Birches, Cowgirls & Angels

by Lizbeth Dusseau

  “You down on your luck, or something?” he asked as he drove toward her motel.

  “What makes you think that?” she asked.

  “Most women don’t drink a whole fifth alone unless they’re sinking nowhere fast.”

  “That’s a nice image,” she managed to realize. Her words seemed to run together, but perhaps she made sense. “I should use that for a song.”

  He smiled, something tender, but those sky-blue eyes bit like a pup, oddly putting her on edge. She looked into them again and shuddered for just an instant, but he reached out and gently took her hand in his and squeezed.

  “You have plans to screw me?” she asked.

  “Never with a drunk woman.”

  “Ah.” She was sinking fast now, happy for the lift, happier yet thinking of sleeping off the booze, and especially heartened by the thought of this man’s warm body lying next to hers. “Not with a drunk woman,” rattled around in her head. Yeah, she was drunk, really drunk and depressed and ready for that bottle of pills in her purse. She’d been contemplating them all night. Maybe he’d just lie next to me, she wondered to herself. No fucking, no screwing, damn! he had such a pair of arms under that flannel shirt. And his brown hair, graying at the temples, made him look fatherly and wise. And yeah, those eyes, those tricky eyes ….

  Brandy jerked awake when the truck stopped with a sudden lurch in front of the Squaw Creek Motel, its neon rose blinked erratically against the ink black night. There must be clouds overhead, no moon, no stars, just the seedy light from the sad little hostel that belonged to another century, about 1950 or so. There was even a yellow laminated dinette table in her kitchenette. When she first walked into the knotty-pine room, she thought the place might be quaint, but it certainly hadn’t helped her depression taking this step back in time.

  “Should I stay a while?” Naughton asked her.

  “Naw, I’m going to take my pills and let the night take care of everything.”

  “Pills?”

  “Yeah, you know, country blues singer dies of a broken heart and too much booze and drugs. Great headlines don’t you think?” She almost sounded serious.

  “We don’t have a paper in this town to report this, hon,” he replied. “Wouldn’t make much of a splash.” His expression was oddly more severe saying this, and that bite in his sky blues bit keenly, nipping her heart. “You going to off yourself, you gonna hafta do it someplace other than here.”

  “Oh, what are you, the law around these parts?” she mocked him with a Southern sounding drawl that was hardly natural—though she’d practiced it a hundred times. Throwing her guitar case on a chair, she started toward the bathroom.

  “No, I’m not the law, but any lady I rescue’s gonna stay alive all night. I’m not going to have your unseemly demise on my conscience.”

  She turned around and stared at him, for a second her eyes lighting in recognition of something, though they dimmed quickly. Maybe she would get him to stay in bed for the night, comfort her gently, even if he didn’t screw her.

  “So, how do you suppose you’ll keep me breathing, if I’m planning otherwise?”

  “You’ll let me have your drugs.”

  She could almost smirk sassily with that remark. “And if I refuse?” she asked.

  “I have a mean right hand and hard firm thighs, and if I have to spank your sweet little ass to make my point, I will.”

  “Oh, my,” she exclaimed in that same syrupy drawl. “You’re sounding like my daddy.”

  “Is that what you need, a daddy to whip your ass?”

  “And you are direct.” Her eyes opened widely, looking almost as though his implication was sobering her woozy frame of mind.

  “I always thought getting to the point was the easiest way not to be misunderstood.”

  “So, you’d spank Brandy Winger’s behind to bend her to your will?”

  “I’d spank any woman’s behind if they gave me cause.”

  Her smirk broadened. “You are the devil! I guess I’ll just stay alive to see what you’re like by the light of day.” Funny, she was getting more concern from a stranger than from anyone that knew her … but no, she couldn’t afford to think those thoughts now … not when she couldn’t kill herself. Damn him, taking away her options! “What’s your name,” she asked.

  “Naughton.”

  “Naughton,” she repeated. “Just Naughton?”

  “Just Naughton,” he answered.

