She wasn’t really upset that her two lovers had Eiffel Towered each other while she was in the bathroom. That was men for you. Willow was upset because she was in love with Steffen but she felt he would never truly be hers. The resurgence of her pain at the miscarriage had brought a sudden swell of sadness and loss over the whole mess, and suddenly she had to get away from the men. What was Amadeo talking about, “sub-drop”? Why had Steffen handed her chocolate? What was “aftercare”? They had hardly been whipping each other or swinging from the chandelier or whatever bondage people normally did at that beloved club of Steffen and Amadeo’s. No one had been strapped to the St. Andrew’s Cross or spanked on the spanking bench.
Yet as she went about her day, she felt as though she was horribly hung over. Could one gimlet have done that to her? She was awash with emotion, practically ripping one of Chas White’s workers a new one because he spilled some paint on a walkway. She had dinner with Jaclyn at Sprockets and was relieved to return to the Searchlight around ten and see Steffen’s and Amadeo’s trucks both missing from the parking lot. There were only a few worker’s trucks remaining, one of them Carl’s. He was probably at the Gadabout Cottage installing the blinds and had asked some coworkers to help.
“Steffen and Amadeo are probably out at the Racquet Club,” she muttered as she unlocked the glass door to her office. Mail had been shoved through the slot, spreading out in a fan on the floor. It was amazing how much mail a business could get before its grand opening.
Not wanting to mess up her desk further, Willow stood by the recycling box, tossing catalogues and tire coupons into it. She felt sad and empty—almost emptier than she had at any point since arriving in Last Chance months ago. She realized why. It was she who had withdrawn from Steffen and Amadeo, though the worst thing they had done was congratulated each other on having spit roasted her on a pool table. That was hardly anything to get all up in arms about.
Why had she withdrawn after they’d been so intimate? Because Steffen wasn’t the marrying sort? Willow realized that maybe she felt vulnerable, wide open. Not only had she literally bared herself and her thunder thighs on a pool table, she had told them what had caused the ruin of her marriage. Damn! Can’t I keep anything to myself? What made me think they would care about my stupid past troubles? Willow was now mad at herself for having laid herself so wide open to the men. Men didn’t care about stuff like that. Men wanted women to shut up and fuck.
It’s all my fault. I need to be more cheerful around them. I wouldn’t blame them if they decided to shitcan me. What do they need me for? They could go to the Racquet Club together and play with both men and women.
Willow almost tossed the last envelope into the recycling box. She did a double take when she realized it was from the state of Florida. Gripping it, she tore it open and read:
Final Judgment of Dissolution of Marriage
Holy shit! Her divorce was final, at last.
Willow slowly sank into her rolling office chair, staring at the form. This was what she had wanted, but now it made her feel even emptier, if such a thing was possible. Eight years of her life down the tubes, a waste, all for nothing. Now she was thirty-two and most likely infertile. Who wanted an infertile wife? She had still loved Matt when she had forced herself to leave him and file for divorce. After two years of him shutting her out emotionally and physically, she had finally accepted defeat. Now even this small triumph—being the Petitioner in the divorce—felt empty.
Sighing heavily, Willow stood. She’d go up to her Ocean’s 11 Room and watch one of the redneck reality shows she taped but never had a chance to watch. Open a bottle of wine. Try to convince herself that Steffen and Amadeo weren’t dumping her.
She was gathering her giant laptop bag when someone came busting through the office door. He hit the door with such force it banged against the wall before slamming shut again. Willow gasped loudly and jumped a foot in the air, inadvertently tossing her bag aside.
“All right, you thieving slut!” The man crouched down low and aimed a bowie knife at her as though it was a pistol. “Hand it over!”
Willow assumed it was one of Carl’s workers. Obviously, he had pounded a few too many and was mistaking her for someone else. “I think you have me confused with—”
“Shut up!” the guy yelled, advancing a step. “I just want that goddamned wrist cuff! You can keep all your fucking Ben Wa balls and feather dusters!”
