A Wild Red Rose (8 page)

Renee seemed to want to drive him off, as if she couldn’t stand his knowing about what had happened to her as a girl. While he rested up for the night’s event, she’d taken all the money from his wallet, gone into Phoenix, and had a shopping spree—evidently maxing out all her credit cards after his cash ran out. He woke to a trailer filled with bags of designer clothes and shoes.

Renee held up a chic black dress that would cling to every curve. “Do you like it? I thought it was time you bought me something for the pleasure of my company.”

“We’re not going anywhere you can use that.”

She opened a large oblong box. “You told me I needed boots.” They were black, heavily tooled with hearts and roses outlined in white stitching, and probably cost more than all the money she had taken.

“I know I didn’t have enough in my wallet for much more than cab fare downtown and maybe one of those dresses, Renee. How did you pay for all this?”

“With my credit cards, which are at their limit. The other fellows said this gig pays really well. If you would give me two thousand dollars, I could go to the bank downtown, deposit a check, and then pay my bills on-line at the public library.” She gave him a pretty, baby doll pout with her full red lips.

He wasn’t buying it. Clint Beck knew how to tame a tiger or any other animal for that matter. Make them depend on you for their food, shelter, and affection. Lay down the rules and stick to them. Reward good behavior with praise and attention and the occasional treat. He’d start right now.

“Renee, I’ve enjoyed your company, but some things you got to know. Don’t take without asking. Don’t expect me to pay for stuff you don’t really need. And don’t flirt with other men in front of me. If you can’t live with that, I suggest you return all this crap tomorrow and use your money to fly home because we won’t be near any airports for a long time after this if you stay. Your choice. Now, I’ve got to get over to the arena and tape up, then warm my muscles on the exercise bike. I hope you’re still here when I get back tonight.” Clint picked up the duffel containing his knee and shin pads, his chest protector and running shoes, and walked out to fight the bulls, leaving the untamed tiger alone.

****

Clint couldn’t worry about his love life when in the bullring. He stood near the gates, waiting for the bull and rider to explode from the chute. This was a high caliber event with some of the rankest bulls known on the circuit. A man could earn a ninety point score on their backs or wind up in the hospital. Earlier, one of the worst animals had gored Steve Darden in the arm before the bullfighters could drive off the big, black beast with the unclipped horns by using swats of their hats and catcalls. Without their intervention, the injury would have been worse, much worse. Steve walked out of the arena under his own power.

During a break, Clint went to chug down a sports drink. He caught sight of Renee positioned low in the stands. Hard to miss with those long waves of blazing red hair, she sat with her feet propped up on a railing. He couldn’t help but notice her shiny black boots, topped by brand new boot cut jeans and a stretchy emerald green, rhinestoned top that showed a lot of cleavage and fit like a coat of lacquer on her skin. Wouldn’t surprise him at all if Renee carried body glue in that big satchel to keep herself from falling out of some of her outfits. She talked to—no, make that flirted with—the guy next to her, judging by how she rubbed up against him, breaking every rule Clint had set for her earlier in the day. Maybe, she solicited a ride to the airport. He couldn’t dare to care right now.

Pedro Sanchez, dark-eyed and full of Hispanic machismo, was slated to go first in the next round of bull riding. He came up along side of the bullfighter and leaned against the same section of fencing. Without turning his broad, handsome face toward Clint, he said, “I drew Cyclonic.”

“He’s well-named. He’ll spin into your hand and won’t stop even when you’re off his back. If you get a choice, watch which side you land on.”

“I wanted to say, I wasn’t messing with your girl, yesterday. She comes on strong like Cyclonic.” Pedro shifted his dark eyes from the empty bullring to Clint’s face.

“I know Renee. Don’t worry about it.”

“My life is in your hands, man.”

“I’ll do my job.”

Pedro went to get his bull rope. Clint finished his drink and pitched the plastic bottle into a trashcan. Renee had left her seat, but at least the man she’d been seducing still sat there alone. He had to put the woman out of his mind as the next round of riding began. He went to join two other bullfighters by the gates.

