Southern Men: Ballad of a Texas Rose

by Carla Kane

  Southern Men

  Ballad of A Texas Rose

  By

  Carla Kana

  Copyright © 2012 Carla Kane

  First Published 2012 by The Blue Bouzouki Press

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transferred in any form without prior written permission from the author or her representatives. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Also by Carla Kane:

  Powerful Men

  Four Scorching Stories of Alpha Males who Take Control

  Contents

  Boss Sheriff: Sex in the Hot Texan Cell

  Hung Judge: Sin in the Southern Courtroom

  Hot Tycoon: Bedding the Magnate’s Son

  Boss Sheriff Returns: Love and Sex in the Lone Star State

  Boss Sheriff

  Sex in the Hot Texan Cell

  It was hot as hell that day. And getting pulled over by some redneck cop was the last thing Clara needed, since she was already a whole day late for the family reunion that she was traveling to. So it was no great surprise then, when getting pulled over was just exactly what happened. Typical.

  Clara Silverman wasn’t used to the heat, nor was she used to the vast desolation of the desert. As a hotshot New York lawyer she usually traveled only by subway or cab and rarely had the opportunity to look towards a horizon that was any further than the buildings down the street. So the sparse, hazy golden plains of the Texan desert had awoken something inside her, some yearning or instinct, a hunger for a different, rawer way of life.

  And the family reunion down in Corpus Christi, the reunion that she’d solemnly sworn to her mother she’d attend on time, had already started the day before. It was the damn Peterson case – she’d been held back in the city to go over the files and was now way behind schedule. Typical.

  So it was no wonder she was putting the pedal to the metal in the small rental Ford Focus that she’d driven all the way from New York over the past couple of days – the desert highway was bereft of any other drivers anyway. Or so she thought…

  She was on the outskirts of some one-horse town or other in the south Texan wilderness when it happened. It was so damned hot and Clara was cursing her decision to make a road-trip out of the opportunity instead of just booking a flight. It had all sounded so much more romantic in her head. But it was so hot. And the constant driving was making her sweaty and cramped. And there was nothing but trash on the radio. So no wonder she was breaking the law. But try telling that to Boss Sheriff.

  She heard the siren first – shrill and loud – and then she saw the flashing red and blue lights in the rear-view mirror.

  ‘Aw crap,’ Clara muttered and eased off the accelerator.

  She pulled into the side of the road and wound down the window, watching through the mirror to see what kind of hick passed for law enforcement out here in the sticks. If anything, this was probably going to be interesting at least.

  In the mirror, she watched the door of the patrol-car open and saw a huge hulking cop step out. He wore a pair of tight black pants and a khaki shirt that clung to his muscly chest. On his breast a golden sheriff’s badge glistened in the hot sunlight and on his head he wore a wide-brimmed white Stetson cowboy hat.

  ‘You’ve got to be kidding me,’ Clara whispered as she watched him strut towards her, as cool as John Wayne.

  The cop had on a pair of dark black aviator sunglasses and his jaw was like granite, chiseled around a serious frown that chewed idly on a toothpick. As he sauntered up to her car he opened his mouth and spat a stream of tobacco juice through his teeth out across the sizzling asphalt.

  ‘You know how fast you were going back there, little Missy?’

  Clara had to smile. Was this guy for real? The Sheriff had leaned in over her window, casting a strong, cool shadow against her body. He smelt of aftershave, tobacco and strong bourbon.

  ‘Well gee officer,’ Clara cooed in her best little girl’s voice, playing along with this sexist redneck asshole, ‘I guess I got a little distracted.’

  The sheriff did not speak. He just stood there with his iron face by the window, his expression unknowable behind the darkness of his shades.

  ‘Ma’am,’ he said eventually, ‘this is a fifty-five mile per hour zone. You were going much faster than that.’

  Clara suddenly winced. That wasn’t true; this was a freeway. What was this meathead trying to pull?

