Hot Coco

by Cindy McDonald

  Mike was waning, damn it, the way he always did when she touched him that way. Pull it together. Today? Ava came to cheer me up today? “What about your boyfriend? Lugowski?” he asked while trying to reconcile with his senses.

  She took in a long, deep breath, and then released it with a long, sultry sigh. She swept a stray auburn strand from her cheek. Her emerald gaze dragged to meet his. Shrugging her tasty little shoulder, she licked her lips.

  Ahhh, that’s what I thought. He smelled a covert operation in the worst sort of way—Ava’s way. Not today. He was completely reconciled with his forgive-forget strategy.

  Without further ado, he grabbed her hand before it went any further; before it went any further south; before he let her do what she was so good at doing—getting her way with him. His voice was hoarse and quiet and edging on remorse, but his eyes held steadfast on hers.

  “You better be on your way, Ava. Thanks for dropping by.”

  Coco had no clue who the pretty redhead was, but it didn’t go unnoticed that her abrupt appearance rattled Mike. He assured her it wasn’t a problem. She had her doubts. Sighing, she busied herself with a look around the sparsely decorated room. The spiral stairs that led to an open loft summoned her interest. She slowly climbed the charming twirly stairs. When she reached the loft, she peered over the railing to the openness of the living room below. Splashed with dark hues of orange, black, and a subtle stroke of azure; two long Indian throw-rugs filled the loft’s oak floor.

  Nice touch, cowboy.

  She wandered into the first door on the left. The room smelled of a man’s musky outdoorsman cologne. The walls were painted with a soft gray. Her attention was drawn to the king-size bed that had a fluffy gray comforter with a dark charcoal stripe spread over it. Large charcoal Euro pillows with the dark black swirls were tossed near the headboard. The picture that hung over the bed drew her near. It was an impressively framed and matted photograph of the great Secretariat crossing the finish line at the 1973 Kentucky Derby. It was signed by Big Red’s jockey, Ron Turcotte.

  Jackpot! This is the cowboy’s bedroom.

  She made her way to a dresser near the window. There was a bottle of Old Spice, a penknife, and several racing programs piled off to one side. She was now certain that this room was Mike’s. With that, her lips curled.

  She tossed several pillows to the floor and pulled the comforter down. The sexy redhead will be out of luck. Too bad.

  She slipped the little black dress from her shoulders and let it flutter from her body to the floor. The black satin bra and lacey black g-string soon landed on top of the dress. She was looking forward to running her fingers over his firm chest. She tried to imagine how the cowboy, engorged, would look standing naked before her with a “come on” look in his eyes. Oh yes, the cowboy scenario is working just fine. She searched the room in hopes of finding a cowboy hat. A Stetson would be the icing on her carnal cowboy cake.

  The front door opened. Shane poked his head inside the cottage. “Mike, yo, Mike. You in here?”

  The lights were on, so he crossed the living room to check the kitchen. Not there. He went back through the living room. He heard a rustling in the bedroom upstairs. Shane trotted up the stairs and opened Mike’s bedroom door.

  He took in a breath and was unable to release it. Filled with a wondrous sight, his eyes widened.

  There she was, Coco ... completely, incredibly, naked.

  She was extraordinary. Her full firm breasts hung high. Her nipples were a dusty rose, and her long blonde locks swept across her beautiful defined shoulders. Her tiny rib cage gently eased down to her shapelyhips. She was slickly waxed, Brazilian, and she had a tiny tattoo next to her ...

  Lord have mercy.

  Grabbing the comforter to strap it around her nakedness, Coco screamed.

  Shane jumped back. “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!” His voice was high-pitched while he backed out of the room with his right arm extended out in case she would decide to hurl the lamp. “I ... I was looking for Mike ...”

  The door slammed in his face.

  He gulped in a breath while savoring the incredible image. Then he turned to bump face-to-face with big brother.

  “What the hell is going on?”

  “I was looking for you. I thought you were in her, I mean there. She was freaking naked.”

  Mike’s eyes were like lasers burning through Shane’s face, “Naked?” he spluttered.

