TroubleToysTemptingCowboys

by Jennifer LaRose

  “I reckon you did.” He raised a brow. “A couple of times. The last being when you charged out of the bedroom, returning with it in hand.”

  She clenched her teeth and silently gulped, but held the smile like a pro, until the extent her checks burned. “Maybe someday I’ll teach you how to use it properly.” With a soft pat to his cheek, which was plumped from a wide grin, she walked to the other door in the room and opened it cautiously. There would be no more running into a closet. When she walked away from him this time, she wanted to do it right.

  * * * * *

  Life would never include another normal, tranquil day if she remained in Texas. As she reached into the back seat of her car and grabbed case number two by the handle, she embraced her new self-proclaimed name. The quirky, crazy, horny, sex toy rep. What a great title to carry in cowboy country.

  Maybe it was time to move back to Cleveland and resume living in the city where she grew up. In Austin, she lived on the edge of losing her career anyway. If Mr. Silvan, the director of Child Services, discovered the context of her part-time job, he’d probably terminate her employment. Under no circumstances would it matter to him that she contributed most of her profits to the children’s home.

  Lugging the supply case from the vehicle, she trudged up two flights of stairs to her apartment and dropped it, along with her purse, on the dining room floor next to the first case. Mr. Woodenhaven, the elderly, grouchy man living beneath her, pounded on his ceiling with the infamous broomstick, and let loose a string of muffled obscenities. The word bitch came through loud and clear. Within seconds, her cell phone rang, followed by the loud voicemail signal.

  His daily pounding was either a bad habit or a compulsion, congruent to the nasty messages he often left. He’d been known to beat on the ceiling when she’d dropped something as lightweight as a tube of lipstick. One day she was going to jog up and down her hallway to really piss him off.

  Unfortunately, today wasn’t that day. She stepped out of her shoes and tiptoed down the hall. A shower was her first priority, and unlike her normal routine, she decided not to make a pot of coffee before she locked herself in the bathroom and turned on the water full blast. She stripped off her clothes and tossed them into the synthetic wicker garbage can that sat tucked in between the toilet and sink. Thanks to Brock Halston, those inexpensive garments were ruined anyway.

  Seriously, how could she have done all those things without remembering? Is that how her mother had spent the majority of her life? When she denied having abused Tiffany all those years, was it because she honestly couldn’t remember? Well, she remembered to tip the alcohol bottle to her lips every night. Not once had she forgotten to indulge in that part of her daily ritual.

  She shrugged off the disheartening visions and stepped into the shower. Deep muscular pain nipped the inside of her thighs. Her breath caught sharply and she held it as she inched beneath the hot water, rubbing away the ache. She loved her shower. The force of the jet stream offered a relaxing massage comparable to a rubdown. The full effect beating against her body was amazing.

  A few seconds elapsed before she squirted facial soap onto her palms and began washing her face. She then tilted her chin, allowing the full stream to rinse away the foamy bubbles. As she slid her fingers through her hair, they snagged the hair clips she’d placed yesterday evening. She removed them along with her earrings and laid them on the soap shelf.

  While living through the Cleveland winters, her favorite part of the day consisted of waking to the alarm clock in her chilled bedroom, and then stepping into a steaming hot shower. The walls in the small, run-down house she’d rented on West 140th Street were not well insulated, so they allowed cold air to seep inside. Nor were the windows sealed properly. Every year, hoping to beat the first frost, she’d cover them in plastic and duct tape. Not so much to block the cold, but to cut down on the natural gas costs. With the annual hefty price increase, the bills grew unaffordable. A year ago, when they began exceeding her rent payment by a hundred bucks, she packed her bags and moved to a warmer state. She chose Texas to live closer to her brother, Troy.

  To recapture the cozy feeling of the Cleveland winters, at night she’d set the thermostat in her Austin home to fifty-eight degrees, leaving the air conditioner to mimic the cool weather. She didn’t miss driving along Cleveland’s snow covered roads, but missed the ambiance of her favorite season. Never could she give up wearing snuggly pajamas or cuddling under a stack of fleece blankets in bed.

