Tex Appeal (3 page)

Before they got married and had a couple of kids.

While Dayne and his two younger brothers had turned out okay—the twins were now twenty-two and about to graduate from Texas A & M—they’d endured a hell of a lot of hurt in the process. Dayne wouldn’t do that to his own kids.

Not no, but
hell no.

A
HALF HOUR
later, Cheryl Anne found herself standing in the middle of room 24, the Skull Creek Inn equivalent of the presidential suite. Meaning, it had a king-size bed rather than a full and cable television.
And
—and this was the most important thing—a complete bathroom. While most of the rooms had a toilet and sink, none had an actual shower and tub.

The
Star
was obviously sparing no expense.

“If you want a wake-up call,” said the elderly woman who’d shown her to the room, “just call Eldin at the front desk and he’ll fix you up.”

Winona Atkins was seventy-plus with pursed lips and thick bifocals. She wore beige orthopedic shoes, knee-high panty hose, a red-and-orange flower-print dress and a head full of pink sponge rollers. A ring of keys dangled from one hand, while her other clutched a
TV Guide.

“There’s maid service every day around noon time,” the old woman added, “but not after two on account of I never miss
Dr. Phil
or
Oprah.
”

Cheryl glanced at her watch and instantly she knew why Winona looked so cranky.

“The ice machine is in the lobby,” Winona snapped, “and there’s a vending machine right next to it. We also offer one of them there free cont’nental breakfasts at 7:00 a.m. But you have to get there right when the hour strikes if you want blueberry muffins. Those are Eldin’s favorite and he likes ’em pipin’ hot from the bakery. But if you like bran, then you’re good to go until 9:00 a.m., on account of Eldin don’t need no bran since he takes his daily dose of Metamucil.”

Ugh. Way too much information. Cheryl forced a smile. “I’ll remember that.”

“There’s no pool,” Winona went on. “No mini-bar. No room service. And the TVs are on a timer that automatically turns off at midnight. Eldin needs his sleep and the slightest bit of noise keeps him up at night.” The old woman peered over her bifocals and nailed Cheryl Anne with a stare. “And no funny business. This is a respectable place and we don’t cotton to you celebrity types waltzing in at all hours, shaking things up with your wild parties and crazy antics.”

Cheryl Anne glanced over her shoulder. “Wait a second,” she eyed Winona. “Are you talking to
me?
”

“I don’t see that there
San Antonio Star
making a fuss over anyone else. Smacks of celebrity to me.”

But it wasn’t the celebrity comment that had sent a burst of happy through Cheryl. “You really think I’m going to throw a wild party or do something crazy?”

“Never know with you people. I read the
Texas Tattler
like ever’body else. I know what sort of debauchery goes on and I can tell you—” she wagged a crooked finger “—I ain’t puttin’ up with it here.” Winona gave the
SEXTOYS.COM
box a pointed stare. “I saw the flyers you were passing out earlier.” She shook her head and made a
tsk, tsk
sound. “It’s always the quiet ones you got to worry about. I can only imagine what your poor mother must be going through.”

“Actually, she’s not the least bit upset.” Only because she was so fixated on Dillon who was sending her to an early grave with his outrageous antics—
a motorcycle!
—that she had only a few
Lord, help me
’s left over for Cheryl Anne.

Of course, she hadn’t heard the round of gossip sure to result from her daughter’s first official sex class.

Cheryl Anne ignored a niggle of anxiety and focused on the fact that Winona aka the CEO of blabbermouths thought she was right up there with Britney Spears and Paris Hilton. A smile curved her lips.

Winona’s disapproving frown deepened. “A girl like you ought to be living at home with her parents. That’s the way things were in my day. You lived at home until Mr. Right came along and then you lived with him.”

“But I’m twenty-eight years old. It’s time I started living my own life.”

“Why, my Eldin still lives at home, smack dab in the same room he grew up in, and he’s a good fourteen years older than you, and he’s living his own life just fine.”

“Refresh my memory, Ms. Atkins, but Eldin’s never been married, has he?”

Winona bristled. “He’s picky is all.”

“And he doesn’t have any children, does he?”

“He’s only forty-two. There’s plenty of time for that.”

“And he doesn’t have a girlfriend either?”

“Not at the moment.”

“A boyfriend?”

Winona seemed to think before her mouth drew into a tight line. “Not that it’s any of your business, but he’s busy with the Inn. My daughter left him in charge of this place—with my supervision, of course—and he takes his responsibilities very seriously.”

Translation: Eldin’s parents had retired to Port Aransas and left him saddled with Winona and the family business.