Cyclonic stood already wedged into the narrow chute. Pedro balanced up on the side boards getting his bull rope around the uncooperative animal with the help of the wranglers. The rider dropped down on the beast and pounded his gloved hand into the grip. He shouted, “Go,” and the gate swung open on long ropes. His sickening, circular ride ended at the six-second mark when he flew off the right side of the bull directly into the vortex of the spin. One big cloven hoof punched down squarely on Pedro’s knee. Cyclonic lowered his head to savage the rider with a blunted horn, but the bullfighters arrived in time.

Clint scooped up a handful of dirt and dashed it into the bull’s eye. The other bullfighters got between the animal and the downed rider, driving the beast away with swats of their hats. Clint shouted at Cyclonic, waved his arms, and took off across the wide arena. The bull bore down on him like a locomotive on a pickup truck stalled at an unguarded crossing. Clint reached the boards a second before the bull and was scrambling over the top to safety when Cyclonic gave him a butt in the rear that completed the job. He landed in a heap on the other side of the barrier but jumped up immediately and raised his hands to show the gasping audience he’d survived just fine. He fired a wide grin at the TV camera zooming in on him. That thousand-watt smile flashed on all the upper level screens.

“Let’s give Clinton O. Beck, the Bull Bomber, a great big hand,” the announcer cried out. The crowd cheered wildly.

An outrider got a rope on Cyclonic and held him steady as the medics helped Pedro to his feet and partially carried the limping bull rider to the Mobile Sports Medicine Center. The announcer assured the crowd they would be given updates on the rider’s condition.

Clint took only a second to look for Renee. She’d returned to her seat and stood on her feet, not cheering, one hand held across her heart. She appeared to have spilled half a cold drink down her front. Didn’t hurt her appearance one bit and might have enhanced it, the way her nipples poked out. The dude she’d been seducing certainly appreciated his close up view. He began patting down her front with a wad of paper napkins and doing a very thorough job of it. Jealousy rose up in Clint like a high bucking haunch. Regardless, the next bull entered the chute, and the Bull Bomber had to go back to work.

The rest of the event went off without a hitch, only a quarter of the riders hanging on for their eight seconds of agony. Pedro Sanchez had been transported to a hospital the announcer informed one and all. No word yet if his knee injury meant the end to a promising season. Clint kept on moving, simply doing his job, but he sank into one of the Jacuzzi baths provided by the medical center before he went back to the trailer. His gluteus maximus was one big bruise despite the padding he’d worn.

A light shone through the thin curtains of The Tin Can. He wondered if Renee waited or if she had been careless as usual and forgotten to turn off the lamp. Probably on her way to the airport by now. Experiencing a twinge of pain in his backside, Clint made his way up the little pull-down step, opened the door, and tossed his bag of bullfighting gear into a corner. There, Renee Niles Bouchard Hayes sat, cross-legged on the foldout bed in all her naked glory with the fake tiger throw covering only her most private part.

“I thought you’d be gone by now with that guy you were rubbing up against at the rodeo. What, he wouldn’t part with enough money for your plane fare?”

She ignored his surly remark and glanced over from reading the rodeo program. “It says here, you went to the University of Texas.”

“I did—on a gymnastics scholarship. Missed getting on the U.S. Olympic Team by a tenth of a point. My dad was very disappointed in me, all that expensive coaching and driving around to all those meets for nothing. After that, I drifted a while.”

All true. He’d gone to Harvard to get that MBA in order to please Gunter Beck, substituting his dream for his father’s version of the future. The summer after he’d gotten his degree he’d thrown over the traces and taken up bullfighting.

“Sometimes, you don’t sound so cowboy—like now, like last night.”

“Depends on who I’m with. I won’t use an education to talk down to a nineteen-year-old bull rider. People are more comfortable with the cowboy persona.”

“A persona, is it?”

“Yes, and if you don’t like it, you can get on outta here. I still earn only $150,000 a year fighting bulls.” Not counting interest from his trust fund and stock dividends, his prize money, some small endorsements, and gigs at bullfighting clinics. Clint raked a hand through his short, dark blond hair. He had no energy left to deal with Renee’s moods tonight. If she didn’t want his help, she could go, just go, and leave him to cope with his own pain. When he’d seen her all tricked out in those new clothes, flirting with another man in the stands tonight, he knew he’d never tame her, teach her the right way to behave. Bodey had pegged her as a man-eater, and she’d sure taken a chunk of out him tonight.

