by Kit Ehrman
I watched her walk toward the parking lot. The place felt empty without her.
* * *
After the day's work was done, and with security high on my list of pressing concerns, I methodically walked around the farm, looking for weaknesses in our defenses. First stop, the implement building. I crossed over to the wall that enclosed the small storage room and flicked on the lights. Because the fixtures were widely spaced and partially blocked by the hay mow, the work area was poorly-lit with heavy, deep shadows under the equipment.
I squeezed behind the row of tractors, ducked under the hay elevator, and looked up at the massive wall of hay. Large quantities of it. All highly combustible. For that reason, even though it was a pain in the ass to haul, we only stored a day's worth in the barns. I would get Dave to hang more fire extinguishers near the entrance, but what good it would do, I couldn't imagine. If they decided to burn down the building, it would be at night when no one was around. If they decided to burn down a barn. . . . Well, I couldn't even think about that.
The smeared, sick graffiti seemed even more threatening at night. I backtracked, switched off the lights, and wondered if they'd been bold enough to turn them on while they spray-painted their little message. For the umpteenth time, I wondered who they were and why were they messing with Foxdale. And would they be back?
I followed the lane past the implement building and looked toward the old paved road. It dead-ended to my left, at a barricaded fire road that marked the western boundary of a wide swath of state park land. All of those unspoiled acres and the river that wound through it attracted boarders as much as anything else. Only Foxdale's employees and an occasional truck from the mushroom farm frequented this part of the farm. It wouldn't take much fencing and a couple of gates to prevent anyone getting onto the farm from the road, but if someone really wanted to hurt Foxdale, chains and locks and gates across the driveway wouldn't make any difference.
As I turned to go back, something moved in the pine grove that screened the muck pile.
I started, then saw it was just a fox. I exhaled slowly through my mouth and listened to the wind whistling through the boughs. Above my head, stars shone through breaks in the clouds, and in the west, the moon was a chalky smudge behind a thin veil of fast-moving cloud. Away from the farm's lights, the sky seemed vividly alive and close. Close enough to touch.
I slipped my hands into my pockets and headed back. A horse was being led into barn A, his figure back-lit by the soft light that poured through the open doors. Even at that distance, I could clearly hear his shoes scraping the asphalt.
I checked barn B. Short of installing better locks and adding more fire extinguishers, I couldn't think of anything else we could do to improve security. Outside, I looked at the grain bin that towered high above my head and thought about poison. If someone wanted to contaminate the grain, they would have to climb up a narrow ladder to reach the valve at the top. Thirty feet up. Thirty feet of flimsy metal ladder in the dark.
There were easier ways to ruin Foxdale. With a match, for one.
I walked into barn A and cut through the wash rack. Footsteps echoed behind me, and I spun around.
"Jumpy, aren't we?"
"Hello, Mrs. Timbrook," I said.
Elsa had come out of Satellite's stall, and she'd stopped so close, I thought she might bump into me. I resisted the urge to back up. Her eyes were a deep green, and I wondered if she was wearing colored lenses. She moved closer. Her musky perfume filled my head, and her closeness was overwhelming. I stepped back, forgetting myself, and her smile broadened.
"Stephen, there's a nail sticking out of a board in Lite's stall. I'm afraid he'll cut his smooth, beautiful skin."
Christ. "I'll get a hammer." I took a step backward to avoid bumping into her as I turned and went over to the other barn.
I unlocked the feed room door. "I'm afraid he'll cut his smooth . . . beautiful . . . skin," I mouthed. Give me a break. I scanned the pegboard--screwdrivers, pliers, wrenches, all neat and organized thanks to Dave--and spotted the Craftsman hammer with the leather grip. As I lifted it off its bracket, I sensed subtle movement behind me. A slight shifting of air current. I spun around.
Elsa had followed me into the room.
Chapter 11
She closed the door and smiled. She had every right to. She'd set her trap, and I'd unwittingly walked right into it. Stupid.
