A Wild Red Rose

by Lynn Shurr

  Clint walked in on a tender moment between Bodey and Eve. He noted that the great bull rider only stood taller than his luscious, gray-eyed wife when he had his boots on—which didn’t seem to bother Bodey one bit. He was laying a long kiss on his missus, and she had bent her head slightly to accept it. Their baby watched, attempting to focus his already bright blue eyes, from an infant seat nearby.

  “Ahem. Bodey, could you spot me a good bottle of wine? I couldn’t find anything decent in Rainbow at Plato’s Liquor and Groceries and don’t want to have to go into the city. Miss Renee is waiting.”

  Bodey didn’t break the kiss, but gestured toward a cabinet that, when opened, revealed a state of the art wine cooler fully stocked. Eve pulled away.

  “For heaven’s sake, Bodey, we have guests tonight.”

  “Don’t stop on my account. I’ll be dining at the home of Renee Hayes this evening. I wanted to take along a little offering.”

  Bodey gave a deep laugh. “You won’t need an offering. Renee will have your clothes off before you get to the bedroom. She’ll be the appetizer, main course, and the dessert. You better eat something before you go to keep your strength up, but feel free to help yourself to the wine.”

  “Red or white?”

  “White,” said Eve. “Renee is always watching her weight. And Bodey is right. No food will be served. Instead of letting Renee have free run of your students and instructors, we should be helping her find a good husband who will satisfy her needs and lead her to a happier life.”

  “I doubt if there is a man on earth who could satisfy Renee. And what makes you think she isn’t happy?” Bodey asked his wife.

  “Underneath all that bravado, she is miserable. She believes her looks are all she has to offer, and she kissed thirty good-bye the same year as I did. Everyone knows her reputation, and sure, men take advantage of that, but no one is offering to marry her. Renee has been used and abused by men all her life. She needs to be led in a better direction.”

  “You are too good for this world, darlin’. She’s had two husbands already, both rich—and I don’t think she’ll ever be a nun.” Bodey eyed Clint who had selected a slim green bottle of German Leibfraumilch from the cooler.

  “Clint, bro, Renee is going to scent prep school and money all over you if you show up at her place lookin’ like that. Cowboy up a little, man. Play the rodeo bum, or she’ll pursue you to the ends of the earth. Too bad you already shaved and perfumed yourself. Ditch the I-talian loafers and put on your running shoes. Come with me.”

  Bodey led the way to his bedroom suite and threw open a closet door. Along the back wall, pegs held maybe fifty western hats and below them sat racks and racks of boots. Western wear of all styles filled the hangers on both sides. Clint wondered where Eve kept her clothes. Must have her own closet. He tried to keep his eyes from straying to what appeared to be two nude paintings of Bodey’s wife on the bedroom walls.

  “Pick a hat,” Bodey ordered.

  Clint reached for a worn black felt with a battered silver concha band that sat on a shelf next to a white business Stetson.

  “Not that one. That’s my lucky hat. I wore it the first time I met Eve—and on other momentous occasions. Here, try this nice straw hat. See if it fits.”

  Bodey selected a model with upturned sides and quail feathers stuck in the leather band. He stuck it on Clint’s head. “Wouldn’t be caught dead in this myself, but it looks good on you. Now remember, you’re just a good ole boy who can’t afford a high-priced Stetson. For God’s sake, put one of your bullfighter prize buckles on your belt when you go change your shoes. Roll up those sleeves. You don’t know nothing about wine either. Oh, and I’d ask Snuffy if you can borrow his truck.”

  “The Belly Nelle? You’ve got to be kidding.”

  Snuffy’s truck, named in honor of Pat Brady’s Jeep, the Nellybelle from the old Roy Rogers Show, was a wreck the barrelman sometimes used in his clown act. It possessed a deceptively good engine, however, and could pull his equally disreputable, old trailer anywhere Snuffy wanted to go.

  “Yep. She sees you in that sports car you tow around, and you are doomed.”

  “This seems like a lot of work for a good lay.”

  “Just tryin’ to protect a friend the way he protected me in the arena. That’s all.”