  As the water started to cool, she quickly washed and conditioned her hair, then scrubbed the remainder of her body with an exfoliating sponge she’d doused with flower and musk-scented gel. A day of relaxation took precedence over her daily chores. Saturdays were reserved for cleaning and laundry, but after last night, geez, she didn’t want to think about last night. Nor what happened this morning.

  During the past three months, she’d remained celibate by choice, dildos not included. The sex toys came with a hassle-free guarantee. Feeding life into them with new alkaline batteries periodically was the only maintenance they required, unlike some men who needed constant pampering and attention. The last three she’d dated had been in search of a mother figure. They’d required way too much energy. Especially Devin. He’d expected his meals cooked and hot on the table when he arrived home from work, as well as his clothes laid out for him in the morning. Needless to say, she’d kicked his ass out two weeks after he’d moved in.

  Then came Brock Halston.

  A tall Texan whose ego appeared too big for his britches. She couldn’t accuse him of being self-centered, or even arrogant, because he hadn’t shown those traits. Instead, he’d gone out of his way to assure her comfort, which played a huge part in preventing her from having an anxiety attack. Well, that’s how she perceived him during the thirty minutes of the night she remembered.

  Ugh.

  Whatever happened in the bedroom prior to this morning…heck, according to all the aches and pains, he must have turned her into a contortionist and placed her in some whacky positions. Her reaction to him once out of the closet proved she’d let anything happen. Allowing him to rub her off with a dildo while she begged him to fuck her? Had she no shame?

  She stepped out of the shower and wrapped her hair turban-style in a towel. Having removed her plush robe off the door hook, she slipped her arms into the puffy sleeves, situated it over her shoulders, and tied the belt at her waist. In that instant, her cell phone rang.

  Sauntering into the dining room, she removed the phone from her purse, glancing at the number. She flipped it open while pushing the towel further away from her ear. “Hi, Troy.”

  “Hey, sis. What are you up to today?”

  He sounded unusually chipper. “My normal Saturday duties, I suppose.”

  “Why don’t you come to dinner at my place? I…um…” He paused as if searching for words. “Mom’s…here. I picked her up from the airport last night.”

  Impossible. It was too soon. The jury convicted her of child neglect, criminal trafficking, abuse, and sentenced her to ten years in prison. How could she serve less than her time? Two months early? Why? Sixty days was sixty days. She needed to be locked up to the very last second to repent for her crimes. “No thanks. I’ll pass.”

  “Damn it, Tiffany, she wants to see you.”

  She glanced at her feet. “I owe her nothing. Do you hear me?”

  “All she does is cry.”

  Wasn’t that ironic? “If it were my choice, she’d be crying from her cell.”

  “That’s not fair. She’s your mother and she loves you.”

  “Loves me?” What an exaggerated sentiment from a woman with no heart. “She beat me. And locked me in a cold cellar.” A deep ache crept into her shoulders and neck.

  “She was—”

  “Inside the house screwing every man possible.”

  “She locked you in the cellar to protect you.”

  “Protect me? From what? Why didn’t she prote
ct you, little brother? While I sat inside a concrete cell fighting for my sanity, you were in your room playing video games under a nice warm blanket,” she yelled.

  “She sheltered you from the men.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “If you remember correctly, one tried raping you.”

  “She set it up! She wanted me to have some type of sexual experience before she sent me to the street. Had I not run away, I’d be a part of a prostitution ring some place.” Tears burned her eyes. “You have no idea the abuse I endured at her hands. Would you like to see the scars, Troy? Just look into my eyes. You’ll see them.”

  “I never saw her hit you.” His voice turned defensive. “Not once.”

  “Of course not. You’re her baby boy. She wouldn’t dare do anything to obstruct your perfect vision of her. She’s a deceptive, conniving woman who gained pleasure by men, booze and beating me.”