  ‘Aha excuse me,’ she said, dropping her twee girly tone and assuming the full sternness of her best lawyer voice, ‘this is a freeway. I may be a city-slicker, but I know what the speed limit is on a freeway and it sure as shit ain’t fifty-five.’

  The sheriff was silent again. His cold, strong presence filled Clara’s car and she shivered for a second before silently reproaching herself for showing any weakness.

  ‘Well now listen here,’ the sheriff spoke, ‘maybe you thought this was a freeway but it ain’t. You passed the town line for Breslin Springs about a mile and a half back. That’s my town, little Missy.’

  Suddenly it was all too much for Clara. The heat, the sweat, the cramps and now this chauvinistic asshole toying with her here in the desert, probably because he hadn’t seen a woman without hair on her face for months.

  ‘Little Missy?’ Clara sneered, turning to face the sheriff, ‘seriously? Well how about this then, little Mister, you say this is a town? Who are you trying to kid? All I see is desert in every direction.’

  Again the short spell of silence. When he spoke his voice was as calm and as deep as it ever was. ‘Now listen here girly; Breslin Springs is the town where I was born and now that I’m a man, I’ve taken it upon myself to protect said town. What if you was to have hit somebody, speeding along out here like it weren’t nobody’s business? Whose fault would that be?’

  Clara sighed. ‘Oh give me a break,’ she said, ‘fine: you’re just doing your job. Why don’t you write me up and let me go on my way.’

  ‘You know you got an attitude problem, little Miss.’

  ‘Whatever, just give me my ticket.’

  The sheriff stood back from the window and produced a notepad. He began to scrawl a few lines and then tore off the page. He reached back towards the car and held the ticket out for Clara to take.

  ‘Here you go,’ he said.

  ‘Fine,’ Clara muttered and snatched the ticket, ‘asshole.’

  The sheriff paused, his huge, formidable presence wholly directed back on her. ‘What did you say?’

  For a second Clara felt a chill; the sheriff was so big and strong and they were all alone out here. What if…? She shook her head and smiled. Get a grip Clara, she told herself, it’s the twenty-first century. Now show him who’s boss.

  ‘You heard me,’ she said.

  The sheriff nodded to himself slowly and then turned his huge head to the side. He spat a stream of tobacco juice out on the road and then turned back to Clara. ‘Step out of the car,’ he said.

  ‘Ah shit,’ Clara whispered and then turned her most sympathetic face to the lawman. ‘Look officer, I’m sorry if I caused any offense, ok? I’m already late for an appointment across the state…’

  ‘Ma’am,’ the sheriff repeated, ‘I said: step out of the car.’

  Clara sighed and then unbuckled her seatbelt. She opened the car door and stepped out into the scorching heat. She wore a white blouse and a pair of tan slacks and she was sure there were sweat stains underneath her arms. How embarrassing.

  ‘Listen,’ she said, ‘I shouldn’t have said what I did, I know that. Lesson learned, ok?’

  The sheriff slowly shook his head and Cl
ara marveled for a moment at his stature. He must have been several feet taller than she was.

  ‘Naw-aw,’ the sheriff said, ‘little missy, I’m afraid you’re in no state to be driving. You need a little time to cool off and calm down before I let you back on the road. Someone could get hurt.’

  A wave of anger flashed through her. ‘Are you kidding me? You sexist son-of-a-bitch!’

  The ghost of a smile touched the side of the sheriff’s rigid mouth. ‘Uh-huh,’ he said, ‘just like I told you. Ma’am I’m going to ask you to turn around and put your hands behind your back so I can cuff you.’

  Clara winced bitterly. ‘Oh come on,’ she said, ‘you know there’s no need for that. You’re just fucking with me now.’

  ‘Protocol ma’am,’ the sheriff shrugged, ‘that’s the letter of the law. Now do like I told you before I have to draw my weapon.’

  Clara looked for a moment at the huge pistol holstered on the sheriff’s hip. Her eyes followed across along the tight black pants to the hem of his crotch and for just a second she wondered about his other weapon… She blinked tightly. Get a grip Clara, she told herself.