  Chapter Two

  Clinton O. Beck, heir to the Beck’s Baked Beans and Condiments fortune, graduate of a top prep school and the University of Texas, holder of an MBA from Harvard, arrived at Renee Hayes’ door in running shoes and carrying a bottle of fine wine he wasn’t supposed to know anything about. She must have heard him pull into the drive since the Belly Nelle was tuned to shake and rattle as part of Snuffy’s act. Clint prayed Snuffy would stay in visiting with Bodey and Eve and not decide to unhitch the classic Corvette from his motorcoach and go on a bender in one of Rainbow’s bars. He’d had to offer the clown a trade of transportation for the night.

  Renee opened the door to her home in high-toned Red Horse Acres, a development right next to Bodey’s ranch. She started to give Clint a seductive smile, but it froze on her face.

  “Is that your truck?”

  “Sure is, darlin’. She don’t look like much, but she’s got a good engine and a big heart. I’d never give her up. My daddy gave her to me when I was just a pup.” Clint tried his best to imitate Bodey, but maybe he was laying it on too thick. “Want to see her up close?”

  “Ah, no. I’m not dressed for it. What’s that printed on the side?”

  “Her name, the Belly Nelle. It’s sort of flakin’ off, but I meant to honor Pat Brady’s Nellybelle from the old Roy Rogers show. You remember.”

  “No, I don’t. I’m not that old. Eve and I are the same age.”

  He’d hit a nerve there. “Didn’t mean to um—say you were. You sure look fine.”

  She did, too, in a pornographic, wet dream sort of way. She wore one of those outfits women, or sometimes men, purchased at shops with names like In His Dreams or Fantasy Time. A sheer baby doll top covered tiny black lace panties and an underwire pushup bra barely hiding her nipples. She had high-heeled mules with fluffy feathers across the toes on her feet.

  Clint didn’t think he’d ever seen an outfit quite like it in real life. The women he took up with once he got out of college generally wore jeans and boots and just got naked. After a while, they grew tired of following him around the circuit, hoping that he wouldn’t be too sore or injured to have sex. Tonight, he felt fine. Hot dog!

  “May I—can I come in?”

  “Hurry! I think I see my father walking up the hill. Remember, we can’t do it in the backyard until after dark. Tara-on-the-Bayou looks right down on my place.”

  “Huh?”

  “My parents’ house—up there.” She pointed to an ostentatious, columned mansion on the crest of the hill. “My daddy developed this area and got the best lot.”

  Renee grabbed his open collar, thrust Clint inside, and slammed the door, but didn’t try to drag him any farther. The second the door locked, she began rubbing those big tits against his chest and grinding her hips against his crotch. Renee dived straight for his open mouth with the tip of her pointed tongue. Clint figured he went from zero to one hundred in less than ten seconds.

  When she twined her arms around his neck and wrapped her legs around his waist, he put his hands under her buttocks for support and accidently laid the chilled wine against her thighs. Cooled off rapidly, Renee abruptly dropped her feet to the floor.

  “Uh, I brought wine.”

  “Let’s go put that somewhere for later.”

  Clint turned toward a kitchen set off with a breakfast bar and high black leather and chrome chairs.

  “Not there.”

  She spun Clint around. He got a glimpse of a living room possessing a plush couch that resembled a pair of huge red lips. Slick black pillows rested upon it. All the tables—coffee, side, and dining—were rectangular glass set on black iron stands. An entertainment ce
nter with television, sound system, and DVD player rose like a black monolith in one corner. Blood red drapes covered floor to ceiling windows. Not exactly homey. No, sirree. More modern bordello in style.

  Renee took him in the opposite direction down a hall hung with paintings of nearly nude males, a black man with bulging muscles accented in purple and one that sort of resembled Bodey Landrum if he’d taken steroids or modeled for male porn magazines. Clint was pretty sure his friend had not done either, but when he paused to study the picture, Renee yanked him into her boudoir, another fantasy room he hadn’t seen outside of Vegas. The silky, tiger-striped wallpaper and bed coverings should have seemed tacky like Elvis Presley’s jungle room, but suited her feline personality just fine. She’d placed live jungle plants near a sliding glass door opening onto a terrace furnished with loungers big enough for two and covered in hot tropical colors. Inside, the room was dim with recessed lighting. The bedstead made of faux bamboo had a filmy netting hung over a frame open to the mirror on the ceiling.

