Romance: The College Bad Boy: A Young Adult Romance

by Veronica Cross

  “So you are alone?” Beryl grunted.

  “Alone.” Alma nodded. “Just like so many lost souls in the great Mojave.”

  “Oh, you’re a poet, are you?”

  Alma smiled. “I am merely trying to befriend the owner of Calico’s finest hotel.”

  As Alma said this, a half-dressed woman stumbled from a nearby door, followed by two men. The half-dressed woman kissed one of the men fully on the mouth whilst the other explored under what little clothing she wore with a meaty hand. Alma pretended not to notice. This seemed to impress Beryl. She smiled as though to say: “Ah, so you’re not a fussy one.”

  “I’ve got spare room,” Beryl said. “It’s nasty, but it’s cheap.”

  “Cheap and nasty have never been a problem for me. And you have a place to stable my horse?”

  Beryl nodded. “We can take care of that, too.”

  “Very good.”

  Alma encountered two more whores as she climbed the stairs to her bedroom. One said nothing, only looked at the ground in a vain attempt to hide the blooming bruises that painted her eyes. The other – a toothless crone, her prime a tiny dot somewhere in the vague past – grinned a gummy grin. “New competition, eh?”

  Alma found she had had enough of playacting. She looked up and down the hallway. When she saw that she and the crone were alone, she approached the woman so she stood over her, looking down at her. “I hate you, ma’am,” she said, “for no other reason than you amuse yourself with saying unintelligent and cruel things to a woman whom you have never met. I just thought you should know that.”

  She turned on her heels and walked toward her door. Behind her, the woman grumbled something, but Alma ignored her. Her spirit was restored; she had allowed her mask to slip for a moment. One must indulge one’s true nature every so often lest one go insane, she thought.

  Chapter 2

  Alma woke to a knock at her door. She rolled over and buried her head in the paper-thin pillow (as much as one could bury one’s head in something paper-thin) but the knock came again. “What!” she called.

  “Excuse me, miss,” a voice replied. “I have a tray of breakfast, miss. If you do not want it now . . .”

  “I’ll take it,” she said, leaning up and rubbing her head, her arms, her legs. Everything ached, but everything always ached when she slept in places like this. “Come on!” she snapped, when the door did not open.

  The man who entered was tall, muscular, and black-skinned. His skin was so black it was like the night’s sky. He wore a shirt which seemed molded to his body, showing his muscular chest, biceps and triceps. His neck was thick with muscle. His legs showed their muscle through his britches. His eyes were a brown so dark they, too, were black. His hair was jet-black. Alma gulped. He was a handsome man. She so rarely met handsome men.

  “You can bring it here,” she said, extending her bare arms. She wore only her nightclothes.

  The man stared steadfastly at the ground, as though that would change the fact that a man whose father may well have been a slave was in a half-dressed white woman’s bedroom. “It’s okay,” she said, once she’d taken the tray. “You needn’t look so frightened. I’m not going to hurt you. A big man like you frightened of a rake-thin woman like me!”

  The man’s lower lip trembled. “Ma’am,” he muttered, and then made to leave the room.

  “Wait,” Alma said. “Sit with me, if you will.”

  It was a request, but it did not have the tone of a request. The man pulled the one chair – a wooden, creaky thing – across the floorboards to the side of the bed. He still gazed down. Alma started on her food, a simple meal of bread and water with a side of some kind of miscellaneous meat. “What’s your name?” she said.

  “Solomon Crawford, miss,” he said, still gazing down. The floor, it seemed, was far more interesting than Alma.

  “I am Alma Abrams. I have been called a whore, a thief, a liar, a killer, a seducer. I am yet to deny any of those titles. So, Solomon Crawford, how does it feel to sit in the presence of a whore, a thief, a liar, a killer, and a seducer?”

  “I do not know, miss,” he said.

  “I am bantering with you,” Alma laughed. “You needn’t look so frightened. I am not a dragon, in truth.”

