Rough Rowdy Reckless (RRR #1)

by Kimball Lee

  W-T-F! Five days ago I didn’t have the slightest use for a man and now so many disturbingly dirty scenes are ripping through my brain I have to peel off my thin cotton cardigan because I’m sweating. Let me make one thing clear—I never sweat!

  “Gigi, you okay babe?” Jon-Wylder asks, wiping his fingers on a napkin so he can help me peel off the sweater.

  “Fine, the salad dressing is spicy,” I lie and he leans over to kiss me, licking his lips and whispering in my ear before Campbell clears his throat and takes a long swig from his beer.

  “I need you to hear and understand little brother,” Campbell says and his tone has changed from irritated, to severely agitated. “This music business is horseshit, which, by the way you should be shoveling back at the ranch. We’ve got the Derby coming up in six weeks—six weeks—Jon–Wylder! I guarantee you this is the last major horse race the old man will live to see, and I intend for you to get him and the horse to Kentucky. Nothing is more important than that race, are you listening? Pridey can win in May and he could go on to take the Triple Crown, you know that as well as I do. Does that mean anything to you? Are you so selfish and hell-bent on having your way that you’re going to let this family down? I sent old Midnight to Holt Corrigan this morning and there wasn’t a dry eye on the ranch. Midnight is the greatest thoroughbred stallion Texas has ever produced and he’s going down fast, probably won’t last ‘til the end of the week. Holt said he was up here with you and Traeg, but he didn’t hesitate to get back down to Tallulah and tend to business. I expect you to do the same. This is our year little brother, Dad doesn’t call the shots anymore, we make the rules. Why in hell are you throwing it all away on some petty whim? You’ve been dicking around—excuse my language, Miss—with your guitar and your songs when the biggest ranch in Texas is where you’re needed.”

  “How big is your ranch?” I ask simply because Jon-Wylder is chugging his beer and hasn’t said a word.

  “The Corazon Perdido is just under a million acres, does that matter to you, Miss… Gigi, that’s your name, right? Is that why you’re interested in my little brother, land, oil, money?” Campbell asks and he stares into my eyes as if he’s daring me to look away.

  “Campbell, you know a lot about land, evidently. Do you recognize the name Wilkes Walsh?” I ask, folding my napkin and tossing it on the table. His eyes are so fucking blue right now, that’s really the only difference—other than age and height—between him and Jon-Wylder. His eyes darken to a deep, grey-rimmed cobalt when he’s angry or off-balance. “Yes, I thought so. Well he was my grandfather, my name is Gigi Walsh, and I can honestly say that the land my grandfather owned, which is now all of Beverly Hills and most of Malibu, pretty much keeps me in a mellow, California state of mind. I like your brother because he’s a good guy and great fuck, and furthermore, my family money insures that I never get starry-eyed over rich ranchers with manure for brains and oil wells in the backyard.”

  He looks truly surprised and Jon-Wylder chokes on his beer and laughs into his napkin.

  “What did you think, Campbell, that I’d bring some random groupie to sit down and share a meal? You know me better than that. Look at this gorgeous girl, you see any tattoos on her arms? Gigi is… different, special, she’s my girl. Better get used to it, brother, unless she gets sick of me in the next couple of days,” Jon-Wylder says and his hand slides under my hair and cradles my neck, stroking my skin possessively.

  God! I think I’m in love with the alpha-male dominant vibe passing between these two, it’s like a drug, and I could easily get addicted. Jon-Wylder trails the back of his hand down my bare arm and it disappears under the table and squeezes my thigh and I could come just from the hot pressure of his fingers and the scalding look in Campbell’s eyes as he stares at me across the table.

  “What does that mean, the name of your ranch? I know Corazon is Spanish for heart, but I don’t know the other word,” I say and match his probing stare.

  “Lost, it means lost in Spanish. The full name is El Rancho Corazon Perdido—The Ranch of the Lost Heart.”

  “Mmm, romantic. I’m sure there must be an interesting story behind a name like that. I’ve always thought of cowboys as barbarians who rope poor defenseless animals and brand them with red-hot pokers. I’d like to hear how some long-ago cowboy lost his heart.”

  “You’d be disappointed, the lost heart is a diamond. The largest red diamond in the world… according to legend,” Campbell says and scoots his chair back, stretches out those long legs and crosses them at the ankles. He’s wearing a pair of politically-incorrect ostrich-skin cowboy boots and it should piss me off but all I can think is— Damn, those must be size fourteens!

