaux had delighted in his crude observations over his still being married to Charmaine, a former Miss Louisiana. Apparently, there was something crudely funny about beauty queens and ex-cons.
The only highlight of the day had been his dinner meeting with Frank Zerby, the detective Luc had recommended. Zerby had impressed him with his professionalism and the work he’d done thus far, investigating the police officer who’d been a prime witness in his conviction, as well as the oil interests who’d been harassing his father for a long time. There was no doubt in Zerby’s mind, and in Raoul’s now that they’d talked, that he would get his conviction reversed eventually. Zerby would also help him uncover details about his father’s death but warned him that he might have to request an autopsy.
But first, he had to turn this ranch around. And decide what to do with an ex-wife who was not an ex-wife. And plan a future that right now looked like a freakin’ dead end. And face a houseful of people in three days and pretend to be thankful. How had his life gotten so hopeless? He was thirty-one years old, but he felt about ninety.
After the shower, he made his way back to his bedroom in the dark, where he just about knocked himself out when he tripped over some large object. Hopping about on one foot and swearing under his breath at the pain in his bruised shin, he flicked on the light and saw that someone had placed Tante Lulu’s hope chest at the foot of his bed. “Sonofabitch!” he said aloud now, an all encompassing exclamation of disgust over the day’s events, the already swelling bump on his leg, and the ridiculous piece of furniture. Once he’d satisfied himself that he wouldn’t die from his injury, he went over and lifted the lid. Inside were layer upon layer of embroidered bed linens, towels, hand-woven Cajun blankets, a quilt, and doilies. And from all of them wafted up to him the scent of roses. A quick examination showed there were dryer sheets mixed among the fabrics. He realized then, with hysterical irrelevance, he supposed, that Charmaine must have learned this trick from Tante Lulu.
After that, he lay in bed for more than an hour, exhausted but unable to sleep. Finally, he pulled on a pair of boxer shorts and padded off to—where else?—Charmaine’s room. Not the wisest decision in the world, but being wise was beyond his grasp tonight with all the grief that weighed him down.
A full moon allowed him to see somewhat. Charmaine lay on one side with her hands folded together prayerlike under one cheek. A slight breeze drifted through the two open windows, but it was warm and muggy tonight. As a result, she was uncovered, wearing only a red nightshirt, which had ridden up her thighs to expose the edge of her white panties. No, on closer examination, it wasn’t a nightshirt. It was another old LSU T-shirt of his. Why that should be an adrenaline kick in his groin was beyond him. All he knew was that he got immense pleasure from her wearing an item of his clothing. Way pathetic in the Playboy book of cool, he would imagine. Not that he had been cool for a long time, if ever.
He smiled and eased himself carefully onto the double bed behind Charmaine. When he was up against her spoon fashion, he laid one arm over the pillow on which her head rested and the other arm over her hip, with his hand spread over her cloth-covered belly. Only then did he sigh softly. It was like coming home . . . just what he needed tonight.
Luckily, Charmaine didn’t wake up and belt him one. He would just rest here for a moment. Just one blissful second . . . or two . . .
He awakened God only knew how much later with a jolt. He was lying flat on his back. Charmaine was plastered all over him like honey on a hot rock, and he meant that in the best possible way. Her face was nestled in his chest hairs. One leg had wedged itself between his thighs with her knee resting up against his . . . well, what a more poetic person might have called his Longfellow.
The steady breath of her deep sleep against his heart brought tears to his eyes. For a long time, he’d needed to hold her like this, more than he’d realized. He gently kissed the top of her hair and ran a hand over her back from shoulder to waist and up again.
“Ummmm,” she moaned appreciatively.
He stilled his hand, not wanting to awaken her. She’d bop him from here to Opelousa if she discovered him in her bed.
“You smell like Irish Spring,” she murmured sleepily against his chest.
Uh-oh! I’ve been caught. “Irish? Darlin’, there isn’t a drop of Irish blood in this old body. I’m pure Cajun.”
“Irish Spring, silly. Soap.”
“Oh, you mean that green bar in the shower.” Great! We’re going to discuss soap. What next? Deodorants?
“What are you doing in my bed?”
Oh, shit! Here comes the bop. “I got home late and was checking on you and . . . hell, it was just too damn tempting to resist.”
&
nbsp; “I was tempting?”
