Rough Rowdy Reckless (RRR #1)

by Kimball Lee

  “Have at it. I don’t know what he looks like, but I do like his voice. I’ll check the schedule and see where he’s playing,” Penn says leading us down a hallway past a den and two bedrooms, and into her dad’s former room. “Scarlet, listen to me, Gigi does make a valid point. I have this major premonition that you’re gonna try and overcompensate this week, but that’s alright. You need to get out of your rut, you’ve had two lousy lovers in your entire life, and you’re dying to throw off the whole Atlanta-Belle-Prom-Queen image. You want a sleazy lounge-singer or a break-all-the-rules, dirty-talkin’ truck-driver who can turn you every way but loose? Go for it, sister. Find the biggest, brawniest badass in Austin and I’ll get you a set of crutches if you can’t walk for three days afterward. Woohoo, I’m getting worked up thinking about hot and raunchy anonymous sex. Alrighty then, let’s do this!”

  *

  It’s a hot night and the humidity is so thick you could cut it with a knife, but that’s Texas weather for you, it might be snowing by morning. My body temperature runs a couple of degrees above normal and sweat prickles on my skin, my clothes are damp and clingy. I grab my bag, find the master-bath, and take a quick shower. When I’m done I gather my hair into a sleek ponytail and it looks good, dark chestnut-brown, the unruly waves tamed for the moment. To put it mildly, humidity and my hair don’t get along. Without the elastic hair-tie, it would hang halfway down my back and the sexy-tousled look I work so hard to achieve just might morph into a bad Janis Joplin do.

  “Hurry up, Scarlet, this isn’t a fashion show. All male eyes will be on you anyway, leave a few crumbs for us,” Penn says, dance-walking into the master bedroom and riffling through her dad’s closet. She plucks one of his white cotton button-down shirts off a hangar, slips it on, rolls the sleeves up to her elbows, ignores the buttons and ties it at her waist. You can clearly see her lacey black bra and she’s wearing a stretchy knit skirt that’s so short and tight I’m pretty sure it’s really a bandeau. “What, inappropriate? I thought this was a no-holds-barred, no regrets week.” She says as she stumbles into a pair of red cowboy boots that nearly reach her knees and then she elbows me from in front of the bathroom mirror and twists her nearly-white hair into two shoulder-length braids.

  Penn’s ancestors were Scandinavian and you don’t have to look at her twice to know it: She is cameo-pale, white-blonde, and her eyes define the color blue. She’s tiny, five-two or possibly five-three if she stands on the tips of her toes. She was a gymnast all through school and her lithe, compact body looks deceivingly fragile. The girl is tea-cup-sized but she will kick your ass in a beer-fueled wrestling match, and Gigi and I usually have the bruises to prove it.

  I lift my eyebrows at her braids as I pull on a short, white denim skirt that settles low on my hips, and say, “Are you planning on working a pole tonight in that outfit, hoping to make a little mad-money? I’m diggin’ the braids, just can’t decide if they’re a nod to vintage Britney Spears or if you’re planning to audition for Heidi Does Dallas.”

  “Shut up and get dressed, brat,” she says and looks thoroughly pleased, the repressed-rebel in Penelope Van Doorn loves to shock. “I’m thirsty, and a burger and fries would be nice, but only after I have a major beer buzz going. Here put this on, white shirt, white skirt, your mom would have a fit since nice Presbyterian girls from Atlanta….”

  “Never wear white before Easter or after Labor Day,” we say in unison and laugh-snort like hyenas as she tosses me one of her dad’s white V-neck T-shirts.

  “What’s so funny?” Gigi asks, twirling into the bedroom to show off her flimsy little peasant dress and strappy wedge sandals. “Oh I see, Scarlet’s going for Southern-Blasphemous-Tacky with her too-early-for-white outfit. Let me make it a little more presentable,” she says grabbing a pair of scissors from a drawer, cutting and then ripping the bottom half off the T-shirt.

  “Fabulous, now I’m tacky and slutty,” I say moving across the bedroom to check out my look in the floor length mirror. At five-ten I’m the tallest of our group, long-bodied, long-legged and curvy. The shirt barely covers my ribs and the waistband of the skirt sits a couple of inches below my naval. I slip into a pair of flat leather sandals and with my frat-girl ponytail the look should be demure, bordering on dull. But with my height, small waist, junk-in-the-trunk ass, and so damn much suntanned skin showing, it screams, “I’m hoping to get lucky tonight!”