  ‘Little missy I am still waiting over here,’ the sheriff spoke, ‘but I won’t wait much longer.’

  ‘Fine,’ Clara muttered turning around, ‘this is what you good old boys like, isn’t it? To see women humiliated, to see us weak?’

  The sheriff chuckled for a moment, droll and deep, a sound which only annoyed Clara even more as she waited for him to come up behind her and slap on the cuffs. ‘Little missy,’ he said, ‘I’m just following the letter of the law. Hands together.’

  Clara felt his strong presence behind her, smelt his musk, as he took her wrists in his huge suede hands. The metal slapped around her; cold, tight, unbreakable.

  The sheriff placed his hands on her shoulders and turned her back to face his own car. ‘Ok Missy,’ he chuckled, ‘start walking. We’ll get you cooled down from this tantrum and then you can get back on the road.’

  ‘Oh give me a fucking break,’ Clara muttered, ‘tantrum? You are one backwards yokel asshole, aren’t you?’

  The sheriff did not speak. He was behind her as they walked so she couldn’t see his face, but she wondered had she at last gotten through to him? Hit a nerve perhaps?

  ‘Lady,’ he said, ‘I’m only doing my job.’

  ‘Yeah right…’

  They reached the sheriff’s car and he opened the back-door. ‘After you,’ he said and that faint, infuriating hint of a smile played against his lips again.

  ‘What a gentleman,’ Clara sneered and climbed into the car.

  The back-seat was torn, with bits of the stuffing pulled out, and separated from the front by a rusty metal grille. It was so humiliating, but on the bright side, at least she’d have a conversation piece when she got to the reunion. And surely her mother couldn’t blame this one on her.

  The sheriff opened the front door and climbed into the car. He started the engine and the sound of Hank Williams singing started up on the radio.

  ‘Hey good looking, what you got cooking…?’

  Clara shook her head and smiled to herself. This was too much.

  ‘So what’s your name?’ she asked.

  ‘Harvey, ma’am,’ the sheriff replied, ‘but most people round here just call me Boss.’

  ‘Harvey what?’ Clara asked, ‘I want to know so I can make an official complaint against you when all this is over. I’m a lawyer you know.’

  The sheriff was silent for a moment, but when he spoke he sounded like he was smiling, a fact which only served to further incense his prisoner. ‘A lawyer, huh? Well phewee that must have been hard work to get there. My name’s Harvey Klein Ma’am – Sheriff Harvey Klein…’

  ‘But most people just call you Boss, right?’

  ‘Uh-huh; the Boss of Breslin Springs.’

  ‘What a distinction,’ Clara muttered and looked out the window.

  Well apparently it was a town, but it probably wouldn’t have passed for one anywhere other than out here in the sticks. There was a diner, a store and a police station and not much else. It was outside the police station where the sheriff parked the patrol car. He cleared his throat and then stepped outside.

  ‘Come on now,’ he said, holding the door open, ‘let’s not make any more trouble out of this than we have to.’

  With her hands clamped behind her back and the tight iron chafing her wrists, Clara maneuvered herself out of the car. This situation was so ridiculous it was almost like a dream.

  “Start walking,’ the sheriff said and nudged her towards the steps up to his office.

  Clara stepped up to the porch and waited for the sheriff to open the door. They walked into a cool reception area. The desk was scattered with papers but otherwise empty. Nobody else was around.

  ‘Where is everybody?’ Clara asked.

  ‘You’re talking to them. Ain’t nobody else but me.’

  Clara was silent for a moment. She wasn’t sure how comfortable she was being completely alone in the station with this huge stallion of a man. ‘Are you going to put me in a cell?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And how long will I be there for?’

  ‘For as long as it takes you to cool down and start being a nice little girl again.’

  The sheriff pushed her forward and they turned a corner towards another desk in front of a small iron-barred cell. Inside there was nothing but a wooden bench and a metal drain, which, Clara noted with disgust, probably served as the toilet.

  The sheriff pulled the bars open with a clang and bade her to enter. ‘Good girl,’ he said, as he slammed the bars shut behind her.