  “Oh, yeah,” Shane breathed. “Naked.”

  The bedroom door whipped open with a gust causing them to flinch.

  Coco’s dress was askew. Hopping on one foot while fumbling into her heels, she glared into Shane’s eyes. “I’m not into weird stuff,” she announced. “I’m going home, Mike. Maybe that redhead is a little more adventurous.”

  “There was a redhead too?” Shane was most impressed with his brother’s evening.

  “Ava …” Mike growled.

  “Ouch.” Shane cringed.

  “Coco wait—” Mike said.

  “No, Mike, it just doesn’t feel right … good night.”

  Coco grasped the railing and paddled down the stairs. After stumbling, she managed to regain her balance and finally reached the bottom. While tugging at her dress, she made haste for the door and slammed it behind her.

  From over the railing up in the loft, the West brothers watched her harried retreat.

  After the reverberation from the slam of the door quieted, Shane turned to his older brother. The memory of her was fresh in his mind. “She was totally unbelievable, dude.” He was still in awe of her sumptuous body.

  “Shut up.”

  Eight

  They weren’t totally convinced. Eric and Punch stood with their arms crossed over their chests while listening to Mike make his case.

  He patted Charlatan, also known as “Flipper”, while he explained, “I’ve discovered what makes this guy tick.” When Mike tugged open a package of peppermints, Charlatan’s eyes grew big, his nostrils flared, and he snorted impatiently. “Peppermints.”

  Eric and Punch exchanged befuddled glances.

  The left side of Eric’s lip tucked. His brow raised. “Did you take him to the track?”

  “That’s today’s chore. He stands perfectly to be saddled. No more flipping thanks to these peppermints.” He held up the bag: Exhibit A.

  Charlatan stomped his feet with irritation. Mike flipped him a mint. The gelding caught it in mid-air and retreated back into his stall while sucking on it like a spoiled child with a lollipop.

  Eric’s mouth opened slightly at the sight of the contented gelding.

  “So all we have to do is feed him the peppermints while he’s being saddled, and he won’t flip?” Punch wanted to make sure he was seeing what he thought he was seeing.

  “That’s how it looks to me,” Mike said.

  “What about the other one?” Eric asked with a stiff tone. Exhibit B.

  “Do you mean Flopper?” The confidence in his voice disappeared.

  What does one do with a horse that sits down, and just plain refuses to race? Mike was totally perplexed by the predicament His father’s staunch stare felt heavy. “I’m still working on that one. Look, I’ll take Charlatan to the track for a test drive, and then I’m gonna enter him this weekend.”

  “Speaking of the track,” Eric said, “I need to talk to you about Mar–”

  “Dad, have you heard from Tom Mason lately?” Shane interrupted them. “I can’t raise him on his cell.”

  “No, keep trying. We want to get that horse of his on a program ASAP,” he said before turning back to Mike. “I had an interesting conversation with Doug—”

  “Oh, by the way, Coco’s here. She’s outside looking at Kate’s new car,” Shane said.

  Mike wilted against the wall. “I really
don’t have time for her this morning—not if I want to get this gelding to the track.”

  “I’ll talk to her,” Eric said.

  “Thanks, Dad. I’m going out the back.” He whipped Charlatan from the stall and started toward the door at the far side of the barn. He hesitated. “Did you want to talk to me about something?” he called back to his father.

  “See me as soon as you get back.”

  Coco circled the radiant red convertible Mustang. She ran her fingers over the shining chrome and peered in at the black leather seats. “Oh, it’s beautiful, Kate.”

  “Thanks. It was worth all the extra hours I’ve been putting in at the track.”

  Coco was baffled. “Your father didn’t buy this?”

  “I’m a big girl. I can buy my own car, thank you.”

  “Mmmm.” She noticed the classic silver galloping Mustang hood ornament. “I didn’t know they had these anymore.”

  “They don’t,” Kate said. “It was a special purchase from a classic car dealer. I had it mounted. Cost me a small fortune, but it was so worth it.”