“Eldin doesn’t have time to date,” Winona went on. “It’s a choice. It certainly has nothing to do with the fact that he can’t date on account of he’s still living at home and no self-respecting woman would waste her time on a man who lives with his grammy.” She pointed a bony finger at Cheryl Anne. “You just remember what I said and make sure you behave yourself. No loud music. No dancing around naked. And no men.”

“What about women?”

Her eyes narrowed behind the bifocals. “Don’t even think it—”

“It’s not what you think.” She turned and retrieved a pamphlet from her laptop bag. “It’s my new job. I had my first class scheduled tonight at my place, but since that’s off limits, I was hoping I might could do it here.” It wasn’t ideal, but it would be much better than cancelling. Particularly since she’d already spent the deposits to buy her supplies. She handed the colored flyer to Winona. “It’s very educational.”

“Humph,” the old woman snorted. She pursed her lips as her gaze scanned the advertisement. “Looks awful scandalous to me.”

“It’s actually very educational and healthy. It’s all about women taking the initiative and reviving their love lives.”

“Looks like a bunch of hanky-panky stuff to me.”

“Hanky-panky is a vital part of any relationship. But there’s also a class that deals with how to reconnect emotionally with your spouse. I talk about finding common hobbies and taking walks in the park—that sort of thing.”

Winona studied the information a few more seconds. “You’re not going to play loud music, are you?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Or dance around naked?”

“Actually, that
is
part of the course curriculum—the lesson entitled ‘Pole Dancing to Passion’—but it’s not on tonight’s agenda.”

“What about men?”

“It’s female only.”

“Humph.” The old woman studied the information and color fused her cheeks. A light suddenly glimmered in her watery blue gaze. “I guess there’d be nothing wrong with it so long as you have everybody out of here by nine o’clock,” she finally said. She folded the brochure and stuffed it into her pocket. “I’ll have to sit in myself just to make sure there’s no funny business going on. Not that I want to, mind you. I’m a good Christian woman and I certainly don’t approve of the way you youngsters treat the sacred union between a man and woman like it’s some new card game that that you gotta learn. Why, in my day there were only two things a woman needed to know before she did the deed. One, count to fifty and that’ll pass the time quick. And two, act like you like it, which was hard to do when you barely made it past ten on the counting part.”

She did
not
want to hear this. “Um, aren’t you missing
Dr. Phil?
”

“It’s a rerun.” Winona waved a hand. “Not that my Harold, God rest his soul, was quick on the trigger. He was just anxious, was all. I
was
a handful back in the day.” She snorted and glanced at the brochure again. “I’ll be sitting in free of charge, of course. On account of I’m serving as a chaperone. It’s not like I need to learn anything.”

“Definitely.”

“I guess I’d better light a fire under Eldin and send him to fetch the card table and some chairs. What about snacks? You got snacks? Because all that talk about hanky-panky is sure to make everyone hungry.”

“I had snacks, but I got booted out of my place so fast that I barely had time to pack a bag, much less grab anything.” She glanced around for a clock. “Maybe I can still make it to the Piggly Wiggly.”

“They closed ages ago.” Winona seemed to think. “It makes no nevermind. I’ve got Cheez Whiz and crackers in the office. I think I’ve even got a summer sausage left over from the Christmas party. It ain’t Emeril, but it’ll do in a pinch.” She winked and disappeared, her
TV Guide
all but forgotten.

Cheryl Anne walked over to the small table with her computer bag and pulled out her laptop. She spent the next half hour calling students—all of whom already knew about the sensual home makeover—and giving them the new location.

“…at the Skull Creek Inn at seven o’clock.”

“Will do,” Geneva Peterson said. “Room 24, right?”

“How did you—” The words stumbled to a halt. Winona. Blabbermouths. Duh.

“Skull Creek Inn,” Tara Gilbert said the moment Cheryl dialed the next number. “Tonight. Seven o’clock. And congratulations on the makeover.” Winona strikes again.

And again.

And again.

By the time she finished the list, Eldin had delivered a card table and three stacks of folding chairs. Cheryl spent the next half hour setting up the room and unpacking her Pleasure Chest.

Her hands stalled when she turned to the
SEXTOYS.COM
box and her thoughts went to Dayne. Her nipples pebbled and she felt the sudden wetness between her legs.

Over,
she reminded herself.

No more blah. It was all about revving things up.

The notion stirred a very vivid memory of a hormone-driven teen desperate to do something wild and crazy for once in her life. She’d peeled off her clothes, gone skinny-dipping for the first time and lost her virginity, all in the same night. With Dayne. And it had been phenomenal.