  The name was as substantial as he was. “And you’d really tan my hide, huh?”

  “I’d really tan your hide,” he confirmed.

  It was the most thrilling proposition she’d had in a long time.

  “So, why don’t you hand over the pills, or whatever you plan to use.”

  “You really think I’m serious?”

  “I’m taking no chances in case you are,” he answered without a waver in his voice.

  “Well, isn’t that nice.” She was feeling sassy, no less depressed, but perhaps intrigued by a man that cared this much. She sashayed toward him, her gentle hips swaying naughtily. She had an ample derriere, particularly delightful to watch, if Naughton had been watching. At the moment though he was keeping his eyes focused on hers. He didn’t trust her. When she was just inches from him, looking up at him with a sunny sweet face, he looked down keeping his cool, even when she began to run her hands along his thighs. “I’m sobering up right nicely,” she purred to him honey-like, not losing the fake accent.

  “You don’t know me well enough to take me to bed, Brandy Winger,” he said, reaching for her two roving hands. With his hands holding hers firmly, he pushed her off and backed away.

  “Am I making a fool of myself?” she asked, for an instant looking very childlike.

  “You could be. Let’s just say you go to bed, and I’ll stay close while you sleep.”

  “Not in bed with me?”

  He shook his head, “No, not in bed.”

  “I’m still too drunk, aren’t I?” Her face was turning dark again, the shadow of depression lurking just a moment away. Her words were slurred.

  “You’re too sad, and too depressed and too tired for anything but sleep.” He was leading her toward the bed.

  “But I have to pee.”

  “Then pee,” he said, letting her go and she moved to the bathroom, grabbing for her purse on the way.

  Brandy took much too long in the bathroom for Naughton’s instincts. Making his way from the bed chair to the bath, he pushed open the door, reacting instantly to the sight of the singer with a fist full of pills in her hand. Pulling her back into the room, the pills spilled all over the bathroom floor. Then carrying the lusty package of hopelessness to the end of the motel bed, he pulled her over his lap, ass high, and began spanking her butt with the palm of his hand.

  “Ouch!” she roared. But she didn’t roar long.

  The smacks kept coming, and though she was flailing, it was only an angry protest to start. She felt the spanking through the seat of her jeans, warming not just her ass, but her whole attitude. Like he was waking up the life in her, she could feel her body come alive from her ass to everywhere. Some kind of passion burned in her that hadn’t burned for weeks. The feel of his firm thighs under her, the essence of granite holding her tightly, the sure and steady stroke of his punishing hand, filled her full of a new kind of woe that was wonderful in a weird sort of way. Yet, the longer he went on the more she started to feel the burning heat.

  “Oh, gawd, this hurts, please, you can stop …” she wailed.

  “Yeah, I can, but I’m not,” he answered her. Repeating the last few minutes, Naughton continued laying his hand on Brandy Winger’s behind. The longer he went on the harder he struck, despite the nasty sting in the palm of his hand. If he’d thought about it at first, he might have found her hairbrush and saved himself the pain, but he ignored the burn instead.

  With each smack, Brandy wiggled and gyrated more; with each, her bottom became more heated.

 
; “Please, Naughton, stop,” she wailed a half dozen times, though her protest was drowned out by the next sharp smack of his hand. The pelting rain went on for some minutes more, until he finally began to slow his pace.

  “So, does this give you something to think about, Ms. Winger?” he asked.

  “Yes, oh, yes!” she answered right off.

  “And you’re going to forget this ridiculous nonsense about ending your horrible life?”

  “Yes, yes,” she agreed readily.

  “And you’ll tell me what’s eating you, so maybe we can solve the problem?”

  “Yes, please!” she shouted. She’d say anything to get him to stop.

  Having ended his series of questions, Naughton stopped altogether, and pushed her off his lap. Standing in front of him like a just-punished child, there was a trace of a smirk on her amazingly expressive face. He hadn’t known when he’d seen so many sides of a woman in one night, from sultry country blues singer, to down and out drunk, to sassy vamp, to “my life’s not worth anything, I want to die” femme fatale. She was all those personalities wrapped in one warped and crazy package.