Then it struck Willow. The guy who now resembled Ned Flanders, with an enormous mop of a fake moustache and a plastic Superman wig pasted to his head, was the guy who had formerly resembled Bart Simpson’s bus driver. He even wore a green pullover sweater. This is Ronnie Dobbs. And he was resorting to some strange kind of violence to get whatever it was he wanted.
“Ronnie!” she said in a hushed voice, hoping to startle him into some kind of sobriety. “I never found any wristwatch! You need to stop breaking into my fucking hotel looking for something that just isn’t here.”
“I knew you’d say that.” Ronnie sidled closer, holding the knifepoint at Willow’s throat level, breathing Night Train all over her. He was a skinny, wormy thing, but it was Willow’s experience that even the feeblest man was stronger than most women. That was the unfortunate truth. She remained frozen in position. “I’ve been up against lying, scheming bitches like you before. You don’t scare me. Besides, it’s no damned wristwatch I’m after. I just said that to see if you’d show me all your memorabilia.”
It had all happened so fast, Willow didn’t have time to be afraid. She felt as though she were viewing her body from outside, from somewhere up by the ceiling, remote and distant. “Well, it’d help if you’d tell me what you really wanted. And I would like that Ben Wa box back.”
Apparently this was the wrong thing to say, for Ronnie now held the blade against her throat. “You ain’t getting no damned box back! I mean, what box? Listen up! It’s a leather wrist cuff I’m looking for, like something that would’ve been in your Cesar Romero room.”
“Oh.” Willow was a bit more timid now, and no longer felt so remote and bold. With the cold blade against her neck she felt as vulnerable as a lamb. “But you took everything in the Cesar Romero room.”
Ronnie began to huff and puff, and Willow thought fast. Ronnie had stripped the Cesar Romero Room of anything that wasn’t bolted down, but as far as she knew he hadn’t broken into the Gadabout Cottage yet. “You know, I think I may have seen some leather cuffs in the cottage. You know where the cottage is, don’t you?”
Ronnie laughed. “Sure I do. That’s where you and those two beefcakes were getting as hot as a marathon runner’s armpit. If I could transport that bondage cross I’d take that, too. You’re such a stupid slut you didn’t even know that thing is worth money.”
“Okay, then. Let’s go to the cottage.”
“Okay. But I don’t want to hear your gums a-flapping. If you think you can call out for one of your waxed ape-men you’re dumber than I thought. Here, you damn slut.” With one hand, Ronnie whipped off the necktie that hadn’t been tied very well around his neck. Willow knew from watching those true stories about people who survived that it was usually the women who submitted or played dead who made it. It was hardly ever the women who fought back who prevailed, unfortunately. But intuitively her eyes scanned the room for anything she could use as a weapon. A hammer sat on a file cabinet on the other side of the room. But even if she managed to grab that, it would always be an uneven fight between a man and a woman. According to the shows, men only became more enraged if a woman tried to fight back.
However, apparently her body had the upper hand over her rational mind. When Ronnie plugged her mouth with the dirty, smelly tie, he had to use both hands to knot it behind her skull. He was forced to stick the knife into a pocket or other. “Course, this will only make you hotter than a red hen laying a goose egg, gagging you up like this. Heh. You’re a spicy one. You sure can take those two muscle men. You sure got a pair of titties—”
When Ronnie jerked the knot tight and released it to reach for his knife, Willow made a break for the hammer. She lunged for it in one giant swoop, but Ronnie must have been accustomed to women who fought back. Just as her fingers closed around the handle of the hammer, Ronnie must have grabbed the necktie. Willow’s head was snapped back with the sudden jerk, and the next thing she knew, she was dangling from Ronnie’s feeble little arm like a severed head.
“I knew you’d try and pull something like that,” he said, perfectly composed. “I was expecting it.”
He allowed her to kneel. She panted, realizing she’d been holding her breath with the sudden terror of Ronnie’s attack. Matt had terrified her in this way on several occasions. Sudden bursts of rage that seemed to come out of nowhere and had obviously been building up. Maybe three times he’d laid hands on her, all after the miscarriage, when communication between them had shut down.
She tried to talk, to explain to Ronnie that she would not try to protest anymore, but of course only muffled sounds came out. The metallic taste of blood soaked into her tongue.
