A Wild Red Rose

by Lynn Shurr

  Clint stayed long enough to watch Gracie ride a real horse around the barrels in the cloverleaf pattern. The pace wasn’t as swift or the corners as sharp as regular rodeo, but she made good time and held on to the lead throughout the competition. Renee cheered, jumping up and down, only mildly aware of the men who watched her breasts bob. She gave Gracie the biggest hug of all.

  Clint went off to gear up for his bullfighting demonstration. Someone had hauled an old red-skinned, white-faced beef breeder of a bull to the event, and Clint’s biggest problem seemed to be getting the animal to do anything at all. He jumped it frontwards and sideways and finally backwards, ending up in the animal’s face, startling the beast enough to make it snort and paw. Clint darted away, waving the red handkerchief, and the arthritic bull lumbered after him, then paused to bunch up and drop a heap of steaming turds on the ground. The children giggled.

  Clint shrugged and pretended to turn his back on the pathetic hamburger stud. The animal took the hint and charged. Clint heard him coming, dodged, and escaped easily to the safety of the rails. The crowd roared. He noticed Renee put her hand over her heart, flutter her fingers, and smile down on him.

  The awards were given out with Gracie getting her first place in barrel racing. Gradually, the crowd dispersed. Loaded pickup trucks and horse trailers moved out in clouds of dust. When the dust settled, those that remained, mostly the old clowns, started a small blaze in a metal fire pit near The Tin Can and sat around eating leftover barbecued hamburgers and telling tales of their glory days in and out of the ring—their famous acts and the time one of them rode a goat through a department store when he’d had one too many. They passed a brown bottle. The stories grew more outrageous and further from the truth each time it made a round.

  Renee listened as the stars came out in the pure black of the night sky. She and Clint sat in two bent aluminum chairs taken from the trailer and set up nearby under the striped awning with a gaping hole in the center that pulled out from the side of The Tin Can. They passed a single beer back and forth. As the group broke up to return to motorhomes or nearby motels, all of them better accommodations than The Tin Can, most of the clowns paused to say a goodnight to Clint.

  One clown ogled Renee. “Little lady, if this guy disappoints, you can count on me. I may not satisfy, but I’ll always leave you laughing.”

  “Yeah, in my day, we didn’t suit up in all that body armor he’s got. You want a real man, give me a call,” an elderly, bald trouper said, flexing a flabby muscle—or trying to. “Don’t know how you got Snuffy to let you have the Belly Nelle, but you be good to her. She’s a great old gal.” He made his exit into the dark.

  “Clint, you said the Nelle was a gift from your dad when you were just a pup.”

  “I lied.” At least, he could tell the truth about that. “I totaled my rig swervin’ to avoid a pronghorn, and Snuffy loaned her to me. The trailer, too. Didn’t want you to think I’m a bad driver, or you might not have come along.” And added another lie.

  “Just don’t do it again. I’ve been lied to by enough men in my life. For that, you only get a cuddle tonight. Besides, those children really wore me out.”

  “Yeah, kids can do that. A cuddle it is.”

  “You aren’t going to try to talk me into anything else?”

  “Nope. Let’s go to bed. And sleep.”

  The idea was so novel to Renee when in bed with a man, she couldn’t seem to close her eyes, even when she had one leg thrown over Clint’s warm thigh and her head nestled against his chest. She listened to the steady thump of his heart and thought back over the day. She’d never given or received so many hugs.

  “I’m not a person who hugs,” she announced to a half-asleep Clint.

  “Well, you were today. Good job.”

  “I think one of the boys groped me.”

  “I’d grope you, too, if you were hugging me.”

  “You are, sort of.”

  Clint reached a hand down and squeezed her behind. “Grope, grope.”

  “Stop that. I mean hugging and cuddling is not something I do normally. I don’t like to be touched unless I’m in control of the situation. When I have sex, I can control men. That’s what my analyst said.”

  “Okay,” Clint answered, afraid to go forward. “Guess you weren’t hugged enough as a child.”

  “I was, way too much. Later after I went to Paris with my Uncle Dewey, I didn’t want to be touched anymore.”

  Clint didn’t want to ask, but he had to. “He abused you?”

