RED
She kept moaning into my half-left ear. Like it was some kind of fetish for her. Guess it turned her on.
Her long brown hair was in my face as she was on top. Her palms on my chest, breath like fire. And she kept sighing into that same busted ear of mine.
Again. Louder.
Like she wanted the neighbors to know I hadn’t kicked her out yet.
“Oh, Red,” she gasped.
Yeah, that’s my name. Red. Or Red Herring, as folks call me in Dalmore, like my real name never mattered.
Sounds exactly like a bad joke. I’ve been the punchline most of my life, so it fits.
Big, redheaded, half-eared blacksmith, the only one in the Langston family who looks more like a Viking than a cowboy.
The lucky bastard who lost a chunk of his ear in an illegal duel.
She came fast. As always. A quick shake, a soft curse, then the full-body drop onto my chest like we were lovers. We weren’t. We were just sort of flatmates.
She stayed there, breathing into my collarbone like we had time. I counted five breaths before I rolled her off.
Goddamn killer body with good smell. And she made amazing pies, too. These were the reasons why I forgave her the fucking ear-moaning situations. And of course she had a good appetite, if you know what I mean.
She lit a cigarette from the nightstand without asking. Dropped back onto my chest like she owned the place. Which, technically, she kind of did. Half her crap was already here.
I was trying to remember why the hell I still let this happen.
She’s slept with most of Dalmore.
My brother included.
But somehow, I’m the idiot she leaves her toothbrush with.
There’s an old cowboy saying: one sex is always better than zero. So I guess that’s how Precious Knox kept screwing up my sheets more often than I’d admit at the bar.
I came downstairs before she even got in the shower. I wasn’t hungry. I just needed to stop thinking, and the stove was the first thing that didn't remind me of her skin or the sex.
Cracked some eggs. Dropped bacon in the pan. Hers needed one of those fake soy sausages. It burned fast, stuck to the pan, then popped open and sent hot grease shooting straight across the front of my white T-shirt.
I was still swearing and rubbing at the stain with a kitchen towel when she walked in. Fresh out of the shower, wrapped in nothing but a towel.
Then she pulled it off.
Didn’t ask. Didn’t say a word. Just started scrubbing at my shirt with it, still wet, still naked, pressing her whole damn body against me in the middle of my kitchen.
I didn’t move.
“I know what you’re doing,” I muttered, already half-hard just from the way she moved. But damn it, she couldn’t get what she wanted every time.
She looked up, then kissed me just below the jaw.
“I always crave you when you’re like this,” she whispered. “Pissed off. Messy. All hot and stubborn.”
I set her plate on the table. Eggs, the ruined soy thing, and a glass of orange juice.
“Soy,” I said. “But I cooked it in bacon fat.”
She laughed, pulling out a chair.
“If you hadn’t said sausage, I’d have guessed meatball.”
“If you don’t like it,” I said, sitting down across from her, “go hustle breakfast somewhere else.”
I opened the newspaper. Flipped past the bullshit. Found the page she always pretended not to care about, beauty, skincare, some Q&A about lip gloss, and slid it across the table without looking at her.
She took it. Didn’t say thanks.
I didn’t expect her to.
We ate in silence.
She, naked. I, grease-stained and tired of pretending this was normal. It was just breakfast. That’s what I kept telling myself.
Steam curled from her mug. Her back arched slightly, on purpose, obviously, so every inch of her looked framed by the glow of the stove fire behind her. The towel was gone, tossed over the chair.
Then came the knock.
I didn’t move at first. Just watched her.
She didn’t blink.
Another knock.
I pushed back the chair and stood.
“You might wanna put something on,” I muttered.
“What, you don’t like the view?” she said, stretching like she had diamonds on instead of nothing. “Most men worship my body.”
I was halfway to the door.
“Yeah. Right. Most of Dalmore already has.”
She just flipped the page.
I opened the door.
Cash stood there.
Flannel shirt, tired eyes, that same guilt-worn face he always wore when he was about to ask for a favor.
“Hey,” he said. “Is this a bad time?”
“Always is.”
He cleared his throat. “I need to head into the capital. Government thing. Long story. But Willa’s bringing the pony over. Her little one’s hoof is a mess. You could take a look?”
“Sure.”
“You know Willa, right?” Cash went on, as if she wasn’s burned into my brain. “Medium height, blonde, prettiest woman in the...”
Behind me, Precious called out, voice syrup-sweet:
“Who’s that, Red?”
She knew damn well who.
I stepped back and pulled the door open wider.
Cash choked on his breath.
Precious just smiled, completely naked, legs crossed, one hand on the mug, one flipping another page like this was normal.
“I... sorry, I didn’t mean to...”
“Want some coffee?”, said Precious, flashing a grin.
I shrugged.
“Yeah, come on in. We’re just having breakfast.”
He didn’t move.
I didn’t blame him. Not every day your ex-hookup sits stark naked across your brother’s kitchen table and offers you caffeine.
Cash took a step back. Nearly tripped over his own boots.
“I’ll just... Willa will come by... this afternoon... ”
“Sure,” I said.
He was already backing down the porch steps, hat clutched in both hands now, face the color of a dried tomato.
I closed the door. Leaned against it.
Behind me, Precious was laughing. Quiet at first, then louder, until she had to set her coffee down so she wouldn’t spill it.
“You’re a menace,” I said.
“Your brother’s adorable when he’s flustered,” she said, wiping her eyes.
I walked back to the table. Sat down. Picked up my fork.
“Willa’s coming by this afternoon,” I said.
“I heard.”
“Prettiest woman in the territory, apparently.”
Precious turned another page of the newspaper.
Didn’t look up.
“Apparently,” she said.
Hell of a Monday.