  As Alma ate, she studied the curve of the man’s neck. The way his neck muscles connected to his shoulder muscles fascinated her. It was all sinew, tight skin and bulging muscle. It was like a mountain range, peaking and dipping. She could have stared at those muscles all morning.

  Then Beryl tumbled into the room. “Solomon!” she growled. “Up and out with you! I don’t pay you to bother lady folk!”

  For a big man, Solomon moved remarkably fast. He was gone, out of the door, in a flash. Beryl stood in the doorway, watching Alma. “That was a strange scene,” she commented after a silence.

  Alma finished her food and placed her tray on the bedside table. “Was it?” she asked, a note of innocence in her voice. “I merely wanted to converse as I ate. I do not think there is anything strange about that.”

  “A negro and a woman with skin whiter than snow, sitting alone—and her half-dressed for all that. You don’t see anything strange with that?”

  “Perhaps our concepts of strange differ marginally, my good woman.”

  “Hmph!” Beryl exclaimed, gesticulating wildly. Then she let her shoulders sag. “Whatever the case may be, I have a message from Wallace Saville.”

  Alma knew who Wallace Saville was. He was the son of Abraham Saville, one of the owners of the Silver King Mining Corporation. But it would not be prudent to let this great barrel of a woman know that she had done her research before arriving, so she waited as though ignorant.

  Beryl went on: “He’s the son of the owner of the . . . But why he would want to meet with you, I’ve no idea. He did not ask for you by name, you should know. He asked for a meeting with the ‘attractive woman on horseback’.” Beryl swallowed after these words, as though they left a nasty taste in her mouth. “You’ll find him in the two-story building with Silver King above the door. Best not to keep him waiting.”

  “Thank you, my beautiful, darling, glorious woman!” Alma laughed as she sprung out of bed.

  Beryl tried to hide the effect these words had on her, but it was clear she was pleased. That was, after all, one of Alma’s most important talents: pleasing people. If you can please somebody, they will do anything for you.

  She was counting on that.

  Chapter 3

  She was led into a well-furnished office which was dominated by an arrogant desk, the kind of desk arrogant men sat behind when they wanted to tell the world just how important – nay, arrogant – they were. The man who sat behind the desk certainly had an arrogant aura about him. Despite the blazing heat of the Mojave in June, he wore his suit buttoned so tightly it appeared to be suffocating him. His hat was pulled low over his head. He wore a thick brown beard. Sweat flecked his cheeks so that he looked like he was crying. He was thin and tall. His eyes, Alma saw, were green. She had always liked men with green eyes. It reminded her of nature. But a woman on a mission does not let something as foolish as eye color determine her course.

  “May I sit?” she said, and then sat before Wallace Saville had a chance to say yes or no. Her action had the desired effect. He flinched.

  “Of course,” he said, about five seconds too late.

  “May I inquire,” Alma went on, ignoring his half-open mouth, his half-formed words, “why, sir, you have summoned me? Are we acquaintances? I am extremely sorry if we have met, but I do not recall you.”

  “I think you would remember me if we met,” he said, a little forcefully, his self-image rocking too much for him to handle. Here was a man women remembered!

  “Would I?” Alma waved her hand casually. If you say so. “So we have not met, then?”

  “We have not,” Wallace Saville said.

  “Then . . . ?”

  “I heard from one of my employees that there was a wom
an in town who was not a whore, not the owner of a hotel or bar, and not a wife. I admit I am intrigued. I wish to know why you are here. It cannot be for the culture.”

  “I am addicted to heat,” Alma said. She wiped sweat from her forehead. “The heat sings to me. It is simply the most positively beautiful thing on this earth.”

  “You are being facetious,” he growled.

  “You’ve caught me, sir.” Alma held up her hands in a gesture of defeat.

  “I do not have time for foolishness. I am—”

  “I have heard about you, Mr. Saville. I have heard that your father refuses to give you the power you deserve, though you are the smarter, more industrious, more energetic man. I have heard that you occupy your days in idleness while your father oversees most everything! Ah, that seems extremely nonsensical to me, but what does a prestigious man like you care for the opinion of a lonesome widow?”

