“Yer mother’s a cow!” he called out, waving his arms.
Black Tuesday paused to consider the insult while the man in shorts circled the ring. The bull decided to make another try at the barrel. Snuffy Jones flopped the barrel on its side and hunkered down for another beating. Just as Black Tuesday arrived and lowered his head for another toss, the T-shirted bullfighter leaped on top of the barrel, grasped the bull’s horns and vaulted onto the animal’s wide, black back. He did a handspring off of Black Tuesday’s flanks, landed without losing his hat, and wrung the bull’s tail.
By the time Black Tuesday pivoted and charged again, the bullfighter was across the ring near the gate. He pulled a large red handkerchief from a pocket and waved it as if it were a huge cape.
“Come get me, you side of beef, you piece of brisket.”
The bull came roaring. Clinton O. Beck stepped aside, and Rusty swung the gate open, then closed it behind the irate animal who suddenly found himself in a small holding pen. Game over.
The students surged to their feet and cheered. Renee Hayes looked as stunned as if she’d been hit with a cattle prod.
“Who is he, Bodey?”
“Well, the barrelman is Snuffy Jones, one of the best rodeo clowns ever.”
“Not him. He smells like chaw. The other guy.”
“Clinton O. Beck, three times World Champion Bullfighter.”
“Introduce me.”
“Now Renee, you know I hate when you mess with the talent.”
“Most of the time
you
are the talent and you’re so very taken. Fine, I’ll introduce myself.”
She headed for the cluster of students who surrounded the bullfighter, and they gave way before her, though someone groped her in passing. She didn’t care enough to turn around and glare with Clint Beck in her sights. Renee stroked his arm down to the hand holding a pen signing autographs. That got his attention.
“You want an autograph, honey?” Clint Beck turned his blue eyes on her. They were the shade of deep ocean water, not the sparkling Irish blue eyes that Bodey Landrum always said was his best feature. His hair was a short, crisp, dark blond, dampened with sweat. Not really tall, he had the compact, muscular body of a gymnast and the tan of an outdoorsman.
Clint grinned, showing a good set of white teeth. No way could she tell he’d lost a few doing what he did, his dentist was that fine. He wondered if she wanted one of those big bazookas signed. Wouldn’t be the first time. While bullfighters didn’t have the cachet of bull riders—or the money—they were coming into their own these days.
“No, darling. I want to give
you
something.” Renee took his pad and pen, wrote her name and number, tore off the sheet, and buried it deep in the pocket of his shorts. She tied the tails of Bodey’s shirt around her waist and sauntered off, giving Clint Beck a good backside view of what she had to offer.
He did a body check. Nope, hadn’t sprained or broken anything during the demonstration. He could hang out with Bodey and Snuffy tonight, hit a honky-tonk out on the highway, or watch a movie in his motorcoach, but since he wasn’t too bunged up to screw, the bodacious lady had just given him another option.
The catering service arrived, and slim, yellow-toned Ja’nae Plato from the Rainbow Café put out lunch on the long picnic tables set in the shade. A giant po-boy sliced in sections flanked by potato salad and coleslaw bowls made up the meal. She placed a tray of huge chocolate chip cookies and began filling cups with iced tea. The crowd around Clint and Snuffy thinned and re-formed near the food and Ja’nae, the best looking black woman in Rainbow, and the one least likely to respond to a pass of any kind. Ja’nae was all about building her business, and so Bodey hired her to do the catering, not just because he’d known her as the kid sister of his friend, Leon. Besides, he’d never slept with Ja’nae because Leon wouldn’t allow it, a very good thing for all of them at this point in their lives.
Bodey slammed Clint on the back. “You always amaze me. Reminded me of the time you jumped the bull to save my hide a few years back.”
“Warn’t nothing. Say, I got an offer from your lady friend. Mind if I take her up on it?”
“Not my lady friend anymore, not for some time. Feel free, but be careful. If Renee finds out you’re the heir to the Beck’s Baked Beans fortune, she’ll have one hand down your crotch and the other in your wallet faster than Black Tuesday can throw a rider. That’s a dangerous woman when she’s between husbands.”
“Why Bodey, my man, you know I thrive on danger.”
****
Clint Beck took Bodey up on his offer to shower in one of his mansion’s guest baths. His luxury motorcoach was parked behind the bunkhouse and hooked up to electricity, water, and sewage since Bodey knew well how a lot of rodeo folk traveled, but he would hardly shower in a cubicle when he could have jets of hot water massaging his sore muscles. He gave himself a close shave and slapped on a tangy aftershave. Once he’d put on clean boxer briefs, khakis, and a button-down shirt with starched cuffs, he looked exactly like any other well-built man on the street, he thought. He slid his feet into soft Italian loafers, put a matching belt through the loops of his pants and went down to the kitchen to cadge a bottle of wine off Bodey.
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 center 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.