  “No, no way. I’m not wearing this. There are hundreds, maybe thousands of horny men out there on the streets right now, I look like I’m asking for trouble,” I say and start to pull the T-shirt off.

  Gigi stops me, yanks the tie out of my ponytail, shakes my hair out and secures it loosely with a long red scarf. “That’s better, now you look like Snow White or Little Red Riding Hood, and damn straight you’re asking for trouble—the good kind, remember? Like a generously-endowed hot man between your legs, one who has what it takes and knows how to use it, unlike cigarette-dick Corey Bumfuck. You look gorgeous, like a girl from a fairytale, and isn’t that what this is, our fairytale getaway? Let your body do the talking, sister, and Miss Scarlet, it says ‘I’m ready to play’!”

  *

  We crowd into the elevator and a tall, handsome man in a grey suit and black cowboy boots locks the front door of the neighboring condo and steps in beside us.

  “Going down?” he says, he’s in his late twenties and his brown eyes glint with mischief as they sweep over every inch of our bodies.

  “Nowhere to do go but down,” I say and he laughs and nods in agreement.

  His suit is expertly tailored and whoever does his hair must charge an arm and a leg because it’s an achingly precise cut. He looks polished and rich and arrogant, and although I hate men’s cologne, his is subtle and he smells good.

  “You’re Gus’s girl, Penelope?” he asks, catching my eyes and holding them as the doors open and we step out into the early dusk.

  “That would be her,” I say, pointing a finger at Penn. “Are you running for office or just a newbie lawyer?”

  “You’re good, that’s pretty close. I’m Walker McCauley, and yes, I’m an attorney. My brother lives on the other side of the plastic wall,” he says in my direction but his sexual radar has zeroed-in on Penn.

  What is it with tall men going for the shortest girl in the bunch? Of course it doesn’t hurt that Penn is drop-dead gorgeous and exudes that ‘I don’t need you so go away’ attitude that attracts men like flies.

  We walk a couple of blocks along South Congress and it’s a madhouse. The crowd on the sidewalk is packed shoulder-to-shoulder and every imaginable form of human life is on display, talking, laughing, and shouting as if it’s the party of the century. Grey-haired hippies leftover from the Sixties, Hollywood-types dressed down in Dussault Apparel Thrashed Denim, leather-clad bikers, yuppie businessmen, suburban housewives with dogs peeking out of their purses, a bag lady in filthy pajamas. College kids, athletes, cowboys, cowgirls, gypsies, celebrities, the list goes on and on. The casual/cool vibe of the city pulses around us and as it sinks in we relax and release a collective sigh. We draw in deep breaths of air tinged with the sweet blooms of Confederate Jasmine and Texas Mountain Laurel.

  “McCauley? As in, the monstrously-big-ranch-McCauleys?” Penn asks and stops in front of the Hotel San Jose. She’s standing close to Walker McCauley, arms crossed defensively, head tilted back to study his face, waiting for his answer.

  “Yes ma’am, the Corazon Perdido. How about I buy you ladies your first drink in Austin?” he says and steers Penn across the street with one hand on her arm and the other held up to stop traffic.

  Gigi and I exchange questioning glances: WTF, Penelope is letting a man lead? And follow them into a dusky bar called The Continental Club. It truly looks like the worst kind of dive and Gigi catches my arm and drags me back inside when I try to leave.

  “How do you know it’s our first drink in Austin?” Gigi asks Walker after we plow through the tightly-packed patrons and he
motions for a couple of weather-beaten old men to move on and make room for us at the bar counter.

  “Gus told my brother to expect his daughter and her friends today, the condo was empty until you three showed up, and you don’t smell like beer and regret… yet. So, what’ll it be, beer, shots, cocktails?” He says and then he smiles and WOW! The term ‘killer smile’ suddenly makes sense and he has it down to a science.

  The lighting in the bar is dim, to say the least, and despite the ‘No Smoking’ ordinance, marijuana smoke hangs in the air. It isn’t surprising considering the crowd, most of them are young long-hairs with lots of tattoos and piercings, the rest seem to be leftovers from Woodstock. Everyone looks strung-out and dubious and there’s not a cowboy in sight. And then I see it— the one black cowboy hat that floats above a sea of dreadlocks and ponytails, and whoever’s wearing that hat is tall. Cowboy hats aren’t an oddity in Texas, although when I first moved from Atlanta for college I was surprised to see so many. I always thought it was an urban legend—Texas, Stetsons, boots. Nope, they’re fairly common and not so much on rough-and-ready cowboys, but on well-dressed rich boys like Walker-the-spanking-new-lawyer.