  As Clara stood staring at him with indignant disgust, he walked back to his desk, took off his Stetson and flung it at a rack. It landed on the hook and the sheriff laughed with delight.

  ‘Hot damn!’ he said, sitting down at his desk and putting his feet up on the table, ‘still got it.’

  Clara watched him as he rifled through some documents. Without his hat she could see that he was actually much younger than she’d originally thought, maybe even younger than she was, at thirty-five. And he was handsome too – she hated to admit it but the asshole was very handsome indeed.

  She looked at his snakeskin boots with derision. ‘You’re an asshole,’ she said, ‘you know that?’

  The sheriff’s hands froze before him. Slowly he lowered the papers and peered at her over the rims of his sunglasses. His eyes were bright blue and they sparkled playfully. ‘What did you say to me?’

  Clara felt a lump of excitement in her throat. She put her hands against the cold metal of the bars and looked out at him levelly. ‘I said you’re an asshole,’ she repeated, ‘little missy? Good girl? Tantrum? Are you fucking around here, or are you really that much of stone-aged hillbilly hick?’

  ‘Girl,’ the sheriff spoke, his voice as cold and hard as steel, ‘you best watch your mouth now.’

  ‘Yeah? Or what?’

  ‘Or I’ll fill it up.’

  Clara blinked. No way had he just – he didn’t mean…

  ‘That’s better,’ the sheriff smiled and got back to sorting his papers.

  About ten minutes later he stretched his huge arms out behind his back and yawned. ‘Well I am parched,’ he said, ‘what about you little missy? You want a drink?’

  He opened his drawer and pulled out a bottle of bourbon, pouring a decent measure into a glass on his desk.

  ‘You have got to be kidding me,’ Clara whispered.

  The sheriff swirled his glass contemplatively before taking a drink. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘I used to date with a girl from New York. We was engaged in fact…’

  ‘Oh yeah?’

  ‘Yeah, and she was every bit as uppity as you are too.’ The sheriff laughed and then sipped his drink. His voice became serious again. ‘Found out she was cheating on me and broke it off,’ he said.

  Clara shook her head in wonder. ‘So that’s wha
t this is about? You’ve got a personal vendetta against women from New York – that’s why you’re fucking with me?’

  The sheriff took off his shades and considered her with his deep blue eyes. ‘No ma’am,’ he said, ‘this is about you driving dangerously at the outskirts of my town. If I was fucking with you… well shoot, you’d certainly know it.’

  Clara stared for a moment. ‘Aha,’ she said, ‘outskirts. I knew we weren’t in a town.’

  ‘We was in the town-lines,’ the sheriff frowned, ‘like I said. Why you are quite the little lawyer girl, aren’t you?’

  ‘Just you wait and see,’ Clara smirked.

  ‘How’s that? You gonna make a complaint against me Clara Silverman?’

  ‘Damn right,’ Clara said and folded her arms.

  ‘You know I don’t want to let that happen.’

  ‘So what?’

  The sheriff sighed and threw his papers down on the desk. Slowly he lifted his snakeskin boots off the table and swung them down on the ground. He rose from his seat.

  ‘So I ain’t going to let that happen.’

  Clara’s heart raced for a second as she stared at the huge cowboy through the bars. Was he threatening her? Or was he joking? There was a sparkle in his eye and that infuriating half-smile was dancing around the corners of his sexy lips. Sexy lips? Get a grip Clara. She felt a tingle between her legs. The sheriff started walking towards her.

  ‘Ma’am,’ he said, ‘I’m going to ask you to do something for me.’

  Clara felt a flush across her forehead as the huge cop closed in on her. Her voice was cloudy and choked when she spoke. ‘What’s that?’

  The sheriff produced the ring of keys from his pocket and turned the lock to the cell. Before pulling the bars open he looked her directly in the eyes and smiled.

  ‘Call me Boss.’

  The doors clanged open and he stood before her, now with no partition whatsoever keeping them apart. Clara felt very small and vulnerable beneath him. But she felt hot as well. She wanted to be fucked.