  Like a fisherman who feels the tug on the line, Alma knew she had something. Her line tugged on his features; his lips twisted upward, uncontrollably, into a smile. His eyebrows raised in the universal symbol of wanting to know more. His eyes widened in surprise and recognition. Yes, his expression said, finally, somebody sees me for what I really am. Somebody finally sees me!

  He cleared his throat and opened his mouth, but Alma charged on.

  “I do not see, Wallace – if you do not begrudge me using your Christian name – how a man like you is not an equal partner with Mr. DeBell and Mr. Gaston. How is it that your father, who should be resting and allowing his only son to take command of the business, has shunned you?”

  He twirled his beard and narrowed his eyes at her. “You are a perceptive woman,” he said. “If any other woman had spoken to me like that, her life in this town would be over. But you . . . I do not even know your name.” She gave it. “You, Miss Abrams, are a different breed of woman. I can see that. How can one so beautiful be so perceptive?”

  Alma glanced toward the door. He is not an ugly man. Nobody entered. They were alone. She rose from her chair and walked around the desk and stood beside Wallace. He looked up at her, his lips trembling. “Miss Abrams?” he said.

  She didn’t say anything. Slowly, she moved her hands to his shirt and unbuttoned the top of it, to allow access to his skin. She slid her hands under his shirt and grabbed his chest. He closed his eyes and let out a long sigh. “You need a woman like me,” she said, and moved her hands lower, lower, to his belly. “Don’t you need a woman like me, Wallace? You deserve a better position. You deserve more respect. You know you do. You just need somebody to help you.”

  She removed her hands from his torso and fell to her knees beside him. With a quick movement, she twisted his chair so he was facing her – she was far stronger than she looked – and moved her hands up and down his thighs. He gazed down at her with wide forest-green eyes. “Miss Abrams?” he said, his voice shaky.

  “Just relax, Wallace,” Alma said in her melodic voice.

  Oh, yes, I can melodic or sonorous or whatever I have to be!

  Her lips were aching, she had to admit, with that deep ache that came in the moments before sexual explosion. They ached so badly that she reached down with one hand and clamped it down on her sheath through her trousers. Her clit burnt as she rubbed. Wallace followed her arm with his eyes and when he saw what she was doing the front of his trousers went up as though with a tent-pole.

  “Pull them down,” she told him, looking up into his face, rubbing her lips, massaging her clit. The room seemed hotter, more intense, closer. She knew this was part of her mission but that no longer mattered so much. She wanted this.

  He did as she said. His cock sprung up. It was long, thick, and hard. She grabbed it with her free hand, grabbed it hard at the base, and then lowered her mouth onto its tip. She had complete control of this man, now. That was one of the benefits of being an attractive woman, was it not? Perhaps it should not have been that way, but Alma did not care for philosophical questions of that sort. She would use what weapons she had.

  She rubbed her slit harder, massaged her clit with her fingers, pressed down on it like a button—all the while sucking Wallace’s cock, pushing her mouth down deep, to his base, and then withdrawing and spitting over the length of it. He moaned loudly. She moaned with him. This was not a performance any longer. Her lust had risen. Like a dormant volcano, the pressure had mounted, and now came the unexpected release. She moaned louder, louder, muffled by his cock but loud all the same. The orgasm rocked over her, made her body gyrate. As if responding to her, Wallace spilled his seed. It filled her mouth; she swallowed, fell back, panted.

  They stayed like that for a few minutes, him with his trousers around his knees, her with her undergarment damp with her sensual release, her chest rising and falling. She smiled up at him. This was what she liked to think of as the Decisive Moment. Either this man would now see her as a whore – just another whore – or he would see her as something sensual and alien and worth learning about. There was not much one could do in the Decisive Moment but wait and look pretty. It was so horribly indecisive.

  He smiled. “Wow,” he said.

