The Thunder Rolls

by Bethany Campbell

  She might even break her professional ethics and tell Bubba about Gordon’s own mother turning against him. Bubba always rejoiced over the misadventures of his enemies. On the other hand, maybe she wouldn’t say a word.

  After all, Martin had defended her ethics, and well he should. Billie Jo might have her flaws, but she seldom told tales out of school. No, she decided, she wouldn’t say a word to Bubba. She liked having earned Martin’s compliment the way she had.

  But if she wanted to say something—oh, yes, she thought with satisfaction—if she wanted to, she could let a cat or two out of the bag.

  THE AFTERNOON SUN was low and hot on the horizon and shining directly into Gordon’s eyes as he drove west toward Mexico.

  He’d pulled the shade flap down, but it didn’t help. Dozens of little phantom suns seemed to have burned themselves into his eyeballs. They danced and spun, ghostlike, over everything he saw.

  He had the air-conditioning on in the cab, but he couldn’t stop sweating. He couldn’t quite believe he was doing what he was doing, and he half wondered if he was dreaming.

  Even when the truck’s wheels hit a pothole, he felt as if the truck wasn’t quite substantial, and the jolt from the pothole wasn’t actually…actual. All physical sensations seemed filtered through a veil of buzzing haze.

  He had left the truck alone while the men—two Anglos, one Hispanic—had loaded it. Now it was full of hogs, but hidden under the truck bed were rifles, hundreds of them, Charlie had said. Gordon didn’t even know what kind.

  Gordon didn’t want to think about the rifles. They seemed as strange and dreamlike as the little suns dancing dizzingly across his vision. When it periodically hit him that everything about this trip was real—the guns especially—such a wave of nausea swept over him that he truly thought he might die of it.

  God, but he wished he’d stop sweating. He supposed it was the uppers, the amphetamines in his system—that made him sweat. He wanted to take another downer, to counteract the effect, but if he got drowsy and ran the truck off the road—oh, Lord, what then? What then?

  At that thought, another flood of sickness swept over him, so intense that it brought tears to his eyes.

  He pulled out a bandanna handkerchief and wiped his eyes, but they still stung. Keeping the steering wheel steady with the pressure of his thigh, he fumbled to tie the bandanna, piratelike, around his forehead to keep more sweat from dripping into his eyes.

  Then, just as he’d fastened it, his leg gave an involuntary jerk, and the truck went swerving half out of its lane and directly toward a church bus trundling down the road.

  Gordon seized the wheel with both hands, his heart turning cold and leaping up to choke him. The church bus blared its horn, and the noise made him feel as if someone had stuck thousands of ice-cold needles into every square inch of his flesh.

  Shaking, he managed to keep the truck’s path steady. He swore inwardly—a church bus? What if he hit a church bus, and the cops found all those rifles? Good God, they’d lock him up and throw away the key and he was still a young man, and everybody knew what happened to good-looking young men like him, in jail—no, no, no no no no no no.

  He reached into the glove compartment, opened his bottle of tranquilizers and popped one, swallowing it without water. It almost gagged him and left a bitter taste on his tongue.

  A beer would have been better, he thought helplessly, a beer he could have controlled the effect better, but he had to do something, now, fast; he couldn’t go on killing himself with worry the way he was doing.

  Oh, to be done with this nightmare, he thought, scrubbing the sweat from his lip with the back of his hand. Oh, to have it over, over, over.

  He wanted to go home to safety and sanity again, to a place where people had to love and respect and obey him.

  Nobody would hurt him there. He was forcing his enemies into submission there, he was whipping them into submission, starting with old Bubba. Every time he stopped the truck for gas or for anything, he made sure he phoned Bubba. The phone rang, somebody would pick it up, swear and bang it down again. Old Bubba. Scared even to talk back.

  Bubba had better stay scared and stay away; Gordon was coming home.

  His heart beat madly, his head buzzed more thickly than before. The phantom suns danced and winked in his vision.

  He was going home. Home. Home.

  Where he would take his young wife to bed all the time, whenever he wanted, whether she liked it or not. He’d show her, for once and for all, who was running this show.