“Clint, I saw how you saved that rider’s life. You aren’t paid nearly enough. I’ll take the clothes back tomorrow, all except the outfit I wore. I squeezed my soda cup when the bull hit you and sort of ruined any chance for an exchange. You must be sore. Come over here and drop those pants.” Renee patted the mattress.

“Look, I’m a little tired and a lot bruised.”

Still, he took off his shirt and dropped his pants. Renee usually enjoyed the revelation of his tight, shapely buttocks, but tonight a “Eeuwww” escaped her.

“I had an eggplant in my refrigerator go bad one time. You’re that same color behind.”

“I didn’t need to know. I don’t want to be on the top or the bottom tonight, okay?”

“How about sideways? I’ll do all the work. You just enjoy.”

“Well, sex does ease the pain—or at least takes my mind off of it.” Enjoying her one last time wasn’t really giving in, right?

“Then let me take care of you.”

Clint eased himself down on his side. Renee slid a slim hand deep between his legs and stroked. She cupped and massaged his balls, working her way upward until he sprang erect between her fingers. She rolled a condom down, stroking as she went, placed one leg over his thigh, and eased herself on top of his penis. Working those marvelous internal muscles of hers, Renee milked him dry. Once she finished him off and withdrew, Clint moaned and rolled over on his front.

“I guess you didn’t get much out of that,” he said. He also guessed she’d be gone in the morning now that his thrusters were out of order. He almost wished for Renee to disappear so he could end the struggle and get on with his life.

“I got all that I wanted,” she answered. “Go to sleep, Clint.”

Chapter Seven

Sr. Inez got up from her place before the shrine to the Virgin with the use of her blackthorn walking stick. She helped Sr. Helen arise and handed her a brightly painted cane. They stretched, limped down the aisle of the nuns’ chapel at Mt. Carmel Academy, and exited into the thick, hot summer air.

“I saw Prudence Niles at Rainbow Liquor and Groceries today. She was stocking up on booze for the week. Doesn’t even try to hide it anymore.” Sr. Inez shook her head sadly. “She said she had a postcard from Renee. She and her cowboy went to Casper, Wyoming, to help with a rodeo for special kids.”

“That doesn’t sound like Renee. I was under the impression she only went to charitable affairs to meet rich men. Do you think our prayers for her are working?” Sr. Helen asked.

“I’m positive, but I believe we need reinforcements. The BVM cannot handle this alone. Tomorrow after dinner, we should go into the pine woods and pray to St. Mary Magdalene at her statue.”

“Ah, Nessy, I don’t think I can make it down that long and winding path anymore. With all the praying we’ve been doing in the chapel, even in the air-conditioning, my knees are killing me. I’m happy to offer up my pain to God, but if I collapse halfway there, you won’t be able to carry me back to the convent.”

“I’ll ask the Mother Superior to borrow the golf cart. She does approve of what we are trying to accomplish—the redemption of Renee Niles Bouchard Hayes.”

“Very well, then,” said Sr. Helen, her blue eyes twinkling, her white head nodding. “You bring a candle. I’ll cut some flowers for an offering. And BYOB—bring your own bug spray.”

They carried out their plans after the seven p.m. prayers and went into the woods smelling of candle wax, incense, and DEET. Sr. Nessy drove the golf cart, a gift from the father of one of their Academy girls who had given up the dubious pleasure of the sport. Her recklessness behind the wheel caused Sr. Helen to squeak each time they rounded a curve. Petals from the bouquet of white crepe myrtles she held scattered in the artificial breeze the turn created.

“The intention of the winding path is to promote the contemplation of one’s sins, not serve as a Formula One race course,” she reminded her fellow nun tartly.

“I’d like to get there before the mosquitoes come out if you don’t mind. Good thing it stays light until almost nine this time of year, but under the pines the bloodsuckers rise earlier.”

Sr. Helen clamped her mouth shut and held on. God saw them safely to their destination at the rather lascivious statue of Mary Magdalene who reclined upon a couch, her long hair undone, her feet bare, her body lush and curvaceous. If the Blessed Mother Leontine hadn’t declared it a work of art and a true tribute to the Magdalene, surely some priest would have had it hauled away a century and more ago. She got down from the golf cart rather unsteadily and laid her tribute of flowers by St. Mary’s feet.