Then.

But things had changed.

He’d changed.

Back then, Dayne Branson had been everything she hadn’t been—popular, attractive, sexy. He’d been the baddest, sexiest, most sought-after boy in town. She’d fallen for him the first time she’d seen him climb into the rodeo arena. Not that she’d actually seen him rope a calf that night. Her mother and father had been annoyed with all the dust and so they’d left early. But she’d imagined his strong hands wrestling with the calf, his powerful arms bulging as he slipped the rope around the animal’s legs. His smile of triumph as he raised a hand in the air and took first place.

And on the night of her eighteenth birthday, she’d snuck out of her room and breathed life into her fantasy.

She’d watched him take first place in the county rodeo finals, and then she’d invited him out to the creek, where she peeled off her clothes. They’d gone skinny-dipping—she’d waded out into the water while he’d done a running leap off the dock with an overhanging rope. She’d meant to use the rope, too, but at the last minute she’d chickened out. Old habits were hard to break, after all, and she’d been playing it safe far too long to test fate that much. But then he’d swam over and she’d taken a chance and kissed him.

He’d taken the lead then, and what had followed had been even better than any fantasy. She could still feel the wild pump of her heart, her pulse racing and her lungs sucking for oxygen. A first that still lived and breathed in her mind. A feeling that had haunted her every night since.

While the sex in the years that had followed had been pretty fantastic, it had never come close to that one night. All night.

They’d grown up and while her life hadn’t changed—she’d continued on as boring Cheryl Anne—his had. His mother had left and his father had been devastated, and so Dayne had stopped calf-roping altogether to help with the family’s construction business. Over the years, he’d become the driving force behind Branson Construction, which meant he worked practically 24/7. No more hanging out with his friends. Or kicking up dust at the local honky-tonk. He’d taken on a world of responsibility and so he’d stopped skinny-dipping and swinging from ropes and started playing it safe.

He was now a member of the Chamber of Commerce, a sponsor for the local Little League team, and he’d been voted Craftsman of the Year by the Skull Creek High School woodshop class. He made it a point to be in bed by ten and he’d even switched to decaf.

Not that she had anything against decaf. It’s just that she’d spent her entire life following the rules and worrying about any-and everything. She wanted to cut loose. To drink the occasional cup of coffee without angst or guilt. To swing from the proverbial rope without worrying about breaking her neck.

She wanted to feel alive. To
live.

She forced aside Dayne’s image and the box, drew a deep breath and called the local kennel to check on Taz.

“S
O WHAT
do you think?”

Dayne stared at the two DVDs that his father sat on his desk later that afternoon.

“I think you’ve been sniffing too much floor sealer. I asked for hardwood floor samples, not porn movies.”

“It’s not porn.” Hal Branson grinned. “It’s erotica. I’m meeting Abigail Gilmore at the Shade Tree for drinks and I can’t decide which one to bring.
Captive Nights
or
Miss Pem-burton and the Outlaw?
”

“What about the floor samples?”

“I seriously doubt she’ll want to jump me over a piece of cedar.”

“No, but she might want to whack you over the head. Whatever happened to flowers and candy for a first date?”

“I’ve got chocolate body paint out in the truck.” Hal wiggled his eyebrows. “Margene likes
Captive Nights.
She said she’s always had this fantasy about being abducted and held against her will.”

Dayne’s gaze pushed through the open doorway to glimpse the sixty-something redhead who stood in front of the file cabinet. She wore cat’s-eye glasses that dangled from a chain around her neck, hot-pink lipstick and a pink camouflage jumpsuit and high heels. “That’s more information than I need. What about the floors?”

“We’re going with a natural cedar. At least that’s what Randy told me when I took them by the job site. I’ve already ordered enough to do the required rooms. It’ll be here first thing tomorrow. So which DVD do you think she’ll like? I can’t show up empty-handed. I’m a man on a mission.”

A man hellbent on sex.

Dayne’s memory stirred and he remembered the last time he’d seen his mother. He’d been nineteen and still living at home. He’d come home late, as usual, to find his parents having another one of their fights. He hadn’t thought much about it. They’d been fighting for years since Hal Branson had never been particularly good at keeping a job and providing for his family. He’d tried, but he’d simply never been the workhorse that Lorene Branson had wanted him to be. He’d been content with barely squeaking by and she’d wanted more for her three sons. And so they’d argued constantly. And then they’d made up. Both were noisy as hell—from the initial yelling to the make-up moaning—and Dayne usually bunked out in the barn until it was all over.