  Alma returned the smile and jumped to her feet. “I do not know what came over me,” she said, smoothing down her clothes. “I am positively astonished with my behavior. You, sir, have brought out the devil in me. Yes, I blame you utterly. You are a sorcerer of some sort.”

  “Me, ha!” He stood and pulled up his trousers. “You are the devil, madam!”

  “Perhaps so,” she conceded. She waited for a beat, locked eyes with him. She saw it; she had him. “Sir, if I may be so bold, I truly think your talents are not currently equal to your position. But I do not bring only problems. I believe I have a solution which you may find useful.” She did not wait for his response. Like a desperate soldier, she pushed on. “Hire me as your advisor. It would not be a well-paid position, but the joy of seeing you rise through the ranks would be pay enough.”

  She forced herself not to bite her lip, though her lip twitched. She could not let him see that she was nervous. No, sir, she was not nervous. She was completely in charge. She was a confident woman, a widow making the best of it. She stood straight, looked straight into his eyes, and waited.

  Now he bit his lip. “That is an interesting proposition,” he said. “And you would work directly under me? Not my father?”

  “Exactly,” Alma said. “You are your own man, are you not?”

  “Of course!” he broke out, with more violence than was necessary. That was good. Impassioned stallions were all the more loyal when tamed. He bit his lip again, and then – as though making a gut-wrenching decision – nodded quickly. “Yes, yes, return tomorrow at sunrise. Good day!”

  “Good day, Wallace,” she said.

  As she left the building, she ran into a man who must have been the senior Saville. He had a thick grey beard that reached down to his midriff and a shining egg-bald head. He grinned at her. Black holes flashed from between yellowed teeth. “And who might you be?”

  “An employee of your son’s, Mr. Saville,” Alma said, with all the grace and submissiveness of a servant. Play your part but change it when needed.

  “Oh, really?” he said, stroking his beard. “Ah, I see!” He winked at her. “He’s always liked a pretty face!”

  Alma kept a rictus smile of innocence on her lips, though bile rose and fell in her throat.

  “Very well, off with you.”

  Alma walked through the door into the morning air. The town wide awake, but emptier than it would be tonight. Most of its residents were at the silver mines. Alma returned to Beryl’s hotel, went to her room and retrieved a novel she had been reading recently. She retired to the bar where she took a table in the corner, sipping from a short glass of whisky and reading the crumpled pages. She had been reading for almost two hours when the old whore sidled up, her legs like those of a veteran sailor, walking with pain each step.

  “Hello, m’girl,” the whore said.
>
  Alma laid her book on the table facedown, pages splayed. “Yes?” she said.

  “My name is Elise.”

  “And why would I be interested in your name, Elise?”

  The crone licked her lips. Then she leaned in as a conspirator. Alma could not help but lean in with her. The woman’s breath was thick with whisky, but Alma could not judge on that front. Her head was already heavy with it. “I see things,” Elise said. “I may be old, but I’m cheap . . . and lots of folk think I’m pretty darned experienced. There’s one man in particular who has liked me an awful lot over the years. Avery DeBell. Wouldn’t say it in public, of course, an old wench like me. But he likes me a lot.”

  “How wonderful for you,” Alma said dryly. “I still fail to see how this is any of my business.”

  “I saw you going into their offices,” Elise said. She went on hurriedly: “Your business is your business. I have no say in that. All I’m doing is – eh – promoting myself a little. If you are ever in need of a whore with a quick tongue and open ears, I’m here.”

  Alma kept her face calm, but pushed her whisky glass across the table. “Finish that, if you like, Elise, and I will remember our conversation. If the need arises.”

  Elise nodded her thanks, drained the glass, and left the table.

  A potential ally, Alma thought, and then picked up her novel.

  Chapter 4

  “Look here, if my son wants to hire a . . .” Abraham Saville winked at the room in general, and then winked once more in Alma’s general direction. “. . . an advisor, then I think we should not begrudge the poor boy. Gentleman, honestly, just look at her. Can you blame him?”