  Clint swore the temperature must be ten degrees hotter than the rest of the house. Maybe it was only him. Regardless, he would be more comfortable if he took off his clothes right now. Might be the plan.

  Renee took the wine from Clint’s hand and sat the bottle on the dresser, also made of fake bamboo. “Do you like what you see?”

  “Every single bit of it. Hot in here.”

  “Then, let’s get you out of those clothes.”

  ****

  Bodey was right. Clint should have eaten something in advance. Round one went fast and furious, but Renee soon had him pumped up for round two. That woman knew more tricks than a bareback rider—which she had been part of the time. Her pelvic muscles were so strong, he swore at one point she’d nearly squeezed off his dick, but no, she’d merely milked him of every ounce of his vital fluids.

  Thankful for his gymnastic training and his stamina, he’d needed both in excess tonight. Now, Renee wanted to play the “name that scar” game. Women, when they got up close and personal to his body, always did. He answered her questions as briefly as possible—“Cheyenne Frontier Days—zigged when I should have zagged”, “Houston Stock Show—a mite too slow”, “PBRA finals—took a hit for Bodey.” Man, after all that exercise, he was parched and starving.

  “Mind if I go out and look for some grub, Tiger?”

  “If you find anything, bring some for me. We can eat together in here.”

  Though it seemed a little silly considering they were alone, Clint pulled on his pants to go forage in the kitchen. He got a plate that appeared to be platinum-ringed wedding china from a leaded-glass cupboard and filled it with what he could find. The refrigerator yielded a bunch of red grapes in fairly good condition and two kiwis that looked disturbingly like a man’s balls until he cut them into slices. He found a bag of cheese cubes that might have been left over from a party. Cheddar, Swiss, and jalapeno, he thought. The bread drawer held Melba toast rounds, but no bread. He arranged the fruit and dry toast around the edge of the platter and dumped the cheese cubes in the center. That would have to do because not much else appeared to be available.

  Clint started to take two matching wine glasses from the cupboard, but stopped himself. Tonight, he was only a lonely, unsophisticated cowpoke. Balancing the plate on his fingertips, he returned to the tiger’s lair. Sitting up with the striped sheet barely covering her privates, Renee rested on a mound of pillows with a motif of jungle leaves.

  “Dinner is served, Madame—but first the fine beverage.” Clint set the platter on the dresser top and worked the cork out of the wine bottle. “Bodey’s stuff. Woo-eee, no cap.”

  He took a swig and passed the bottle to Renee. She put her lips to the rim and swallowed in a way that made him randy all over again. He should eat first before he passed out and humiliated himself.

  Placing the platter between them on the bed, they nibbled and talked. He told her another brief scar story ending with, “Yeah, Bodey and I—Bodey and me had some real good times.” Years of prep school grammar and diction lessons tripped him up now and then.

  “What do they pay you for such dangerous work, my championship bullfighter?”

  “Oh, about $150,000 a year, plus some special prizes if I win a competition. But what with paying my travel expenses and havin’ a little fun on the road—Vegas can sure suck you dry—some years, I can barely pay my taxes. Got a bit put aside for a doublewide on a piece of land I own, and this is gonna be my last year of bullfighting. I promised my mama and daddy I’d quit and come into the family business after ten years.”

  “What sort of business does your family own, Clint?” Renee nibbled on a cheese cube like a pretty white rat, but he could tell the income of a bullfighter had disappointed her.

  “We got a grocery business in San Antonio. My dad made me work with him every summer—after school, too, stocking shelves and such. We lived over the store.”