“What? Oh, that’s right, you’ve got a gag in your mouth!” Ronnie chortled, not in an evil villain sort of way, but as though he honestly was watching a sitcom where a giant mole stomped on a tiny village. Willow had thought him cartoonish and just a joke, but this sort of obliviousness was probably more terrifying.
Now he yanked on the tie, and she staggered to a stand. “Let’s get on down to the cottage so you can show me where the leather wrist cuffs are.” He shoved her toward the swinging glass door, and she opened it. Like in a corny movie, he said, “I don’t want no funny business. I know gals like you. Always shoving your big fat weight around. I had a rough enough childhood without being brutalized by y’all fat cows. Nope, not me! Not ole Ronnie C. Dobbs, at your service! Why, I’ve got a booming business in celebrity memorabilia. I got Scott Baio’s paper towel holder and Erik Estrada’s socks, not to mention Bronson Pinchot’s mailbox.”
How would anyone know that was Scott Baio’s paper towel holder? Willow wondered many things as she stumbled down the breezeway. She felt like a horse pulling little Ronnie Dobbs along by the necktie gagging her. Even if it could be proven to be his, how much would Pinchot’s mailbox be worth? Dobbs’s harangue made it clearer why he thought Norman Fell’s leather cuff would be worth anything. What, did Erik Estrada embroider his name onto his socks? What makes that pair different from any other pair? On the bright side, she could probably give Dobbs any old leather cuff and pretend it was Norman Fells’s.
Ronnie babbled on. “Just ask anyone in the greater Beaumont area. Ole Ronnie Dobbs has got the most primo memorabilia in So Cal! Why, one time I brokered the sale of a first pressing of that great David Soul album, Playing to an Audience of One. The bidding was fast and furious!”
“Put down the weapon!”
A cop had stepped out sideways from behind the cottage and was pointing a pistol right at Ronnie. Unfortunately, since Willow led him like a pony, she was actually a quite handy human shield. The cottage was lit up inside, half of the blinds hung, but quiet, as though someone had warned Carl and his men to leave.
Ronnie pressed the bowie knife blade against Willow’s throat so firmly he pierced the skin, and a warm trickle of blood ran down between her breasts. “Never, Officer Pickett! I’m sick and tired of you trying to prevent an honest man such as myself from making an honest living!”
In lieu of answering, Officer Tony just shot at the ground about three feet from Ronnie. The shock of being shot at was probably behind Ronnie throwing Willow to the ground and dashing the opposite direction, into the darkness over by the pétanque court, Officer Tony in hot pursuit.
“Police brutality!” Ronnie yelled. “Y’all is brutalizing me!”
Willow sat up, holding her throat. Before she could slip the gag from her mouth Steffen was kneeling at her side, doing it for her.
“Jesus fucking Christ, Willow. Tony called me like I asked him to because some cop reported Dobbs’ truck out front. You didn’t recognize it? I tried calling you, but first there was no answer, and then Tony told me to stop trying, that he was just gonna move in and nab Dobbs.”
Steffen went silent when a couple of shots were fired, coming from the parking lot.
“Police brutality!” Dobbs could still be heard railing. “Attica! Attica!”
Two more shots and a squeal of tires. Willow realized she must’ve been holding her breath, and Steffen as well, for they both exhaled when they heard a truck drive off.
“He got away?” Willow squeaked.
“Don’t talk,” said Steffen. “Do you have a first aid kit in your office?”
“Of course.”
He helped her walk as though she was an arthritic old lady, and she had to shake his arm off. Tony’s siren blared as he peeled off after Dobbs. “We just got here,” Steffen explained. “I can’t believe Dobbs was stupid enough to drive his own truck and leave it in your parking lot.”
Willow shook her head with wonder. “I can’t believe he was stupid enough for a lot of things. I mean, David Soul?”
“Who? Listen, what else did he do to you? He didn’t—”
“Touch me? No, he just kept raving about how he wants some leather wrist cuff. Turns out the wristwatch was just to throw us off, so we didn’t realize we had some stupid valuable leather cuff. I won’t rest tonight until I find that damned cuff.”