  And where his mama would again love him unconditionally and forever. And she would forgive him for everything and keep him out of money trouble.

  That was his dream. God help the man who tried to come between that dream and him. That man was dead.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CAL HAD BEEN RIGHT, dammit. Rory hadn’t merely beaten Ken at Alien Space Demons, he had annihilated him.

  Ken pulled Nora closer, kissed the edge of her ear and smiled at the memory. She stirred drowsily, snuggling more deeply into the crook of his arm.

  Now Rory lay soundly sleeping down the hall, sprawling across Ken’s bed, where Ken had carried him and Nora had drawn down the quilt so that the boy’s head could rest on the pillow.

  “We should go now,” Nora murmured against Ken’s chest, but she made no move to draw away from him.

  He tightened his embrace and nuzzled her ear more languorously. His breath softly stirred her hair. It was warm and it tickled her.

  He laughed, low in his throat.

  “What’s funny?” she asked, pushing him away slightly so that she could look up into his eyes. They seemed deceptively lazy, and his one-sided smile was partly rueful, partly shy.

  “I got killed nineteen times tonight,” he drawled, shaking his head. “I never even made space cadet. Those dadblasted geranium pots from Jupiter kept fallin’ on my head.”

  “They’re terrible,” Nora agreed, but she really wasn’t thinking much about geraniums from Jupiter. She was admiring the way the light gilded the strong planes of his face. “They’ve killed me dozens of times. I don’t know how kids do it. What’s Rory? Major General of the Solar System?”

  “Solar system, my foot,” he said, tracing the line of her cheek with his forefinger. “He’s Warlord of the Galaxy.”

  She smiled. “You were a good sport.”

  He let his finger rest in the soft cleft in her chin. “What choice did I have?”

  “He had a wonderful time. He loved the pony. He’s always wanted to know how to ride.”

  “I’ll teach him.” He turned his hand so that the backs of his fingers trailed across her cheek.

  “I remember that pony. I always wanted to ride him. My brother said I was too old.”

  He frowned slightly, but kept stroking her cheek. “You never learned to ride?”

  She smiled. “Just barely.”

  “I’ll teach you, too.”

  “Do you think you could?”

  “I could try.” He touched his thumb and forefinger to the edges of her lips. “My God,” he breathed, his eyes holding hers, “you’re so soft.”

  His smile faded, his lips parted, and he bent to take hers. Something leaped sweetly in Nora, making her giddy and eager for his touch. His warm mouth conveyed so many contradictory things: strength, yet sensitivity; hunger, yet restraint; tenderness, yet increasing mastery.

  She found her lips opening to allow him greater intimacy. His tongue tasted hers, toyed with it, dared her to explore him as he was exploring her.

  Shyly, the tip of her tongue entered his mouth, lightly tracing its most private contours. At the same moment, she raised her hand to play with the button at the throat of his shirt. He inhaled so sharply that she gasped and sank into his embrace, letting desire enclose her like a cloud of darkness and stars.

  Somehow, the button she had twisted so artlessly came undone, and she felt the bare warmth of his chest against the backs of her fingers. The crisp ha
ir and the hardness of his muscle grazed her knuckles.

  Startled, she began to draw her hand reluctantly away, but his hand closed over hers, guiding it back to rest against his chest once more. The beat of his heart thudded beneath her fingertips, as if saying, Touch. Touch. Touch.

  Slowly she let her fingers glide over the sculpted planes of his chest. He gasped harshly, then deepened his kiss.

  His hand fell from hers to clasp her waist and draw her nearer. Then it rose, sliding up her rib cage until it framed her breast, but did not quite touch it.

  Her body tensed, yet throbbed with such desire that she could not bring herself to move away. She stopped stroking his chest. He stayed motionless for the length of two heartbeats, then three, then four.

  Nora’s taut muscles could not resist him. With a sigh, she relaxed against him, letting the roundness of her breast brush his tensed hand.

  Slowly, gently, his fingers moved to cup her, hold her. His other hand moved up underneath the back of her blouse. His fingers were roughened, but they were deft and sure upon the fastening of her bra. It tightened slightly as he undid it, then seemed to sigh free of her flesh.