“As sin.” Now there’s a good sign. She cares whether I consider her tempting. Or maybe she’s just asking so she can give me an extra bop.
“How did it go today?” She was still lying across his body with her head on his chest.
So, no bop. At least not right away. “Don’t ask.”
“Did you sell the cattle?”
“We sold them.”
“For how much?”
“Not enough. Not even close.”
“Oh, Rusty. What are we going to do?”
I like the sound of that “we” in there. I shouldn’t, but I do. “Just keep plugging away.”
“Well, guess what, baby? I’ve got something to make you happy.”
There’s only one thing that would make me happy right now. Is that what she’s offering? On the other hand, this is the kind of land mine women plant in the path of men all the time. Say the wrong thing and you are dead meat. He chuckled at his own warped speculations.
She slapped his shoulder. “Not that, silly.”
Oh, yeah. Silly me for thinking that getting laid would cheer me up. “I never thought you were offering yourself up as a Happy Meal,” he lied.
“When—or if—I ever decide to offer myself up, there will be nothing subtle about it, big boy. You will know.”
He laughed. That was the best thing about Charmaine—her unsubtlety.
“The truth is, Tante Lulu and I found some . . . uh, stuff today that might help your whole dismal situation.”
Is that what I am? Dismal? Geeshum-golly! Horny as hell, and dismal to boot. “Listen, Charmaine, I don’t want to talk about the whole dismal situation tonight. I want to forget. Just for tonight.”
He could feel her body go still. Then she did the oddest thing . . . well, odd, considering their conversation, their past history, her new virginity, the whole schlemiel: She used one forefinger to circle his nipple. Slowly. Circle after circle. Soft as a butterfly’s wing. Then she leaned over, wet the same nipple with her tongue, blew him dry, and began to suckle him. Yep, nothing subtle about Charmaine.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” He about shot up off the bed. Stars appeared before his open eyes. And his Longfellow became an even longer fellow.
“Are you forgetting yet?” she whispered huskily as she looked up at him with seeming innocence.
Even as he choked out, “Forgetting what?” Charmaine swung her leg up over his hip and sat on his belly. If that wasn’t enough to blow his torpedo, she began to pull her T-shirt—his T-shirt—up over her head. She probably did it quickly but it sure felt like slow motion from his perspective, which was clouded by about a thousand volts of testosterone. “Are you trying to kill me, chère?”
“With kindness,” she answered.
This is kindness. I wonder what happens when she gets generous?
She was naked now, except for a pair of plain white, low-riding underpants and a teeny-tiny, blinkin’ gold hoop in her belly button. She raised her hands to fluff out her hair, which caused her pretty breasts to jut out even more. She probably did it deliberately, if that little Madonna smile on her lips was any indication.
Who the freakin’ hell cares! He reached up to touch her breasts.
She slapped his hands away. “No way, cowboy. This is my rodeo.”
Okaaaay. “Aren’t you a mite worried about losing your . . . um, virginity? Riding the bull is hard on the . . . doohickey.” Good thing I remembered Tante Lulu’s word for it. One slip of a crude word here and I would have been out of the rodeo. No doohickey for me.
“Not to worry. We’re just going to fool around. Correction. I am going to fool around. You’re just going to lie there nice and still and do a little forgetting. Are you all right with that?”
Women just don’t get it. Men, dolts that we are, will take whatever we’re offered in the way of sexual favors. We’re very easy to please in that regard. Very. And telling a guy you want to do him is definitely not a turnoff in any male dictionary I’ve ever read. Knowing all that, though, he said, “Well, I don’t know.” Men, bless our doltish hearts, don’t want to appear easy, either.
“I don’t know” was apparently a green light to Charmaine because she placed her hands on either side of his head and half lay on him, with her nipples nestled in his chest hairs. She even brushed herself from side to side to give him the full effect. “Do you like that?” she asked in a sultry, hot silk voice.
“Are my eyeballs rolling around in my head like a pinball machine?”
She laughed. Then, just before she placed her lips over his, she murmured, “I love your mouth.”
“I love that you love my mouth,” he murmured back.
“I just want to kiss you.”
He couldn’t have spoken then if he’d wanted to. And he didn’t—want to, that is. He was too busy holding on to the bedsheets.