  “What am I supposed to tell her?”

  “Tell her—” She paused to regain composure as a warm tear slipped from the corner of her eye and rolled downward. She swiped it, smearing it across her cheek. “Tell her…she’ll never see me again.”

  “You know what, Tiffany? Paybacks are a bitch,” he shouted, and hung up.

  She stared at the phone. The cold, damp memories of the cellar returned with a jolt, creeping their way up her spine, raising the hairs on the back of her neck. Goose bumps rose all over her flesh. She shivered and tightened her robe. Would the horrors of her past ever disappear? If she allowed them to keep resurfacing, then no, they never would.

  She brushed them aside and punched her password into her phone to retrieve her voicemails. Two new messages. The first was from Mr. Woodenhaven. Usually, his calls were short and bitter, so she pulled out a kitchen chair and sat down to listen to his newest gripe.

  “Now listen, missy, I’ve had about enough of your philandering around this here complex. This is a respectable place, and we don’t want no whores prancin’ around here in tight skirts stinkin’ up the joint. There’s places for woman’s like you. They’re called houses of ill-repute. Do us-uns a favor and get the hell out.”

  Normally, he wasn’t that mean. She never responded either, but damn, she couldn’t let that call go unanswered. Was it because Troy had sent her on an emotional roller coaster and she refused to tolerate any more needless badgering?

  Her fingers trembled as she highlighted the missed-call number and pressed the send key. It rang only once before the voicemail kicked on. “Mr. Woodenhaven, this is Tiffany from upstairs returning your call. I would appreciate it if you quit leaving me hateful messages. I’ve had about enough of your antagonizing, and if you don’t quit harassing me, I’ll make sure you never harass anyone again.” She hung up and drooped in the chair. Stooping to his level made her feel like shit.

  As if things couldn’t get any worse, Nan left the second message.

  “Hey, Tiffany, it’s Nan. Give me a call. I’m dying to hear about the party last night.”

  Tiffany rolled her eyes and hit the delete button. Nan couldn’t care less about the party. The inquiry really meant, how many sales did we make?

  Dear God!

  What was she going to tell Nan?

  The truth?

  Hell no.

  Maybe she’d pretend she never received the call. No, it wouldn’t work. Nan would be pounding on the door.

  What if one of the cowboys reported Tiffany’s behavior? Would Nan reprimand her? Dang, what was she supposed to do now?

  Tiffany was not a liar, but sometimes to protect one’s image, lying became the only option. The problem? She couldn’t think of one believable enough to lay on Nan. And if Bobby or Brock had in fact contacted her… Shit.

  Leave it to Nan and Troy to ruin the day.

  Her brain lacked the energy to analyze the situation further, so she laid the phone on the dining room table, dropped a piece of wheat bread in the toaster and started brewing a pot of coffee. Her belly denied the need for food, but if she ingested something to absorb the acid, it may ease the periodic burn.

  When the toast popped, she waited for it to cool before removing it from the slot. She then bit a small piece off the barely toasted corner, chewed it into mush and swallowed it slowly. Amazingly, it settled with no problem. After she took a mug from the cabinet and filled it with black coffee, she sat at the dining room table to partake in brunch. She glanced around the apartment. A thin film of dust lined the furniture which served as a reminder to polish the wood. The supply cases lying by the door could also use a good cleaning to remove the smudges and fingerprints.

  Who packed her supplies? When she’d walked out of the strange bedroom this morning, they’d been situated beside the front door. The house had held no evidence whatsoever of having been invaded by Tiffany and her toys. Hopefully, none of her possessions were missing. If they were, so what? She wasn’t going to do a darn thing about it. Nan may suggest she file a police report and turn the loss into the insurance company. Tiffany wouldn’t even consider that option. She’d pay for whatever was missing with her own funds. Somehow.

  The less Nan knew about last night, the better. Hopefully, she knew nothing so far.