  Kate glanced at the silver Lexus SUV parked near the barn door. “Where’d you get the Lexus?” She hitched her chin toward the luxury vehicle.

  “Oh, that’s Daddy’s. Mine’s in the shop,” she giggled nervously. “I’m sure you know why.”

  Unamused, Kate smirked.

  “Sharp car, isn’t it?” Eric’s voice made the girls turn.

  “Beautiful,” Coco said.

  “Mike had to go to the track with your horse this morning,” he began the smooth lie. “So I’m afraid he’s not here.”

  Quite impressed with her father’s fib, Kate bit her lip.

  “Oh, I wanted to talk to him about last night. I’ll see him later, I’m sure.” She smiled. “Love the car, Kate. Not a scratch on her.”

  Coco climbed into the Lexus, started the engine, pushed the gear shift into DRIVE, and depressed the gas at the same time her phone announced the arrival of a text message.

  “Oh, good.” Hoping the call was from Mike, she reached into her Gucci bag for the cell, but it slipped through her fingers and onto the floor. She kept her left hand on the steering wheel while she stretched, and stretched while wiggling her fingers to retrieve it.

  Out of the blue, she heard Eric’s panicked voice. “Watch out!”

  She snatched the cell from the floor and sat up in time to see him shove Kate out of the path of the Lexus when it slammed into the side of the brand-new, hard-earned Mustang.

  Watching in horror, Eric and Kate lay on the ground while the Lexus pushed the Mustang a solid seven feet—squealing, tearing metal, and twisting the whole way.

  Shane rushed into the barn office to snatch up the ringing phone on the desk. “Hello? Hey, Mr. Mason, I’m so glad you called—” He barely got the words out of his mouth when he heard a terrible commotion outside. Narrowing his eyes, he raised his chin to peer out the window across the room. That’s when the barn wall came crashing in.

  Coco had shoved the Lexus into reverse to escape the Mustang but had pressed down too hard on the accelerator. The back-end of the SUV burst through the solid oak planking. The win pictures that once hung in tidy rows of victory were launched to scatter through the air.

  Shane vaulted over the desk to take cover from the projectiles flying over his head to hit the wall behind him and collapse a metal shelving unit on top of him.

  Silence followed. Smoke billowed from the vehicle that was now the centerpiece of the office.

  Sliding to a stop in the doorway, Punch peered in with round, wide eyes. “Shane, where are you?” Coughing, he waded through the debris, while batting at the ashen smoke.

  Waving his hand in front of his face, Shane coughed while climbing out from under the shelves.

  Punch pitched rubble aside before grabbing him by the arm. “You okay?”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m okay.” Then he saw it. “Coco?”

  The door of the Lexus slowly opened with a squeal. Timidly, Coco emerged.

  “Oh, yeah, Coco,” Punch said.

  The thick ashen smoke filled the hole where the lame vehicle was jammed.

  Eric pulled Kate from the ground “Good God, Coco.” He dashed toward the SUV and skidded to a stop when Punch delivered her from the wreckage. Covered in ashy dust, Shane was close behind.

  “Are you all right?” Eric was relieved to see everyone in one piece.

  “Oh, Mr. West, I am so very, very sorry.” Weeping openly, she cupped her hand over her mouth.

  Shell-shocked, Kate stared at her mangled Mustang. Her lips moved, but she was unable to forms words. Her cheeks burned red and her eyes filled with fire. “Shit! Shit! Shit!” She scrambled toward the mutilated car. Her mouth dangled open and nostrils flared until her temper reached crescendo. “What the hell is the matter with you?” she wailed.

  Coco couldn’t answer. Visions of Mike’s trashed trailer, and the scorched kitchen slammed through her head.

  What is wrong with me? Am I a walking disaster area? Good God, I’m a bona-fide klutz.

  Never once did Mike call her names or demand sexual compensation for the torture she realized she had wielded upon him. He was a gentleman. A genuine gentlemanly cowboy.

  Rare.

  She was joggled back into the moment when an object whizzed past her head.