  I can’t see the face that goes with hat but, damn, I can see his shoulders. Wide, broad, expansive—those words hardly describe the set of biceps and shoulders I glimpse as he shifts at the end of the packed bar. I want to see his face and maybe it has to do with my need for size at this period in my life. Like Gigi and Penn said, it’s possible that I’m suffering from ‘small-Corey-syndrome’ and I’m not getting past it without a night of necessary roughness with a sizeable man. God! Freud would be jumping up and down, clapping and shouting— “See, I told you, size matters: All women want it big and hard, and good and dirty!”

  We order a second round of beers just as the raucous crowd begins hooting and hollering loud enough to damage our eardrums. The cause for all the excitement seems to be two men who climb onto a narrow stage and begin toying with guitars and amps.

  “No freaking way!” Penn yelps and she is way too excited. “Do you know who that is? Jimmy Vaughn on guitar and freakin’ Kid Rock at the mic! Jimmy Vaughn, do ya’ll understand how huge that is? Hello, is anyone here from Texas? He’s Stevie Ray Vaughn’s brother, for Christ’s sake.”

  “I read in a magazine that there’s a statue of Stevie Ray Vaughn that Austenite’s are inordinately proud of,” Gigi says, wiping the top beer bottle with a cocktail napkin before taking a drink and letting her Beverly Hill’s snobbishness show just a little.

  The music starts up and it’s deafening in the small space, Kid Rock looks like he’s high on meth or maybe he always thrashes his head like a spastic when he scream-sings, “I wanna be a cowwww-boy bayyyy-beeee!”

  “You want to meet Kid and Jimmy?” Walker asks.

  Penn nods vigorously and Gigi shrugs defiantly before she says, “Sure, fine, why not.”

  “How about you…?”

  “Scarlet,” I say, “O’Neal.”

  “Like from Atlanta? Scarlet O’Hara, Rhett Butler, fiddle-dee-dee, Tara and Twin Oaks?” he shouts over the din.

  “Yes, from Atlanta. No, not O’Hara. O’Neal, like I said. That joke gets old. Besides, it’s Twelve Oaks, not Twin Oaks, do the research. And Scarlet isn’t spelled like the damsel in distress, it’s spelled like the color,” I say, and sound a little more testy than I’d meant to.

  “I’m Gigi and there’s no reason to give you my last name, I’m not fucking you tonight and neither are my girls. Oh, don’t look so shocked it’s not personal, we’ve just sworn off ordinary men for the week,” Gigi says, getting right up in his face with her ‘Don’t fuck with me or mine’ attitude, she can be fierce, but in reality she’s a loveable wolf in sheep’s clothing. She knows I get sick of the Scarlett O’Hara reference, and she’s obviously been waiting to cut Walker McCauley off at the knees to take his ego down a notch or two. She finishes her beer and swipes her glossy lips with the back of her perfectly manicured hand. “So, do you really have the clout to introduce us to Kid Rock, or what?”

  “Yeah, for sure, come on. Ordinary men? I’m going to need an explanation for that later. You coming with us, Scarlet-like-the-color?” he says and scratches his head, ruffling his nice-neat hair which makes him seem less controlled and more likeable. His attention is now fully directed at Gigi, it’s like he’s really seeing her for the first time; that she’s a whole lot more than just a beautiful cookie-cutter-blonde-airhead. And judging from the suddenly off-balance look in those chocolate-brown eyes of his—Walker McCauley likes what he sees, a lot.

  I take a drink of my beer and shake my head. “Y’all go on, I supported Tommy Lee in the Kid Rock/Pamela Anderson affair, I should probably keep my distance,” I say and watch them leave.

  I turn away from the crowd and the stage, and order a shot although it’s a terrible idea since tequila and I don’t mix well. Their absence leaves an empty space at the bar counter and that’s when I see him. The jaw-dropping gorgeous face that goes with the hat and the shoulders. Holy freaking shit!

  He touches the brim of his hat with his thumb and index finger and nods in my direction. The gesture is so natural, polite and gallant, and causes a humming vibration south of my belly. He must be a mirage. I’m delusional, my subconscious is playing tricks and getting insanely creative, conjuring images in my brain of Mr. Right, because—no way he’s right here, right now, and he’s real and really, really right.