  “Is your life really as bad as you think?” he asked staring up at her.

  “Sometimes,” she replied.

  “Well, after you clean yourself up, then maybe you can tell me what’s so bad.”

  The two didn’t get into her long, sad story that night. By the time Brandy took a shower, and Naughton swished the pills down the toilet and she was lying on the bed with the terry towel wrapped around her damp hair, exhaustion and the remnants of the alcohol were having their effect.

  “I’m so sleepy,” she drawled without the affected Southern accent.

  “Then you just sleep,” he said.

  “Would you just come here a while,” she asked reaching out for him. “I mean just hold me?”

  He stared down at her, then sat beside her on the bed. With her head cradled in his lap, she fell asleep, quickly falling into a sound slumber that should last her until morning.

  When Brandy woke the next day, it was nearly noon. There was no sign of Naughton, and as she came to from her heavy-headed stupor, she wondered if the man had only been a dream. Her mind slowly coming into focus, she stared about the room for a few minutes, then realized she was hearing the sound of the shower in the back of her mind. Crawling gingerly from bed—she could feel her stomach revolting the instant her feet hit the carpet—she crept toward the bathroom and pushed open the door. Peering in, she watched Naughton’s firm tight ass moving behind the steamy shower stall. Her body instantly came alive with a sexual thrill that she hadn’t felt since … oh, well, she wouldn’t think about that, she decided, remembering the reason for her last night’s depression. This was another town, another man. As long as her heart allowed, she’d put that miserable rat aside, and bask in this fine specimen of manhood.

  “Hey!” she heard Naughton exclaim when he turned around.

  “Oops! I’m sorry, I thought you left.”

  She immediately closed the door, a smile breaking out on her face. If she was seeing right, he had a fine cock. But looking back toward the bed, she remembered that they hadn’t slept together. What a pity. Of course, there was that spanking. Just the memory of it made her bottom tingle again. She ran her hand along the smooth naked surface under her robe, but found nothing sore. He’d spanked her. He’d actually taken her over his knee and spanked her behind! She didn’t know whether to feel great about it, or ashamed for letting it happen.

  Hearing the sound of the shower dying off, she jumped back and took a chair on the opposite side of the room waiting for Naughton to appear. Once he did, he wore nothing but a towel around his hips, his chest hair was still wet. What a beautiful sight. She stared up at him with a smile on her face.

  “Ah, you’re finally awake,” he observed. “You look better this morning.”

  “I feel better.”

  “Not going to kill yourself anymore?”

  “That was the alcohol talking, I think,” she tried to explain.

  “Seemed pretty serious last night.”

  “Maybe I take my songs too seriously.”

  “Your depression has got to be more than songs.”

  She snickered coyly, feeling the ever present lump in her stomach. “It’s been a rough few months.”

  “Well, get dressed and I’ll buy you breakfast.”

  “Breakfast?” she said meekly. A wave of nausea hit her stomach just at the mention of food.

  “Plain toast and coffee, maybe?” he suggested seeing the queasy expression on her face.

  “Yeah, that would be fine.”

  ***

  “I think you need some counseling,” Naughton spoke to her plainly, once they were sitting in the restaurant with two steaming plates in front of them. His was filled with scrambled eggs and bacon, while she sufficed with his suggestion, plain toast. Just seeing his food was enough for her to handle.

  “Seems like getting spanked was counseling enough,” she said.

  “Oh, that made a difference?”

  “Yeah, a big one.”

  “Tell me.” He took a sip of coffee while he bit off a piece of bacon.

  “It shook me up that you’d do it. Can’t say you’re the first that’s threatened to, but you actually followed through. Anyway, like I said, this has been a rough few months. I’m on the rebound from this guy … was my manager. Let’s just say he took most of my money, and split with my heart and no gigs, so now I have to sing in these no-count bars for what they can scrape up to pay me.”