  After draining her mug, Tiffany knelt on the floor beside the cases and lifted both lids. Whoever had packed them had done so with perfection. Everything was boxed and neatly stacked. In one corner sat the brochures. On the lid, sticking halfway out of the pocket, lay her sales folder. A stack of cash was paper clipped to the upper right corner accompanied by a sticky note with Brock’s name, address and phone number.

  Cash?

  She yanked it free, holding it in both hands, dropped flat onto her butt and counted.

  Two-hundred and thirty-seven dollars?

  Why would Brock Halston give her so much money? Why would he leave her any money, period?

  Oh no, he did not pay her for last night? Never had…oh…how could he… What could she have possibly done to earn… By the condition of her clothes and the room… Un-freaking-believable.

  Was the sex that good? No—amusing; that’s what he’d said.

  Dear God, she needed a confessional even wondering about her performance.

  She wanted to laugh at the absurdity and scream from humiliation. Wait until she confronted him. She’d get the last laugh.

  She barged into her bedroom whipping the towel off her head and threw on a pair of jeans. After tearing through a dresser drawer, tossing clothes on the floor while searching for her favorite purple tank top, she strapped her feet in a pair of high-heeled sandals.

  Brock Halston failed to realize she was not a meek woman who’d tolerate being insulted. And he also failed to realize she didn’t appreciate being the brunt of his jokes. Maybe he paid for sex because he couldn’t find a willing partner. Right. Any sane woman would cut into her life savings to spend the night with him.

  Scurrying from the room, she picked her purse up off the floor and emptied the contents onto the dining room table to find her keys. Seriously, how many pocket calendars did she need? And why’d she need to hoard so many gas receipts? It’d be much simpler if she’d file them in her tax folder rather than let them accumulate.

  Four eye shadow compacts. Really?

  An empty container of dental floss?

  Finally, she found the keys buried on the bottom in a corner. Not thinking twice about her intentions, she refilled her purse with all of the unnecessary items, threw the strap over her shoulder, grabbed Brock’s money and left the apartment, bouncing down the stairs to the parking lot.

  When she situated herself in the car, she punched his address in LaVernia, Texas into her GPS, and then drove off, heading south. She wasn’t in any hurry to see him again, but found her foot pressing the accelerator while her eyes scanned for the police.

  Yesterday—and this morning, for that matter—the ride to and from Bobby’s took an hour and a half, but she’d made it to Brock’s ranch just short of seventy-five minutes. He lived a half a mile w
est of Bobby’s A-frame on a desolate dirt road with only two houses. The address on the sticky note matched the black numbers on a tall, narrow, one-story older home. A beige rail surrounded a cedar porch that looked as if it encircled the entire dwelling. A wooden swing, two wicker chairs, and a small table sat next to the front door. A twenty-foot section of straw, casting a golden hue in the sunlight, was layered evenly around the porch obviously protecting planted grass seed. The driveway led to a huge barn which stood at least three times the size of the house.

  Did everyone in this area own a rodeo arena? On the right, inside a wooden fence encasing a dirt area half the size of a football field, was a young man chasing a pony. On the opposite side, a wire fence enclosed a pasture crowded with cows. Tiffany pulled in, following the rock path to the barn where a second man stood leaning against the left side of the open, doublewide doors. The Stetson and confident stance confirmed his identity. She couldn’t mistake the handsome reason behind her trip.

  He looked in her direction and tipped his hat, but her presence didn’t prevent him from turning and disappearing inside the barn. She threw the gear shift in park, shut off the engine, grabbed the cash and climbed out of the car. “Mr. Halston?”

  The pony’s hooves thundered along the dirt pasture. They were loud, but not so loud Brock couldn’t hear her calling his name. “Mr. Halston?” she repeated.

  “Hey,” the young man hollered. “Will you stop already?”

  Tiffany’s head snapped sideways. She glanced at the man. Through a cloud of dust, she saw him hunched over with hands on his knees. His shoulders heaved up and down as if trying to catch his breath from having run around like a fool.