  “Right, a legend that the old man keeps in a safe deposit box at the Bank of San Antonio, if he hasn’t given it to one of his whores,” Jon-Wylder says and I notice that he’s kicked back and adopted the same casual stance as his older brother. Dear Lord, I already know how big his boots are, and he’s living proof that the ‘foot size matters’ rumor is true!

  “You should come with Jon-Wylder, convince him to get on the jet now, today,” Campbell says and a lump forms in my throat and I’m sure my eyes are as big as saucers. “It’s the only way I’ll get him back to the ranch. I’m sorry if I mistook your intentions or his devotion to you, Miss Walsh, that won’t happen again. I have to make a stop at the boot-maker’s shop over on Lamar, Ponfi will wait and bring the two of you to the airfield. You will come, won’t you, Gigi?”

  “Shit,” Jon-Wylder says and he motions for Ponfilo to bring him another beer. “She doesn’t want to come to fucking Tallulah or the middle-of-nowhere ranch.”

  “I do,” I say and am sort of surprised by my own words. “I need to be back in school by Monday… what is this, Friday? I’m in my last semester at Trinity, two months from graduating,” I babble because I am so hot and bothered by the prospect of what could happen on a ranch in the wilds of South Texas. “Damn, my car’s here but Penn might drive it back… I hate to bail on her though, Scarlet’s gone with Holt and… It would be rude to leave Penn, but… she’s totally the most capable and independent person in the world….”

  “It’s settled then. Jon-Wylder, your girlfriend would like to spend a few days at the ranch. I need you there, our father will be…. Well, that part is anyone’s guess. See you on the jet in an hour, be there, you hear?” Campbell says and he stands up, drops an enormous tip on the table for no one in particular, puts on his cowboy hat, smiles at his brother without looking at me, and walks out the door.

  *

  “Fucking arrogant, call-the-shots, his-way-or-the-highway, controlling bastard,” Jon-Wylder grumbles all the way up the elevator and into the condo. “You really wanna do this, spend a fucking weekend with him? He coerced you into it, that’s how he is, it’s never gonna change. Campbell says “jump” and everyone within ear-shot says “how high?” It’s never-ending. The fucker won’t be satisfied until he’s running the world.”

  “Hey, it’s no big deal,” I say, as I gather my luggage from the bedroom and Ponfi collects it and says he’ll wait outside. “I want to go, Jon-Wylder. I’d like to see where you grew up, and what about this race-horse you own? That sounds so cool. I’m a California girl, remember, this is new and exciting for me,” I say stopping him, running my hands up his tautly muscled biceps. “Won’t it be easier for you to go home for a few days if I’m there too? It’ll be an adventure, let me just text Penn and let her know I’m leaving. I don’t think she and Traeger are next door, I don’t hear the headboard banging against the wall,” I say raising my eyebrows and he finally smiles.

  “Okay, babe, you talked me into it. You’re magic, you know that? Where’ve you been all my life, beautiful, beautiful Gigi? We can go by and see what Holt and Scarlet have been up to, as if we don’t know,” he says and he leans down to kiss me and lifts my hands above my head, then slides his hands down my arms and wraps them around his neck.

  I snuggle into him and a t
hrill courses through me as he pushes my shorts and panties down and they fall to the floor. He smells so good, so hot, like newly cut grass and fresh air, his lips are full and warm, his tongue forces my lips apart, claiming my mouth. Then he’s whispering, pressing sweet-filthy words into my skin, his fingers are on my sex, and he groans when they slip inside, I’m slippery with need, clenching, pulsing, and so, so ready for him.

  We’re standing in the middle of the living room and he spins me around so that I’m facing the wall of windows. With a firm hand on my back he bends my body forward over the leather sofa and my eyes fall closed the moment I hear his zipper open and feel the hard, slick press his cock. Nothing matters but this feeling that shreds my body and soul to pieces: Not the pure, blue sky beyond the windows, or the heat of the enormous orange sun as it paints my cheeks and eyelids, only him and this astonishing sexual act. Images, feelings engulf me, Jon-Wylder’s beautiful face, the inflexible thickness of his cock as he thrusts into me, his labored breathing and nasty-sweet words hot against my cheek. His hands caress my ass, then hold my hips steady, fingers gripping, digging in so deeply that I know there’ll be faint bruises tomorrow, a heady reminder of his rowdy brand of ‘love-making’. I’m wild with him, untamed, unashamed, my own hands are on my breasts, kneading, pinching…. I know I’m falling in love with Jon-Wylder, I’m sure of it, and it’s so, so right. Even as I imagine his brother’s hands on my breasts, his tongue lashing my nipples, my pussy, licking, fucking me— both of them, I want it all. I’m done for, coming fast, a furious eruption at my core that tears through me, tortuous and sooooo fucking good, and I’m not sure whose name I’m screaming, but it must be alright— because he’s shouting too.