But that particular night he hadn’t had the chance even to grab his sleeping bag. There’d been no heated words followed by passionate kisses. Rather, his mother had tossed the latest eviction notice at Hal, said her piece and then walked away for good.

“There’s more to a marriage than sex,”
she’d said.

His dad was the classic good-time Charlie. He drank too much, laughed too loudly, and loved too fiercely. He’d been so busy doing all three that he hadn’t had the time or energy to do right by his family. Even more, he’d been so caught up with “doing it” that he’d forgotten all the little things. He’d never given his wife a card for her birthday. No flowers on their anniversary. No candy on Valentine’s Day. Nothing to make her feel special. Appreciated. Loved.

In his dad’s opinion, sex was the glue that held a man and woman together. The bolt that kept the door hinged. The major factor when it came to long-term relationship success.

Dayne had wholeheartedly agreed. He’d been young. Wild. Horny.
Stupid.

But he’d smartened up the night he’d seen his mother abandon twenty-two years of marriage despite the great sex. He’d stepped up, straightened up and he’d been holding his own ever since. Professionally, he’d taken his father’s handyman service and built it into a bona fide construction and remodeling business. And personally, he’d learned to keep a tight leash on his libido.

Hal Branson hadn’t been as quick to learn. The man had spent the past ten years making the same mistake over and over again, and so he was still alone. Lonely.

But while Hal still looked every bit the mature, confident womanizer, there was a gleam of desperation in his gaze that hadn’t been there before.

“Did you read that book I picked up for you last week?” Dayne asked his father.

“That book about how to talk to women? Hell, boy.” The old man shrugged and tried to look indifferent. “I don’t need to talk. It’s all about body language.”

“And I’ve got some beachfront property in Montana you might be interested in. Plenty of sunshine. Warm temperatures. Great view of the islands.”

“I may not have the most impressive track record, but I still know a thing or two about females. Namely, a gal likes a man who takes the initiative and isn’t afraid to make his intentions clear.”

Yeah, right. Dayne had made his intentions crystal-clear to Cheryl. He cared about her. About them. And he wanted a relationship. Not just sex, but the morning after. That’s why he’d suppressed his wild and crazy urges—like the one where he tossed her over his shoulder, threw her on the nearest horizontal surface and screwed her silly. Or the one where he hauled her on top of him, tossed his cowboy hat on her head and gave her the ride of her life. Or the one where he slathered her with whipped cream and licked her clean.

She deserved more than just sex, and so he’d kept his outrageous fantasies to himself. He’d even bought a ring a while ago—it couldn’t have been two years?—and had been waiting for just the right moment to propose. And he’d made it a point to remember the card for her birthday and the flowers on the anniversary of their first date, and the candy—a giant, heart-shaped box of Godiva truffles—every Valentine’s Day.

Except last Valentine’s Day, that is. He’d remembered the candy, but he’d also given her a gift. A keepsake box to hold all the cards he’d given her over the years.

If
she kept them.

He’d always assumed so.

Now, he wasn’t so sure.

She seemed so different.

And damned if he didn’t like it.

“So what do you say?” Hal winked. “Which one should I go with?”

Neither.
“The captive one,” he heard himself blurt. Not because he’d seen the fuzzy handcuffs in Cheryl’s pleasure bag and he’d been picturing her wearing them ever since. Hell, no. It was just that it was the first title that came to mind and he had to say something.

“Why don’t you take this one—” Hal dropped the extra DVD on Dayne’s desk “—over to the motel. Let Cheryl Anne know you’re thinking about her. Maybe she’ll change her mind and give you another chance.” When he cast a sharp look at his dad, the old man shrugged. “Hazards of a small town, son. Everybody knows she drop-kicked you like an empty soda can.”

“The visuals I can do without.”

“Booted you out on your keister.”

“Enough.”

“Bitch-slapped you out of her life—”

“I get it, okay? She dumped me.” He had to force the words past the sudden lump in his throat. Which sure as hell didn’t make a lick of sense because he was better off without her.

She’d gone off the deep end. She was crazed. Obsessed. A sex maniac.

If only the notion turned him off half as much as it stirred the lust he’d spent ten years keeping in check.

“Y
OU CIRCLE
the root of the penis with your thumb and index finger, twisting back and forth—”

“Would that be clockwise or counter-clockwise?” one of the women asked.

“Clockwise is usually good,” Cheryl Anne told the room full of attentive women.

“I can only do counter-clockwise on account of my arthritis,” Winona chimed in from her seat near the snack table. “It hurts when I turn to the right. Besides, if I do it like this, then I can do this little tap with my palm right there at the root.”