“No!” Steffen practically yelled. “You’re coming with me, missy. If that numb nuts got away again, I am not allowing you to sleep at the Searchlight. You hear me?”
“That’s true,” said Willow. “If he thought a David Soul album was valuable, the leather cuff probably isn’t either. I was thinking of just finding any old leather cuff and telling him that was the one he wanted.”
“Good thinking. But let’s not take the chance, shall we?” Steffen opened the first aid box Willow had handed him, making her sit in her office chair. “You’re coming with me back to my house.”
As much as Willow liked the idea of finally seeing Steffen’s house, she pointed out, “Is that really any safer? If Dobbs is dead set on collecting ‘memorabilia,’ didn’t it occur to you he might be targeting you next?”
Steffen paused, a cotton ball in one hand. Turning around, he showed her that he had a pistol of some kind stuck into the waistband of his jeans. He continued cleaning her neck. “I wasn’t about to run after that whack-a-mole unarmed. I’m not taking chances when it comes to my little filly.”
So Willow had to agree. It would be plain stupid to attempt to stay at the Searchlight, not with Ronnie Dobbs still meandering about, playing air guitar or drowning in a water bed. It wasn’t worth the risk. And she was dying to see what Steffen’s house looked like.
Chapter Twelve
Steffen got up, showered, brushed his teeth, then went back to bed.
He couldn’t resist spooning against Willow’s long bare back. Of course his cock was up like a hammer and he felt like an annoying horndog rubbing his cockhead against her silky ass like that, but that was life.
Last night he hadn’t dared touch her. She had just been assaulted by some loony tunes redneck straight out of one of those shows about the swamps she had told him she loved. Ronnie Dobbs didn’t have a long, gritty beard, but he was clearly unhinged enough to do some serious damage. Steffen couldn’t afford to rule out murder as well. He’d talked to Tony Pickett last night. Tony had failed to apprehend Ronnie. It sounded as though Ronnie had lost Tony by going off-road in his souped-up truck with the monster tires.
Filtered light illuminated the master bedroom from the windows that crowned three of the room’s walls. Steffen pinched the sheet and lifted it to see the beautiful slope of Willow’s back. That was a telling curve, the waist flaring out to the rise of the hip like a sensuous snowy ridge. She had a strong character, this woman Steffen was in love with. Seeming halfway asleep, she arched her back erotically, stretching her legs, pointing her
toes under the sheet. Steffen didn’t like to leave the air conditioning on all night so they’d slept with just a sheet draped over them. Now he couldn’t resist rubbing his erection against her ass. He couldn’t tell if she was fully awake when she gyrated her ass against him, but like any man, he’d take anything he could get.
Then, one little wriggle, and his cock had slid halfway up Willow’s cunt. He wanted to swear he hadn’t done that on purpose, but if Willow was still half-asleep, he didn’t want to wake her. Then again, would taking advantage of a sleeping woman constitute necrophilia, even though she was his girlfriend? Slinging one thigh slightly over her hip, he gave a little lunge of his hips, jarring her awake.
“Mm,” she said.
What did that mean? Did that mean yes, or no? Stop, or go? Steffen lunged again, nudging his bursting cock even farther inside Willow. “Willow,” he whispered.
“Mm?”
Assured she was truly awake and he wasn’t being some zombie-loving deviant, Steffen gave a good swivel and drove his cock in deeply. Willow arched her back higher, offering herself up to him. Ah. It felt so good to be seated this deeply inside her. Steffen nearly came just from the swell of rapture that swirled around his balls and ran up his cock into his abdomen. He had to hold himself still for a few moments, lifting Willow’s curtain of silky hair and biting the nape of her neck. She giggled. His cock twitched inside her, and she clenched her inner muscles around him, massaging his cock and making him gasp.
“Willow,” he murmured, although he didn’t know what he wanted to say. “My little filly.”
She lazily raised herself on her knees and elbows. Steffen couldn’t see her face, but it seemed that she wanted to be taken dogstyle. Steffen kneeled, clamping both thighs around hers. “You like this,” he assumed.
Mercury, Karen - The Sublime Miss Paige (Siren Publishing Ménage Everlasting) Page 12