  PART FOUR

  Penn…

  A word of warning to intelligent single women: Do not let the area at the apex of your thighs run your life! I never have before, but Scarlet insisted we throw caution and good sense to the wind and get a little, or a lot, crazy at South by Southwest. The way it works is—I don’t equate sex with love, which means—I have a fuck-buddy. He’s easy, uncomplicated, no strings or sentiment attached, and he keeps my body purring like a finely tuned machine, thank you very much.

  As for what truly matters: I’ve worked hard academically and in May I’m graduating at the top of my class, Valedictorian, Summa Cum Laude, honors that were hard won. I have plans for my future, concrete plans to make a difference in the world, to use my God-given intelligence and abilities to perpetuate change for the better. I want to feed the children, banish world hunger, and eradicate chemical pesticides and genetically-altered food sources. They say it takes a village, but I intend to be an army of one.

  This week has screwed things up royally, because how am I going to stay focused now that my mind is more focused on ass than grass? By grass I mean plants, crops, grains, fruits, vegetables, and so forth. By ass I mean Traeger Townsend who is fucking with my head in a major way. The man is reckless with sex, words, (he’s infuriatingly haphazard with the word love!) and life in general. You’d think it would turn me off, but fuck, I’m hooked.

  Thank God I was a gymnast in high school because Traeger has twisted my body into every imaginable position night and day for the last week. I’m almost glad that spring break is nearly over—almost. Even if Scarlet, (who IS a head-in-the-clouds-romantic) hadn’t insisted that we unleash our restless sides this week, I fully intended to sow a few wild-oats, as per usual. I might have set my sites on Walker McCauley simply because you can’t grow up in Texas and not sleep with one of the Big Three—AKA—the McCauley brothers. And Lord knows Walker has the whole stupefyingly-sexy-face-and-body thing going on, but he’s just so full of himself. Maybe it has something to do with birth-order, as the middle brother he needs to prove himself, and all that sibling rivalry crap. Turns out I didn’t have to ponder that dilemma for long, not after those butterflies I’ve always heard about but never believed in started beating their wings in the pit of my stomach when HE, Traeger, showed up.

  The morning after we got to Austin, Gigi and I were having this weird, never-gonna-happen-in-a-million-years conversation about a threesome with Walker McCauley. We’d never do it—have a threesome, that is—but we were toying with ideas of how to tarnish his tight-ass, squeaky-clean senator-in-the-making reputation.

  But as luck or fate would have it, we wandered out on the deck and there was Traeger mixing Bloody Marys, with his motorcycle helmet at his feet, mud streaks across his bare chest, looking like he just stepped out of a Ducati ad. He was and is, the epitome of a classically handsome, dirty-good, bad-boy. Tall and tanned, brown hair that the sun has lightened until its almost blonde, shaggy and disheveled so that it falls over his navy blue—that’s right!—navy blue eyes, and a face women would die for. He’s big and lean and angular, his shirtless body is maddeningly well-muscled, covered with tattoos, and just fucking hot. After all is said and done, I have two words for Traeg—sinfully sexy. So there he was and my head and heart felt like they were filled with helium, light and floaty, and as Scarlet loves to say, (duh- her mother is the number one romance author in America!) And so it began….

  *

  “Wow, someone alert the media— you’re gonna be my one night stand,” I have no idea why I just said that, but the sight of a gorgeous half-naked man standing on my deck, on my first morning in Austin has thrown me completely off guard.

  “Oh yeah?” he says, handing Gigi a drink while he studies all five-feet-two-inches of my body.

  “Yep,” Gigi rambles as Traeger circles me like a lion stalking his prey. “I’m pretty sure you two are gonna tear up the sheets before the night’s over. Penelope was telling me about this thing called a zipless fuck...”