Decision making time. I'd been half playing around with it for long enough. I hadn't totally pushed her away. Hadn't actually made up my mind one way or the other. Elsa took off her jacket and let it drop to the floor. It seemed to float in slow motion before landing in a disorganized heap on the dusty cement. I couldn't take my eyes off it. Didn't feel as if I were breathing properly, either. My legs felt wooden, my feet stuck to the floor.
I dragged my gaze upward, looked at her face, and figured I was about to make up my mind. Her eyes were dreamy-looking, compelling, holding me in a trance. She parted her lips with a hint of a smile. Nothing to do with friendship, however.
She reached up and unbuttoned her blouse, slowly, deliberately, one button at a time. Dragging it out, making me wait.
She wasn't wearing anything underneath, and she made sure I knew. Made sure I saw. I inhaled sharply. She walked over to where I stood, pressed her body against mine, and laced her fingers behind my neck. She stood on tip-toe and kissed me on the mouth. Her lips tasted of peppermint, and when I opened my mouth to tell her we shouldn't be doing this, she flicked her tongue between my teeth.
Well, to hell with it. I stepped backward, pulling her with me, until I bumped into the workbench. I reached around, dropped the hammer onto the plywood, and moved my hands over her breasts. It was cold in the room, and her nipples were hard.
She let go of my neck, slipped her blouse off her shoulders, and let it drop to the floor. I explored her breasts with my hands and eyes and thought for about the millionth time that women's bodies were just so damn fascinating.
Elsa moved her hands between us, and for a second I thought she was going to stop me, but I'd misjudged her. She undid my belt buckle and unzipped my jeans, and somewhere in the back of my mind, it registered that she'd done it with practiced ease. She smoothed her hand down my belly, eased her fingertips beneath the elastic, and slipped her hand into my shorts. When she wrapped her fingers around me, a shudder coursed through my body.
I grabbed her breast hard and moved my mouth over her throat. Her skin was soft and smooth and tasted slightly of salt.
She moaned.
The sound was a physical jolt to my senses, and I was afraid I would come then and there if I didn't do something. I pulled her hand away.
She rubbed against me. "What's the matter, Stevie-boy?" she whispered. "You too quick on the draw?"
"Shut up."
She giggled. "Or am I just too hot for you?"
I'd show her what hot was, damn her. With trembling fingers, I fumbled with the snap on her pants.
"Here, let me do that." She pushed my hands away. "It's been a long time, hasn't it, Stevie?"
"Don't call me that."
I watched her strip. She wriggled out of her tight britches faster than I thought possible. Nothing underneath them, either.
"Cute guy like you should be gettin' it all the time. You shy, Stevie-boy? Is that it?"
"Damn you." I grabbed her wrist, pulled her down on the floor, and straddled her, my hands on either side of her shoulders, her legs between my knees. She lay naked beneath me with a smirk on her face and a glint of challenge in her eyes, and for an instant I felt more like hitting her than fucking her.
"Come on, Steve, I was just playing around." She slid one leg out from between my legs, then the other, planted her feet alongside my knees, then reached down and touched herself. She moved her hips rhythmically and whispered, "Come on, Steve. You know you want it."
Damn right I did. I pushed myself upright, yanked off my jacket, and shoved my jeans down to my knees. I lowered my
self and thrust into her, feeling the mind-blowing sensation as if for the first time. She moved with me aggressively, and I realized I needed to concentrate on something, anything, to make it last. I studied at her face.
She had closed her eyes. Her lips were parted, her breath coming faster. I watched as she arched her back and turned her head to the side, the movement causing light from an overhead fixture to flash across a horseshoe-shaped gold earring. I admired the line of her neck, the way it blended into the v-shaped depression at the base of her throat, the way her breasts looked, round and firm above a faint line of ribs, the nipples hard and pointy.
When I slid my tongue along her throat and bit her just below the ear, Elsa grabbed my butt. She wrapped her legs around me and tilted her pelvis upward, pulling me in deeper. I bit down harder. She laced her fingers in my hair and redirected my mouth to hers. I pushed my tongue into her mouth while our bodies moved in urgent, frantic rhythm.