  Shane and Punch ducked. Kate had chucked the classic hood ornament from the Mustang. It smashed through the windshield of the Lexus. The security system screamed.

  Clutched by alarm, Coco looked up. Poor Kate was beyond soothing. She marched around her maimed car while barking disparaging words at Coco’s intelligence.

  Punch tenderly touched Coco’s arm.

  Turning to the huge compassionate black man, she shivered.

  “I think you should go home,” he suggested.

  Her face was wet with tears. When she looked into his face, she saw that Punch felt sorry for her, but there was something else there. Behind the empathy, she also saw the word “klutz”.

  Oh yes, he has the same look in his eyes that Mike had the night the kitchen caught on fire; and that Henry had in his eyes the day I smashed his brand new Bentley Mulsanne into his vintage Ashton Martin. It screams, “Bumbling klutz!” She hated that look, and she needed to find a way to eradicate it forever, and soon.

  She wiped the tears from her cheeks. “Is Daddy’s Lexus drivable?” she mumbled through quivering lips.

  Punch glanced over his shoulder at the new embellishment wedged in the barn wall. No way. How is she going to break the news to Daddy? Then again, I imagine Daddy is already accustomed to Coco’s catastrophes.

  “I’ll drive you,” he told her.

  Mike led “Flipper”, Charlatan, back into Westwood stables at Keystone Downs. Sebastian O’Terra had taken the gelding for a gallop with great success. While Sebastian fed him peppermints, he had been an angel while being saddled, and he turned in a time that was most impressive, indeed. Charlatan trotted into the stall after Mike slapped him on the rump. He let out a sigh of relief. A simple remedy for a huge problem. Perfect.

  A nanosecond later, BAP! His jaw slammed sideways and his head lobbed against the stall door. Almost to his knees, he grabbed the wall to steady himself.

  “I’ve been waiting for you, boy,” a familiar gruff voice rang out beyond the white stars that were dancing in front of his eyes.

  Mike shook his head. The stars cleared in time for him to duck when Doug swung a pitchfork in his immediate direction. The pitchfork bounced off the wall above his head. Doug heaved it over his shoulder to prep for another blow.

  Wide eyed and snorting, the horses jumped to the back of their stalls.

  Crouching low, Mike managed to maneuver around the man swinging the fork back and forth madly over his
head. “What the hell’s the matter with you, O’Conner?” He backed down the aisle while dodging the prongs of the pitchfork that was jabbing and stabbing toward his chest.

  “You ain’t getting away with what you done to my Marge! You took that sweet woman’s virginity, and now I’m gonna take it outta your hide!” Doug bellowed like an old hillbilly at a shotgun affair. He swung the fork.

  Mike ducked again, but his mind was racing. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I never touched Margie.”

  “You damned Wests, you’re not only womanizing pigs, you’re cowards!” Filled with malevolent rage, he wrapped his arthritic fingers around the handle so tightly that his crooked knuckles looked as though they would rip through the weathered and cracked skin.

  Mike grabbed for the pitchfork. Doug whipped it down to smack his hand and wound up for another bout of blows. Ducking and dodging, Mike sucked back. He was running out of real estate, and soon Doug would have him backed against the wall—literally.

  “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. Now put down that damned fork!”

  “I’ll put the fork down when you’ve paid for what you took!”

  “I didn’t take anything!”

  Doug wasn’t interested in reason. Mike really didn’t want to tackle the old guy, and he didn’t want a broken hip added to his mounting laundry list of “forgive and forget” situations. But the wall was closing in, and so was that damned pitchfork. Tackling Doug was rapidly becoming the viable option.

  “You violated my Marge!”

  Hokay, enough is enough. Need to lay my cards on the table, and spell it out in a way that the old crotchety coot will understand. Doug swung the fork again, but this time Mike was ready, he grabbed the pitchfork from the old man’s hand and snapped it over his knee. The crack of the handle breaking in two, and the frustration on Mike’s face made Doug cower.

  Out of sheer agitation, Mike pointed the broken jagged handle at him. “Listen up, Doug. I wouldn’t touch Margie with a freaking ten foot pole!”