  All but the last parts were true. He’d been at boarding school most of the year, but in summer he’d traveled with his father, sitting in on board meetings around the world, very much the Beck’s Baked Beans crown prince. Beck’s Spicy Beans were very popular in South America, and he’d gotten to practice his Spanish, but in the end, too little playtime caused him to rebel. He’d gotten the MBA to please his father, then simply couldn’t do the corporate heir routine anymore.

  He wanted freedom, the open road, and danger, not a corner office for the rest of his life. He’d tried bullfighting on a bet, was damned good at it thanks to years on the gymnastic team, and he’d saved lives—which was more than baked beans ever did. His mother urged Gunter Beck to let the boy have his fling. Gunter Beck made his son, Clinton O. Beck, sign a valid contract stating that ten years hence, or any time before that period ended, his son would report for duty to the family business or have his trust fund revoked.

  Mostly, he didn’t give a shit about his trust fund, but his mother hinted more and more often that his iron-willed father needed help with the business whether Gunter would admit it or not.

  “My mama says, marry a man with a grocery store and you’ll never go hungry. Might not get rich, but you won’t starve. Maybe I should buy you some groceries before I leave,” Clint said as his past flickered through his mind.

  “I don’t need groceries. I dine out with men and otherwise don’t want the temptation of food around. I have to watch my weight.”

  Clint had spied the exercise equipment in a spare bedroom when he’d passed along the hall with the tray. The machines were as heavy duty as the ones he worked out on between bullfights.

  “I don’t see as you got any weight problem, except for being a little top-heavy. They ain’t real, I guess.” He stared mournfully at her naked breasts.

  “Well, to be honest, no. After my divorce, I felt very insecure. Gerry, my second husband, bought them for me. He said I didn’t need them, but I did need a lift, so I went all the way. Don’t you like them?” Renee peered down at herself, thoughtfully rolling a small piece of cheese into a little ball with her fingers.

  “They sure are pretty, but they make me sad.”

  “How so?”

  “Guess you’ll never nurse my babies with those titties.”

  Renee, horrified, exclaimed, “I don’t plan on nursing anyone’s babies! Eve will ruin her figure, wait and see. You did use a condom? I know I put the first one on you, but what about the second time?”

  “Didn’t mean to spook you. ’Course I used a condom. We don’t know each other that well a’tall to go without. You are on the pill, ain’t you?”

  “No.”

  Clint took a turn at being horrified. He’d been in a hurry and hadn’t gotten the second one on as snugly as he liked.

  “I use a diaphragm and a spermatocide. The pills make me retain water and give me nausea.”

  “Oh, good. I didn’t know anyone used those anymore. My mama said I came into the world because of a loose diaphragm, the best mistake she ever made.�
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  “You’re an only child?”

  “Heck, no. I got older sisters, both married with kids. Takes the heat off of me to reproduce until I get hitched.”

  “I’m not interested in marriage.”

  Now, that was a damned lie according to Bodey. What Renee meant was she didn’t want to be the wife of a bullfighter or help to run a grocery store. That sort of irked Clinton O. Beck. He’d be plenty good enough for her if she knew his real net worth. Somewhere along the line, this fabulous woman had been spoiled for the ordinary pleasures of life and turned into a man-eater. He had half a mind to teach her people could be happy without great gobs of money. He met them every day when he was out on the circuit, some of the best people on earth. Yet another reason why leaving the rodeo for the conniving business world depressed him.

  Renee set the platter aside and kicked off what little covering she had. She stretched her body out full length. Clint watched. He’d never known a woman who had endured a Brazilian wax before. Must have hurt like hell. Most of the girls he knew had bikini waxes to go with low-slung jeans and sexy underwear, but nothing like this. The remains of her pubic hair were a dark auburn shade, not as light and bright as the hair on her head, but she’d been born a redhead for certain. He couldn’t remove his eyes from that little fringe.

  Renee took the small ball of cheese and placed it on her navel. Her stomach was so flat the bait didn’t roll off but sat there in the small dip, a tiny temptation.

  “Enough talk,” she said. “Here mousey, mousey, come eat me.”

  Clinton O. Beck found himself happy to oblige.

  ****