The release was incredible, intense, explosive. I collapsed on top of her and tried to catch my breath. After a minute or two, she put her hands on my chest and rolled me off.
"Oh, my. You're still hard. Even after all that."
She slid on top of me and rubbed her crotch against me in a slow, rhythmic grind. I lay there and enjoyed watching her, and by the time she came, I wanted to start all over.
When she moved to get up, I grabbed her arm. "Ride me."
She looked from my face to my fingers holding her tight. "I only do it once, honey."
I didn't let go. "Before, you said you were just playing, not trying to jerk me around. . . . Prove it."
She didn't say anything. I let go of her wrist, and she stood up.
"Guess you're too tired," I said, and she turned to look at me. "Can't last more than one time."
For a minute she stood there motionless, staring at me, her eyes in shadow. Then she squatted over me, reached down, and grabbed my cock. My breath caught in my throat, and I tensed, wondering what in the hell she was going to do next.
"By the time I'm done with you, you won't be able to get off the damn floor." She began to stroke me, slowly at first, with an expert touch. Then she guided me into her.
Damn, the woman could ride more than horses. When she finished, I felt like I had been worked over. Felt like I couldn't lift my head off the floor.
She crouched next to me and touched the bridge of my nose. "How'd you get this bruise?"
"A fight at the party," I mumbled and didn't bother opening my eyes.
"Who with?"
"One of the guys from the hay delivery service we use. His driver. . . . He was drunk."
"Oh." She leaned over and kissed me on the lips. Her silky hair fell across my face. "Don't fall asleep on the floor."
I almost smiled. Opened my eyes instead. She stood and dressed, all the while looking down at me without expression. She had won, or maybe it was a tie. I couldn't tell.
Wordlessly, she walked over to the door and put her hand on the knob. She stood there for a second, then slowly turned to face me. "Stay away from him, Stevie. He's a dangerous man."
I propped myself up on my elbows. "What do you mean?"
"Honey, I know lots of things about lots of people, especially men. Just stay away from him." She turned and left, closing the door firmly behind her.
I stood and clumsily pulled up my jeans, tucked in my shirt, and looked around the room. I had been completely oblivious to my surroundings. Now, as I stood in the middle of the room, I could still smell her, smell myself. The musky odor of sex mixing with the sweet smell of molasses and grain additives. I could hear the horse moving around in the stall next door and, in the distance, a car engine turning over. I looked down and saw where our bodies had smudged the dusty floor. My clothes were covered with dirt.
I brushed off my jeans, switched off the light, and closed the door behind me. I flipped through my keys until I found the right one--a new key with bright yellow fluorescent tape. Dave's doing, no doubt. I slid the key into the lock and the tumbler snicked smoothly into the jamb.
Someone walked into the barn.
I looked over my shoulder. It was only Karen. I glanced at my watch. Almost ten o'clock. Lessons were over, the barns were closing down for the night, and I hadn't had a clue it was so late.
She looked at me as if she'd never seen me before, and I wondered if I'd forgotten to pull up my zipper or something. I glanced down. Nope. I hoped I didn't look as if I'd just been rolling around on the floor and suddenly felt transparent.
"What are you still doing here?" Karen asked. "I thought you'd left a long time ago."
"No, eh . . . just doing a few things."
She crossed her hands over he chest, and her eyebrows bunched together the way they do when she's pissed off about something, which is just about all the time. I felt my face getting hot.
"Would you check everything then . . . since you're still here?"
"Sure." It came out a whisper.
She gave me a sideways glance, then departed.
* * *
By late-afternoon Wednesday, Dave had put his wizardry into effect. A formidable gate stretched across the lane to the main road, and I had spent the better part of two days in the implement building, cleaning paint off every conceivable surface (no one's idea of fun) while my thoughts swayed between Elsa and Rachel, between ecstasy and guilt. As Marty liked to put it, I'd given control to someone else and gone along for the ride. I didn't particularly like it, but hell, I hadn't minded the ride, had I? No. I'd jumped right on.