  She realized that there was nothing now but a loosened wisp of lace between her bare breasts and his hand. Shakily, she held her breath, waiting for his touch. Her pulses beat so quickly that she could feel them tingling in her fingertips.

  His mouth drew away from hers, just barely. When he spoke, his breath felt first warm, then cool against her moist lips. “Nora? Do you want me to touch you? If you don’t—”

  She could not answer yes or no. Once more she tensed, almost to the point of shuddering. She kept her eyes tightly closed. This should seem so wrong, she thought in confusion. This should seem so ugly and shameful. But it doesn’t. Not with him.

  He bent his head to kiss her between her breasts, his mouth hot against the thin silk of her blouse. He kissed that deep valley until it tingled, then moved to caress the curves and aching tips of her breasts.

  “Oh,” she whispered. She knew she should pull away but did not. “Oh.”

  His fingers were undoing her buttons, one by one, so swiftly and gently she’d hardly realized it.

  “Oh,” she repeated helplessly.

  “I know,” he said harshly. “This isn’t the time. This isn’t the place.”

  “Rory…”

  “I know. I know.”

  “Please,” she said, anxiety closing over her, its chill driving away the warm urgency of wanting him. No man except Gordon had ever touched her breasts. The memory of his roughness came surging back, chilling her. “I—I—”

  “Wait,” he murmured, drawing back from her, his breath ragged. “Wait. Just let me see you. That’s all.”

  Suddenly panicking, she thought she heard Rory stirring in the bedroom. The coldness clamped her more tightly. She winced, pulling away from Ken and clutching the edges of her shirt together.

  Rory, she thought, certain again that she heard him. He mustn’t find us, he mustn’t see this, I mustn’t do this—

  She bit her lip hard and kept her eyes squeezed shut. She fumbled to refasten her bra. As she did, her shirt fell open, and Ken leaned and began to kiss her breasts again, his hands taut on either side of her bare waist.

  “Oh, please,” she begged, still struggling to fasten her bra. “I don’t know how to do this. I’m hopeless.”

  His mouth moved down her torso, to the smoothness of her stomach. He kissed her long and lingeringly, just above the navel. Nora felt almost faint, fear and desire mingling with nearly equal strength.

  But once again she heard a noise, and it galvanized her into escaping Ken’s touch. I don’t want this, I don’t want this. The words ran through her mind, an echo of the fearful old times with Gordon. Yes, that was precisely what she’d always thought in Gordon’s rough embrace: I don’t want this.

  She jerked away from him and began to button her blouse. She hurried to tuck it in and to smooth her hair. She refused to meet his eyes. She could hear his breathing. Like hers, it was shallow and rapid.

  “Nora, I’m sorry,” he said, his voice gruff. “I promised I wouldn’t—”

  “Mom?” A sleepy voice called her from the bedroom. “Mom? I had a dream.”

  She sprang to her feet. Ken rose at the same moment, buttoning his half-opened shirt. He reached for her hand. “Nora—”

  She eluded him and sped toward the bedroom, her face burning. Her lips still stung from his kisses; her whole body tingled. But she struggled to put on a natural face for Rory, to act as if all was normal.

  “Hi, sweetie,” she said briskly as she came into the room. She didn’t turn on the lamp. Enough light from the hall fell into the room for her to make her way to him.

  “You fell asleep,” she said in a chirpy voice she immediately hated herself for using. “It’s time we went home. Get up.”

  She felt Ken’s tall figure looming behind her. His shadow joined hers on the wall.

  “I’m tired, and I had a bad dream,” Rory said, cranky. He rubbed his eyes and squinted unhappily at the hall light. “Carry me.”

  He was too big to be carried, but Nora felt too guilty to argue. She sighed and bent to lift him.

  “He’s heavy,” Ken murmured. “Let me.” He scooped Rory up and held him, the boy’s head resting sleepily on his shoulder.

  Nora looked at the two of them in the shadows, the tall, rangy blond man, the dark-haired little boy. An odd wrenching feeling tore at her within for reasons she didn’t understand.

