Read Rough (RRR #2) for Free Online Page B

the damn leak, I have better things to attend to,” Holt says impatiently after he licks a trail of salt from his hand, tosses back the shot, and bites into a wedge of lime. And that’s it, I’m done for, pulse racing, heart dancing a two-step in my chest, I want that tongue and those hands on ME.
    “Better things, yeah I can see that,” Traeger chuckles and raises his eyebrows, cuts a sideways glance in my direction as I fan myself with a cocktail napkin. “C’mon, it’s leaking into my office, like fucking ruining every document on my desk.”
    We follow him into his office and damn! He has this massive antique Biedermeier desk that’s not only rare, but classically cool. The entire house is a marvel of glass, wood, corrugated metal, and stone, it’s edgy, contemporary, and rustic all at once. Holt built it from the ground up with mostly recycled materials, and with his own calloused, skilled hands. I’m impressed and ready for sex, yet again.
    “How the hell you created a hand-crafted, award winning tequila, turned it into a world-class commodity, and you can’t tell the difference between a leaky roof and an overflowing bathtub is beyond me,” Holt says, and heads up the stone and metal staircase with Traeger assuring him, “The fucking roof is a nightmare, it’s defective, just look at my motherfucking desk, I gotta haul it to the dump, it’s trash!”
    “Uh, can you see the problem, limp-dick?” Holt asks, he’s standing over an enormous porcelain bathtub in Traeger’s bedroom and water is everywhere . The tub is big enough to hold at least six people and perched on the edge, barely wrapped in a monogrammed bath towel, is the red-haired veterinarian who came to Holt’s place when the horse was dying.
    “Oh shit, well fuck, we might have gotten kinda rowdy. Fuck, Randa! You could at least throw some towels on the floor, are you too good to clean up this mess? On top of being Dr. Feel-good you think you’re the queen of every-fucking-thing?” Traeger says, laughing as he pulls her up and against him trapping her lips in a steamy kiss.
    Holt shakes his head, mutters “degenerate moron” grabs my hand and drags me quickly out of the room, out of the house, into the car, and we’re outta there.
    “Is he really a moron?” I ask, well aware that Penn has had some sleepless nights since she left Traeger in Austin.
    “Traeg? Nah, he’s brilliant. His IQ is off the charts, he just thinks with the wrong head is all. Can’t blame him really, he’s a victim of fucked-up-fathering, guess it’s why he and I and the McCauley’s get along so well.”
    *
    “Hungry?” Holt asks once we’re at his house.
    Like Traeger’s place it’s a marvelous testament to Holt’s skill as a carpenter and builder, his unerring craftsmanship and unequalled imagination for finding usefulness and beauty in unique structures. It isn’t huge but it’s stately and impressive—a grist mill built in 1878 on a tributary of the San Antonio River. The walls are eighteen inch thick limestone blocks quarried nearby and hauled to the property on mule-drawn wagons. They were painstakingly stacked three stories high on top of huge foundation stones that are so heavy they were loaded on barges and floated down river to the site. Inside, on the main floor there are no interior walls, only well-worn posts and beams, and the most beautiful stone staircase that zigzags back and forth upon itself to the far reaches of the third floor attic.
    “Beauty, did you hear me? What would you like for supper?” He asks, and while I’ve been turning in slow circles, gazing in awe at this wonder he resurrected from a burnt out shell, he’s opened a bottle of cold Sauvignon Blanc, sliced a pear, and arranged cheese and a rounded loaf of sourdough bread on a dinner plate.
    “Hmmm, a jug of wine, a loaf of bread, and thou,” I say, and the blood rushes to my face, my neck, as his eyes glint greener-than-green and he walks slowly toward me,