  I throw back the tequila shot hoping it will clear my head or at least my eyesight, but it’s strong and burns going down and I cough like a total light-weight. I’m sputtering into a bar napkin, my eyes are watering, and my face and neck are burning from embarrassment. Now I’m hoping that if cowboy-hat-man really IS that hot and huge and gorgeous, please don’t let him be watching me.

  But oh hell yeah—he is. He tilts his firm, square chin up and runs a hand across the dark swath of stubble shadowing his jaw. His eyes are large, dark and intense. I can’t make out their color but they crinkle at the edges when his wide, inviting, totally kissable-among-other-things mouth lifts at the corners into a smile that sends my heart somersaulting in my chest. It leaves me feeling as if I’m balancing on a high-wire without a net, and it feels fabulous and frightening and like just maybe—POSSIBLY—love at first sight is as real as he is. I Iove this crazy new feeling as it rips me open and lets light inside all the hidden places in my heart. Tender places that hold onto to the things that truly matter, like true love that changes you and lasts forever, places that I’ve never dared to let anyone discover.

  “Hey, you okay?” He says, taking a long, smooth step in my direction, and his voice is like dark molasses with a splash of whiskey poured over gravel, and… I can’t think straight AT ALL!

  “No. Yes. I’m….” I want to say something smart or at least just tell him the truth— I’m dreaming, disoriented, messed up by the sight of you, the sound of your voice. I want you to walk up to me, press that brick-wall-body into mine so I can smell your skin cuz I know it will push me past some silly ‘good-girl’ limit I’ve avoided all my life. You’ll whisper dirty little secrets against my ear, my neck, skin, mouth, you’re big fingers will slip inside my panties and I’ll crumble into a million glittery pieces. I want you to be my diversion for the night and if it goes the way I’m hoping, then I can get lost in you for the rest of the week. It would be really cool and hot, trust me, I just know, my body knows, I’m already wet and wanting you so, so much.

  “That was incredible! Kid Rock was the man, the other guy was kind of a dick. You missed out Scarlet, let’s do shots,” Penn says pressing up to the bar in a rush, wrapping her arms around me to reach for my refilled shot glass. Gigi is dancing with her arms raised above her head and bumping her hip into mine as she and Walker crowd around and block my perfect view.

  “You did miss out, Scarlet, but cheers anyway,” Walker says raising his glass as he hands me another shot and winks.

  “Whoa,” Penn says,
shivering as she throws back a shot. “Don’t look now Scarlet, but Khal Drogo is in this bar and he’s directed a scary scowl in your direction.”

  “Oh, yeah I see him,” Gigi says. “You’re an idiot Penn, he doesn’t look like Khal Drogo, are you that drunk already?”

  “Size, I’m referring to size, the man is huge, just what you’re looking for, Miss Scarlet, like a brick wall.” Penn laughs and hiccups. “Oh shit, that’s who he is! He’s The Wall. You know, he was a wide receiver for Green Bay. God, now I wanna meet him and have him autograph my shirt or my tits or something. He was fucking amazing at catching the football with those gargantuan hands. He didn’t play for long, after like, two years he just quit for no reason. This is wild, the Packers are my dad’s favorite team, Gus would give his left nut to meet this brute.”

  Walker turns to see who we’re talking about and does a half-wave at ‘perfect-cowboy-hat-man’ and says, “That’s Holt Corrigan, I grew up with him, his father’s our ranch manager. That big bastard got thirteen million for a two a year contract with Green Bay, not to mention a shit load of endorsements. Then he walked away from it all and now he builds hunting lodges and pool cabanas out of recycled barn wood. Must’ve taken a few too many knocks to the head on the football field. He’s okay though, decent guy. Hey Holt,” he shouts, “Come join us. How’s farm life, still living in a barn?”

  “Farm life’s fine, Walker, and it’s a grist mill, not a barn,” Holt Corrigan says absently, ignoring the others and suddenly he’s right there towering over me. He holds out his hand and I give him mine and we both stare down at them as if they belong to two strangers, which we are. My hand is far from small but it looks tiny as his long, thick fingers curl all around it. “Dance?” He asks, leaning down, his eyes narrowing as they bore into mine so intently that I couldn’t look away even if I wanted to, which I don’t.

  “I remember you,” Gigi says staring somewhere in the vicinity of his belt buckle. “You’re the underwear model. God, I’ll never forget that huge billboard on Sunset Boulevard with you in those black boxer-briefs, dude, what a package!”