baby, and I’ll bet his sperm are invincible , dammit! He knocks again, harder this time, rattles the doorknob, says we can talk to the pharmacist and get whatever’s necessary, don’t worry, and for the sake of his sanity please put on some panties and change out of that sexy fucking dress.
*
As soon as we turn onto the gravel road that leads to the converted grist mill that Holt calls home, he parks his truck and climbs out. He opens the door to the Jag and tells me to hop over into the passenger seat, we need to make a quick trip to Traeger Townsend’s place down the road, there’s some sort life-shattering emergency that requires Holt’s immediate attention.
“ Now ?” I ask, hating that I sound like a whiny little bitch, but the need to feel him inside me is CRITICAL!
His eyes narrow for a moment as if he’s considering—‘ Hmm, deal with Traeg’s supposed catastrophe or take Scarlet to bed and fuck her into next week’ —he curses Traeger and pulls back onto the highway.
That’s one of the extraordinary qualities I’ve discovered about Holt, his own needs are always secondary to those he cares about. He tries to do the right thing, whether it’s taking care of a sick horse or attending to a friend’s distress call. So he rips his eyes away from the silent plea in my eyes and speeds toward town. We pass through the heart of Tallulah, Texas, population twelve-hundred, and all but a dozen of the local souls work on or for the Corazon Perdido Ranch.
“One main street, blink and you’ll miss it,” He says and reaches out to free my ponytail so that my hair falls around my shoulders as he slows down and points out what he refers to as ‘the three major points of interest in a one-horse town’.
The town is old and quaint, turreted Victorian buildings anchor the north and south corners. There’s a Mexican food café called Lupe’s, ‘ Loo-pays ’ is how he pronounces the name, and he swears the enchiladas they serve are the best in Texas. Most of the storefronts are boarded up, thanks to the new Walmart twenty miles north. The two buildings still in use are the art-deco era movie theater with a gaudy, lighted marquis proclaiming it the ‘El Serape’. Holt laughs and squeezes my hand affectionately when I say the word, then he sounds it out for me—El sur-aww-pay—which means ‘the blanket’ and he says I’d do well to learn a few Spanish terms in this part of the country.
The most interesting is a store called Ranches and Rhinestones , owned by two girls Holt and the McCauley brothers grew up with. Its wide windows are filled with colorful, new-age ‘cowgirl couture’, embroidered-leather boots, contempo-cool cowboy hats, studded belts with rhinestone buckles, and ranch house furnishings with a decidedly artistic flair.
“I’ll introduce you to Bree and Martita on Monday,” he says as I gush over the display of new-age cowboy boots decorated with peace signs and pistols. “You’ll need a hat to protect that porcelain skin from the sun, and decent pair of boots, the kind they don’t sell at the mall in Atlanta.”
“Excuse me! I have great boots, they’re BedStu , designed in Los Angeles and handmade in Italy, thank you very much!”
“Yeah? Great as in— they look good on those million dollar legs of yours, or great as in— they can withstand a snakebite?”
“Oh… fine. New boots tomorrow,” I say and a chill runs through me at his serious tone.
A sheriff parked at the edge of town flashes his lights and siren and Holt waves, grins his boyish grin, and we continue on unhindered. The town is surrounded by small farms and one enormous ranch, it’s only thirty miles southeast of San Antonio, which happens to be one of the most beautiful and enchanting cities in the States. But the landscape here, in this place, is like a foreign country, barely more hospital than the veldts and savannahs of faraway Africa. No gloriously sprawling oaks, magnolias, or fragrant
*
As soon as we turn onto the gravel road that leads to the converted grist mill that Holt calls home, he parks his truck and climbs out. He opens the door to the Jag and tells me to hop over into the passenger seat, we need to make a quick trip to Traeger Townsend’s place down the road, there’s some sort life-shattering emergency that requires Holt’s immediate attention.
“ Now ?” I ask, hating that I sound like a whiny little bitch, but the need to feel him inside me is CRITICAL!
His eyes narrow for a moment as if he’s considering—‘ Hmm, deal with Traeg’s supposed catastrophe or take Scarlet to bed and fuck her into next week’ —he curses Traeger and pulls back onto the highway.
That’s one of the extraordinary qualities I’ve discovered about Holt, his own needs are always secondary to those he cares about. He tries to do the right thing, whether it’s taking care of a sick horse or attending to a friend’s distress call. So he rips his eyes away from the silent plea in my eyes and speeds toward town. We pass through the heart of Tallulah, Texas, population twelve-hundred, and all but a dozen of the local souls work on or for the Corazon Perdido Ranch.
“One main street, blink and you’ll miss it,” He says and reaches out to free my ponytail so that my hair falls around my shoulders as he slows down and points out what he refers to as ‘the three major points of interest in a one-horse town’.
The town is old and quaint, turreted Victorian buildings anchor the north and south corners. There’s a Mexican food café called Lupe’s, ‘ Loo-pays ’ is how he pronounces the name, and he swears the enchiladas they serve are the best in Texas. Most of the storefronts are boarded up, thanks to the new Walmart twenty miles north. The two buildings still in use are the art-deco era movie theater with a gaudy, lighted marquis proclaiming it the ‘El Serape’. Holt laughs and squeezes my hand affectionately when I say the word, then he sounds it out for me—El sur-aww-pay—which means ‘the blanket’ and he says I’d do well to learn a few Spanish terms in this part of the country.
The most interesting is a store called Ranches and Rhinestones , owned by two girls Holt and the McCauley brothers grew up with. Its wide windows are filled with colorful, new-age ‘cowgirl couture’, embroidered-leather boots, contempo-cool cowboy hats, studded belts with rhinestone buckles, and ranch house furnishings with a decidedly artistic flair.
“I’ll introduce you to Bree and Martita on Monday,” he says as I gush over the display of new-age cowboy boots decorated with peace signs and pistols. “You’ll need a hat to protect that porcelain skin from the sun, and decent pair of boots, the kind they don’t sell at the mall in Atlanta.”
“Excuse me! I have great boots, they’re BedStu , designed in Los Angeles and handmade in Italy, thank you very much!”
“Yeah? Great as in— they look good on those million dollar legs of yours, or great as in— they can withstand a snakebite?”
“Oh… fine. New boots tomorrow,” I say and a chill runs through me at his serious tone.
A sheriff parked at the edge of town flashes his lights and siren and Holt waves, grins his boyish grin, and we continue on unhindered. The town is surrounded by small farms and one enormous ranch, it’s only thirty miles southeast of San Antonio, which happens to be one of the most beautiful and enchanting cities in the States. But the landscape here, in this place, is like a foreign country, barely more hospital than the veldts and savannahs of faraway Africa. No gloriously sprawling oaks, magnolias, or fragrant
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