  “You shouldn’t,” she said to Ken. “You’ll spoil him—”

  Then she clamped her mouth shut, because she was being illogical. She had been about to carry Rory herself. She bent and picked up his shoes. Then once more she found herself staring at the man and the child. Rory’s head lolled against Ken’s shoulder, his eyes already fluttering closed again.

  “It’s all right,” Ken said. “Everything’s different. That’s all.” He reached and took her by her free hand, lacing his fingers through hers.

  They stepped into the hall. He looked down at her. “It’s all right,” he repeated.

  He seemed waiting for some kind of signal, some kind of sign from her. She looked away, unwilling to meet his eyes.

  She resisted the desire to squeeze his hand, even shyly, just once. She was afraid of failing him, of failing herself. She needed time, she told herself. But what if even time wasn’t enough? What then? Ken wanted a warm and loving woman, not a frigid one. Oh, she didn’t know what to think. She didn’t want him to know how confused she felt.

  “We’d better go,” she said, her voice clipped and cool. “It’s after midnight.”

  IT WAS JUST after midnight. Billie Jo Dumont thrashed about in her bed, pounded her pillow into a more submissive shape, settled against it and tried once more to relax.

  She could not. She sighed in frustration.

  Bubba was supposed to spend as many evenings with her as possible. Ordinarily at this time, she would be playing elaborate kissy-face games with Bubba, telling him goodbye the way he liked. Tonight, she hadn’t even been able to tell him hello.

  When she got home, she’d found a message from him on her telephone answering machine. “Sweet thing,” he’d said, “you’re gonna have to do without me tonight. I’m not feelin’ so good. I got the heartburn something terrible. I’ll call you tomorrow, cupcake. Love-’ems, wuv-’ems, li’l woozle.”

  Billie Jo had replayed the message six times. She most definitely perceived something weird in Bubba’s tone. He didn’t sound at all like his usual bluff and hearty self.

  Maybe he was telling the truth, that he did have heartburn. He was prone to it, and that wife of his fed him way too much. Billie Jo kept her medicine cabinet full of bicarbonate of soda and Alka-Seltzer on his behalf.

  He did say he’d call her. And he did say “wuv-’ems” and did call her “woozle,” which was his most extra-special pet name for her.

  But out of the past f
ive nights, he had been with her precisely once. And Billie Jo couldn’t help but notice on that last night he’d been closemouthed about his long weekend. Everybody in town knew he’d made some sort of pass at Nora Jones, then had a scene with Gordon, but Bubba refused even to speak of it. He was upset with his wife and daughter, but he wouldn’t talk about that, either.

  Billie Jo rolled over, hugged her pillow and rested her chin on it. She stared into the darkness, her nerves alternately running hot and cold.

  The fear that kept coursing through her the strongest was always the same. What if Bubba was trying to get rid of her? What if he was dumping her? Was that why he’d been paying attention to Nora?

  Billie Jo had always been sweet as pie to Bubba, far sweeter than he deserved. She’d also let him be flagrantly open about their affair, because it seemed to give him pleasure. Why, she had let her reputation get absolutely tarnished on his account.

  What had happened? Had his wife and daughter double-teamed him and worked him over so badly that he wanted to give her up? After she’d practically stood on her head to please him?

  The thought both chilled and angered her. Billie Jo felt incomplete without a man; she needed someone to take care of her.

  Bubba had seemed such a good candidate. He obviously no longer desired his wife. He delighted in having someone young and warm and willing to make whoopee. Billie Jo put up with his multitude of flaws in the hopes that someday he would be honest, leave his wife and marry her instead.

  She’d never told Bubba of these hopes. She didn’t want to scare him off. She made as few demands on him as possible. This past weekend had been an exception. Couldn’t he have gotten away from his wife and daughter for just a few hours? Was it so much to ask? Billie Jo was so sick of being forgiving, she could explode.

  Oh, she thought, rocking her head back and forth on the pillow, something was wrong, wrong, wrong; she knew it.

  Bubba’s voice on the answering machine had sounded strained and weary. If she didn’t know better, she would have said he sounded frightened. Was he nervous because he was fixing to tell her goodbye?