Charmaine licked his lips. Not little catlike laps either. With wide swathes of her tongue, she wet him down. Then she bit him for smiling. Then she glided her mouth over his till they fit together perfectly. Then she inserted her tongue in his mouth, deeply. When he tried to reciprocate, she pulled back, but he was so far gone by then, it didn’t matter much.
“My show,” she insisted, lacing her fingers with his and placing his hands above his head.
“Whatever you say.” I’m no dummy.
“Are your ears still so sensitive?”
Oh, boy! “Nope. Not anymore.” He got rock hard just thinking about how sensitive his ears were and all the ways Charmaine knew to heighten that sensitivity.
She did every one of them now, one by one, as if she were following the Cosmo Step-by-Step Guide to Driving Your Man up the Wall. She blew into his ear. She nipped his lobe, then sucked on it. She inserted the tip of her sweet tongue inside. Ear sex, to be sure.
He bucked his hips up off the mattress, hoping Charmaine would take the hint and let him take over.
“Uh-uh-uh!” She unlaced her fingers from his but ordered him, “Leave your hands above your head.” She scooted herself farther down his body so that she sat on his thighs now; along the way her behind brushed over his erection causing him to groan aloud.
She just smiled, like the born seductress she was.
And, Dieu, she was so beautiful, with her wild black hair and dancing eyes. Her breasts were full . . . so full they overflowed his palms . . . at least, they used to. They were high, considering their size, and tipped with large pink nipples, which were erect now . . . hopefully because she was as aroused as he was. No, no one can be that aroused, he decided. Charmaine prided herself on a small waist, much like Southern belles of old, but her hips flared out nicely. She was slim but curvy, no anorexic model type. Pure woman.
“Honey, let me . . .” he said in a husky voice he barely recognized. “I need to touch you.”
She shook her head. “Not yet. I need to touch you first.”
But she wasn’t doing any touching. She was just staring at him, all over. “You are so beautiful,” she said, mirroring the same sentiment he’d just thought about her.
“Men are not beautiful.”
“You are. I remember the first time I ever saw you. You were walking ahead of me across campus. You wore a white T-shirt and tight jeans. I took one look at you, and I told my roommate, ‘That guy has a butt to die for.’”
“You did not!”
“Yes, I did. That’s the one thing about you that all the women comment on. Even today. Your rock solid tushie.”
I have something else that’s rock solid. Wanna see? “My ass? My ass is my best asset?” Women! Go figure!
“Yep. Then when you stopped that first day and turned around to talk to someone, my heart about stopped. You were so freakin’ handsome I about wet my pants.”
“You sweet talker you!” He was laughing on the outside, but inside his male ego grew about a mile. “Why didn’t you come up to me that day?”
“Are you kidding? You were a big man on campus,
and I was a lowly freshman.”
I don’t know how big I was then, but I sure as hell am big now. Big as in hard. As in hard-on. “Charmaine, you were never a lowly anything a day in your life. You ooze self-confidence.”
“On the outside.”
“You were already a former Miss Louisiana by then. Don’t pretend that you were unsure of yourself.”
She shrugged. “Around you, I was.”
He let that interesting admission go for the moment. “I remember the first time I noticed you. It was spring of my junior year, and you were working on some kind of charity car wash. About half the guys from the football team had their cars lined up because of you. When I got there, I couldn’t believe my eyes. You were wearing denim cutoffs—Daisy Maes, I think they were called—and a red tube top. Half your body was covered with soap suds, and you were laughing. I probably fell in love with you on the spot.”
“Hah!” she said, but he could tell she was pleased. “And when did you fall out of love?”
He didn’t answer. He couldn’t. What he did say was, “Touch me.”
“Where?”
“Oh, baby. Everywhere.”
And she did. God bless her, she did. He spread his thighs, and she knelt between them. When she leaned forward, her breasts swayed. He’d forgotten how much he loved to see her breasts sway.
His hands were still raised above his head, but his fists were clenched. She used her fingertips and her hands to caress his shoulders, and upper arms, and paps, even his underarms. All the time she made little appreciative sounds.
She licked his nipples, and he dug his short fingernails into his palms. “Please . . . don’t . . . stop.”
With a saucy chuckle, she tugged at his nipples with her teeth, which caused his fingernails to dig deeper. Then she used the tip of her tongue to make a trail from the middle of his chest down to his navel. “You should get pierced.”
“Where?” If she even hints that I should get a ring in my cock, I am out of here.