  “I don’t have any say in this, huh?” He says and his low, rumbling voice literally shakes me to my core. “Okay then, bring it, sweet pea. But tell me, do I just have to lie there like a good boy or can I do some of the fucking? ‘Cause I’m down for it, fucking, that is. And I tend to be a little wild and reckless, well, more than a little. You’re tiny, I’m betting you were a gymnast, and that could lead to all manner of kinky shit. You good with that?”

  “I… I don’t think so. What I said, that was supposed to be an unspoken thought,” I say, and what is wrong with me? I sound so unsure, so… girlish.

  “Hmm, but you were thinking it. I’d like to get you on the back of my bike, take you around the block a few times. You’d look perfect sitting on my Harley, sweet pea, in that little skirt, with those dangerous curves.”

  “Damn, son! I can’t believe you don’t get arrested for the shit you say, this lovely young lady should slap some sense into you,” Jon-Wylder says, his arm sliding around Gigi’s waist as he looks from me to Traeg and shakes his head.

  “She’s okay with it,” Traeger says and I can tell that he and Jon-Wylder love to engage in fierce-but-friendly banter. “Your blonde beauty—Gigi, is it?—has yet to discover that you’re an emotional moron with the sex-drive of a sixteen year old boy, Jonny boy. I’m sure she’ll figure it out soon enough.”

  “True enough and well-said, coming from a man-whore who should replace all his zippers with Velcro,” Jon-Wylder says and they laugh and Traeger says, “Touché!”

  “Hey, Penn. Know what’s interesting about Traeg?” Jon-Wylder says and Traeger grins and sweeps his hair out of his eyes as if it’s an unspoken truth that Jon-Wylder has to have the last word. “Not a fucking thing… or is it, not a thing except fucking!”

  *

  That was last Saturday, and it’s how we began. Now it’s Saturday again, a week later and I’m going back to San Antonio tomorrow, but I’ll be moving here for work this summer. I’m sad to be leaving, and I’m also glad because Traeg wasn’t lying, he’s insanely reckless on so many levels. I had my internship interview yesterday and I got it, but I have an odd feeling about it. Yes, I’m more than qualified for the position, and practically a religious zealot concerning Alice-Anne’s Farm Market stores. This is the firs
t one to open in Texas and I’m obsessed with the stores and the philosophy of the brand that started in California and is so far superior to Whole Foods it’s almost comical. They specialize in all-natural, locally-grown products, and the founder, Alice-Anne Kincade, is a green-living guru of monumental proportions. Alice-Anne is who I want to be when I grow up.

  “You ready, sweet pea?” Traeger asks and hands me a helmet as he straddles his Harley and I climb up behind him.

  “Where are we going?” I ask but I don’t really care, I love to wrap my arms around his warm, firm body and feel the hard cut of his abs under my hands.

  “Fuck, hang on a sec,” He says and holds his phone to his ear and begins to growl out a list of orders. “No! Absolutely not, if you agree to use Agave that isn’t grown my designated fields you can go find a job in a third world country. Yes, I’m serious. You think greatness is achieved by being mediocre? Good, and don’t expect to have weekends off for the next ninety days. No, it’s not a punishment, it’s good work ethics, and don’t call me again unless the distillery is on fire. Have a nice day.”

  I love how intense he is in all aspects of his life, and the man is a hero in the rising world of handmade, artisan liquor. One minute we’re twined around one another like a couple of mating snakes, and the next he’s planting a kiss on my ass as he answers his phone and rattles off a list of appointments to his secretary. His brain works overtime—just like mine! His tequila is manufactured on a rural farm near Tallulah but he keeps an office at an old warehouse here in Austin. We pop into his office whenever the mood strikes, when he’s convinced that all his employees are lazy, loafing morons who need a pep talk or an ass-kicking. I get a perverse thrill at the power his mere words and presence wield. He soothes and comforts a bumbling assistant one minute, then turns around and blasts an imbecilic executive who misquoted a million dollar deal. He runs hot and cold and a million temperatures in between and I am turned on and scared shitless for the first time in my life. This man who is charming and disarming and usually covered with mud from riding his Harley through open fields where Harley’s don’t belong is way more than just blatantly sexual. He likes to fuck, not talk, but from what I gather, he’s the CEO of a manufacturing company that’s on the cusp of greatness. Business and pleasure—my panties get wet just thinking about it, for me, it’s a rush of epic proportions!