  “He didn’t make it seem that way. He said in France, an uncle was supposed to train a niece in the ways of the world. He meant sex. He bought me sophisticated clothes, changed my hairstyle, made me a woman, he said.”

  “How old were you?”

  “Twelve.”

  “Jesus H. Christ! Why didn’t you tell your parents?” Wide awake now, Clint held the woman in his arms a little tighter.

  “He said he’d tell my father everything. That I’d given him blow jobs and all the positions we used. I loved my dad. I couldn’t face his knowing. I think my mom knew. I think he might have abused her, too, when she was a teenager, but she never said anything or tried to stop him. Today, Ruth Ann said parents are supposed to protect their children. Some don’t.”

  Clint felt the dampness on his chest, his sweat or her tears, he couldn’t be sure because her story gave him the chills. Her eyelashes fluttered against his skin like a butterfly caught in a net, but she did not cry aloud. “How long did this go on, sweetheart?”

  “Until I turned eighteen and moved away to college. He was married, had a daughter younger than me. His wife left him when my cousin turned twelve—and I think I know why—so he came over more often, on all the holidays. He tried to take my younger sister to Paris, too, but I insisted he take me instead. That’s the one thing I’ve done right in my whole life, Clint. I saved Cathy from Uncle Dewey.”

  “There must have been other good things.”

  “No. Mostly I’ve made trouble for men, used them for what Uncle Dewey did to me. Ask Bodey or my cousin, Rusty.”

  “They know about Uncle Dewey?”

  “No. Just that I’m bad, bad to the bone.”

  “I don’t think that, Tiger.”

  “Well, you’re wrong. Wait and see.”

  Renee turned over, pushed his arm away when he tried to cuddle her again, and bunched her knees up under her chest. She stayed frozen in that position until certain Clint had drifted off and disturbed, he took a long time to doze. He left a little space between them because Renee insisted on it. When she heard his breathing fall into a strong, steady rhythm, she reached down to where her leather satchel leaned against the bed and took out the toy tiger. Tucking it under her pillow like a talisman to ward off evil, she finally rested.

  Chapter Six

  As if to prove her words, Renee turned sullen and demanding over the next few days. Her attitude made the long drive to southern Arizona through the high country—with its ponderosa pines, down to the lower elevations of the pinon forests, around impressive red rock formations, and across the cactus-studded desert—seem even farther.

  She complained about his using the bacon grease in the eggs and would accept only toast, left half her food on her plate if they ate in a restaurant, and told the waitress she didn’t want a box. Rough and without tenderness, sex happened every night because Renee claimed she wanted it exactly that way. The aggressor, the initiator, she took him to the floor and clawed his chest bloody. Like being in the bullring without any defensive armor, he dodged and feinted until he dominated, and she purred under him like a great cat when he rammed himself inside her body. They both gained satisfaction big time. The trouble being, Clint thought, he had set out to tame her, and now he wanted to help her. She didn’t want or need his help or his pity and seemed intent on proving that. He’d only made Renee Hayes worse, not better.

  They arrived in Glendale, right outside of Phoenix, for a Professional Bu
ll Rider’s event called the Cheeseburger IslandStyle Restaurants Invitational held at the Jobing.com Arena. The big, comfortable venue kept the searing, dry heat of an Arizona summer outside and gave the riders the best of accommodations within, along with some top prize money.

  “Cheeseburgers,” sneered Renee. “I guess that’s what happens to these bulls when they are all used up.”

  “Hardly, babe,” Clint said refusing to snap back. “This is top rough stock. When they finish their bucking career, most of them will go on to be studs making more tough bulls for the rodeo.”

  “And what about bull bait like you? What happens when you can’t outrun the bulls anymore?”

  “Some of us raise cattle, some breed rough stock, some go back to the family business. We get by.”

  “But you don’t get rich like the riders do.”

  “Not generally. And speaking about being bull bait, I’d appreciate if you wouldn’t come on to my friends.” He’d introduced her to the other bullfighters and some of the riders. She’d flirted with them all, and a few had flirted back. Most gave her a wide berth. She was Clint Beck’s girl, and she had the potential to be more trouble than the next bull they had to take on.

  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.”