“I’ve got carpal tunnel and can’t do clockwise either,” another woman chimed in. “But I’m willing to try if it’s the only way to do it right. I’ll do anything to make Lloyd happy. Maybe then he’ll stop vegetating on the couch and start taking me out on Saturday nights.”

“Do what feels comfortable,” Cheryl told them. “But make sure…” Her words faded as her cell phone launched into an instrumental version of “Buttons” by the Pussycat Dolls. “I’m so sorry.” She reached for the phone. “I should have turned it off.” She powered the phone down and turned back to her demonstration. “Now, you can go either way with your technique as long as your wrist stays loose and you keep your fingers firm—”
Rrrrring!
The phone on the nightstand shrieked.

“I’m sorry—”

“Nonsense.” Winona waved a hand. “You go on and answer it. We can just talk amongst ourselves in the meantime.”

“But I—”

“Go on” another voice chimed in. And another. And another.

The phone kept ringing and Cheryl set her demo model on the small table that held her supplies. “I’ll just be a minute,” she vowed as she wobbled over to the nightstand, her feet crying with each step thanks to the stilettos she’d slipped on that morning, and picked up the phone. “Hello?” she said under her breath, putting her back to the group and shifting her weight just enough to wiggle the toes on her left foot.

“Your brother is sick,” Dora Cash declared.

“Mom, I’m really busy right now—”

“I’ve gone by his place twice and it’s locked up tight. I’ve been by the shop, but that’s locked up, too. Mr. Davenport, his neighbor, said he comes and goes at all hours of the night now. But that can’t be right. Your brother
never
stays up past nine. Mildred Donohue said he probably has a terminal illness. When her brother-in-law found out he had cancer, he went crazy. One minute he was recycling and the next, he’s driving this gas-guzzling, atmosphere-destroying RV to every state park in the country.”

“I’m sure Dillon doesn’t have cancer,” Cheryl Anne said under her breath. She shifted again to give her right toes a little wiggling room and chanced a glance behind her to see every gaze glued on Winona who was busy demonstrating her “tap” method. “I really have to go—”

“Have you talked to him?” her mother cut in.

“Not exactly. But Nikki said that she saw him and he was fine.”

“Nikki? Nikki Braxton? The lady who owns the hair shop where you work?”

“Where I used to work, Mom. I’m self-employed now. Speaking of which, I’m right in the middle of—”

“When did Nikki see him?” Dora rushed on, oblivious to her daughter’s predicament.

Thankfully her mother didn’t seem to care what she was doing. It was hard enough ditching her old life. She didn’t need her mother adding a megadose of guilt to make things that much more difficult.

At the same time, she was a Carnal Coach, for heaven’s sake.
And
she was currently living in a hotel room while a major newspaper turned her nice, modest two-story colonial into a den of iniquity. While she didn’t want all that mother-radar fixed on her, a few words of caution might be nice.

“When?”
her mother pressed.

“Last week. He bought a motorcycle from Nikki’s fiancé—Jake and his partner own that new custom chopper shop in town. Nikki said Dillon told her he was just having a few personal issues and that he needed some time to himself.”

“Personal issues? Cancer is a personal issue. Or diabetes. Or heart disease. Or a prolapsed colon. I knew I should have made him eat more bran.”

“Mom, I’m sure he’s fine. Try to stop worrying so much. Now’s the time for you and Dad to get to know each other again. Go places.
Do
something.”

“We are. We’re going to camp out in your brother’s front yard until he comes home. Your father’s already picked up a case of bug spray and some Benadryl in case a few of those little buggers gets through the tent netting. And he bought some spray for possums and skunks. He’s even got this stuff that’s guaranteed to ward off bears.”

“You’re going
camping?
”

“Desperate times call for desperate measures, dear. Your father and I don’t see any way around it. Call me if you hear from Dillon.”

Cheryl slid the receiver into place, gathered her composure and turned back to her class to find Winona standing center stage, a purple penis in her hands.

“…all’s I’m saying is, the tapping worked for me. Fifty-six years and I can count on my hands the number of times I stayed home on a Saturday night.”

“I’m back,” Cheryl announced.

“And I rarely cooked on Friday nights, either, on account of I’ve got this great little trick I used to do with my—”

“Winona?” Cheryl tapped the older woman on the shoulder.

“Yes, dear?”

“Thanks for filling in for me.”

“My pleasure,” the woman said. She looked oddly disappointed as she handed over the penis and hobbled back to her seat.

Cheryl Anne ignored her pinched toes—she wanted so much to slip off the high heels—pasted on a smile and went back to work.