Earlier that afternoon, I had avoided Rachel by graining the horses when she was riding, because I had this uncomfortable feeling that she would know what I had done just by looking at me. Now, I was finally finished with the cleanup. I gathered together the filthy rags, brushes, and cans and tossed everything into the trash. Dave wouldn't approve, but I couldn't care less. I gave the work area one last cursory glance and walked outside into sunlight and air not laden with fumes. I headed to the men's room, bent over the sink, and turned on the tap.
I was waiting for the water to get hot when someone opened the door.
"Finished with the paint removal yet?"
I glanced over my shoulder as Marty strolled into the room. "Yeah," I said. "Finally."
"What did the inspector say?"
"That horse barns were almost always a total loss if a fire breaks out." I soaped my hands and looked at Marty's reflection in the mirror. "Shit. There's so many horses in one barn, just the thought of it makes me sick."
"Jesus." Marty leaned against the wall and crossed his arms over his chest. "Did he have any suggestions?"
"Not really. We've done everything we can short of installing an overhead sprinkler system, and--"
"That'll be the day."
"Got that right. No way in hell will Ambrose shell out that kind of money. He said no to hiring a night watchman, too."
"I heard."
"Mrs. Hill did talk the local cops into driving by after-hours to give the farm a once over. Who knows how long that'll last."
"Or how open their eyes'll be."
I rinsed my hands and splashed water on my face. "Well, I'm finally caught up." I yanked some paper towels out of the dispenser and started to dry my face.
"Er . . . maybe not."
I paused. "What do you mean, maybe not?"
"Whitcombe's added two more horses to your list."
"Shit."
"And he's in a foul mood. Motherfucker needs to get laid."
I wadded the towels into a ball and hooked them into the trash bin that stood in the corner of the room. "Damn. Would you do one for me?"
"Sure."
"Thanks."
"Speakin' of needin' a good lay," Marty said. "You've been awfully tense lately."
I made a noncommittal noise in my throat and turned for the door, not trusting my expression. "See ya," I said over my shoulder.
I was heading for the lounge to get a Coke when Whitcombe called af
ter me. He had already jumped off the horse he'd been riding and was leading it across the ring. I glanced at my watch. He'd quit early.
I wound my way through a bunch of kids who were waiting for the three-thirty lesson to begin and stood by the arena gate. The horse's sides were heaving, and despite the chilly air, he was damp with sweat.
"Got lead up your ass, Cline?" Whitcombe said. "I don't have all day."
I glanced over my shoulder. Everyone was watching and no wonder. The man was hard to ignore. But, it was his grave he was digging if Mrs. Hill caught him talking like that. I reached out to take the horse's reins. Whitcombe didn't let them go, so I dropped my hand to my side.
"You don't know jack shit about horses do you?" he said. "I asked for a figure-eight noseband, and I get a flash attachment."
"Your figure-eight was--"
"And I wanted a Dr. Bristol, and you can't figure that out, either."
I clenched my fists. I hadn't messed up, and he knew it.
"You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Cline. You have no business working here. You're an incompetent, ignorant, lazy"--and then he lowered his voice so only I could hear--"son of a bitch who wouldn't be able to find your own fucking asshole without a map." He continued again with increasing decibels. "That you're barn manager blows me away. You're too damn stupid."
What a goddamned jerk.
He was down to a whisper again. "What'd you have to do, screw Mrs. Hill to get the job?"
I felt my face getting hot. I snatched the reins out of his hands. "What's wrong, Lawrence?" I whispered. "Can't find any boys to fuck?"
He narrowed his eyes and clamped his mouth shut. A film of sweat glistened on his skin, and he glared at me with such hatred, I felt as if a cold ball of ice had settled in my gut.
I turned away from him and led the horse back to the barn.
Damn it. I'd crossed that line, and worse, I had let him push me over it. I should have known better. Should have kept my damn mouth shut.