  “You didn’t get paid your usual?” Naughton asked.

  “Half, maybe, but then Jerry did all the negotiations, so I was never sure exactly what I was making. Then he took off to manage Liz Frampton, seems her career is a little brighter than mine.”

  “I’ll see you get what you’re worth while you’re working here,” Naughton informed her.

  “Oh? You gonna strong-arm the owner? You’d better watch out, they’re a stingy bunch.”

  “The Cowboy Grill is mine?”

  “You own it?” she asked, wide-eyed.

  “Yeah.”

  “Oops, I should have kept my mouth shut.”

  “Okay, with me, I don’t run the place, just enjoy the booze and the talent.”

  Brandy Winger smiled, a broad sincere one. Naughton was a really nice guy. “Thanks for considering me talented.”

  “You are talented, but a bit misdirected.”

  “That’s a good way to describe me, but I’m not used to being on my own.”

  “So, maybe there’s someone here in town that you can talk to,” he suggested. “There’s a woman with a small psychology practice right in the village.”

  “I’m talking to you, why do I need anyone else?”

  “I’m not trained with this stuff, and you need help.”

  She bristled enough so he could see, and his eyes narrowed in response. “Don’t you give me any guff, Brandy Winger, or I’ll pick up where I left off last night.”

  “You mean … spank me again?” she asked.

  “Yeah, spank you. Trust me, you only had a fraction of what I can dish out.”

  “And you’d be more than happy to show me more.”

  “You pull the crap like you did last night, I will.”

  Her smile was playful.

  Naughton was a cagey man. For all his kindness, he was so rock solid, it was hard to tell what he was thinking, or what his motives were.

  “Why are you so interested?”

  “Because I like your work. You’ve got style and talent and something to say. And you’re way too young, with too much future to be throwing yourself into a depression, or trying to kill yourself. That is, if you actually were going to do that. I don’t care how rotten the guy was, no man’s worth that kind of pain. Besides, I’ve hired you for three more nights, tonight and next weekend. The Grill has a huge party coming in for the show, and I want a sane and sober singer to thrill the
m, not a cheap floozy.”

  “Ooo, my, I guess I should be careful asking you questions.”

  “You only get the truth from me.”

  “I see.” He was one hell of a guy, but … “I’m not sure I’m ready for the truth.”

  “Well then, you can talk to a professional.”

  “Hey, wait a minute. Seems to me we’re doing fine. Just you and me.”

  “Just to be sure, Brandy.”

  “And if I refuse?”

  “You don’t want to refuse me.”

  “So, you’ll spank my ass again,” she said.

  He raised his eyebrows and let his stern expression speak for him.

  “Damn, you’re one hell of a stubborn guy.”

  All he did then was smile at her so warmly she thought her body would melt into the yellow vinyl seat of the booth. Few men had ever had her so baffled.

  Brandy went to his counselor—who did nothing but sit and listen to the same tale she told Naughton. The kind woman, with the thick glasses and the pad of paper in her hand, hardly even made a comment, just a few pointed remarks that went in one ear and out the other. But Brandy did return to the Cowboy Grill that evening feeling like a reborn woman ready to make music all night long.

  She only saw Naughton once as she was getting ready to go on stage. Then, he gave her a gentle hug and sent her on her way, looking pleased by her sunny emotional state. As long as the Band-Aid held, she’d be fine, even if she was still a little shaky under the surface. Singing, even the thought of it, was making her somewhat nervous. With so much past baggage associated with her work, it became a bittersweet pleasure that could easily end painfully. For Naughton and her own sanity, she decided that at least for this night she’d put on a smile and try to forget her problems.

  While she was on stage, Brandy did fine singing ballads she hadn’t sung in years. The crowd was in her pocket and at the back of the bar, there was Naughton with that warming smile on his face. As she continued through the first set, there were a lot of old songs coming back to her. Maybe that was because she was so clear-headed without the liquor. Feeling better than she had in some time, she was between sets, just getting ready to go on again, when there was a knock on the door.