Meadowlarks by Thomas Holladay (novels to improve english TXT) 📗

She said, “I had all but forgotten about this book. I love the illustrations. Oh, thank you.” She closed the book and hugged it. She looked at him, warm and inviting.

That lump returned to his throat.

Take it easy.

Be cool.

We’ve got all night. 

He took a drink. “We’re very excited about it.” His voice cracked, that lump in there. His attention dropped to her breasts, firmly swelling around both sides of the book.

Jesus.

He wanted to touch her, touch every part of her. He looked back into her dark blue eyes. “I’m putting everything into the marketing campaign. I’ve already got you booked for two radio interviews.”

“Oh, I don’t . . .” She sounded unsure about being interviewed.

“You can do those over the phone. I’ll email you a list of talking points.” He set his drink on the table and took the book, pretending to study the cover. “I’ve already lined up some billboard space in L.A., but I’m temporarily short of capital.”

Perfect.

“That’s why we’re looking for investors.” He handed her the book and slid his arm around her shoulder, just being friendly, nothing she'd object to.

She stayed close, staring down at the book, not moving closer, not sliding away.

He reached across and cupped her face.

“Mr. Kirby, I . . .” She turned her face away.

He forced it back. “Please, call me Tom.” Dammit.

He held her face in both hands, keeping her from moving. He kissed her warm and soft mouth.

Her breathing quickened and her lips parted.

He softly pulled her closer and sucked her upper lip.

She pushed him back and turned away. “No, please.”

He grabbed her shoulders, turned her back and held her in place.

She dropped the book and balled her fists against his chest, pressing him away.

He leaned in and kissed her harder.

Her breathing quickened again. Her lips parted again.

Jesus.

She wanted to be taken like a medieval wench.

He couldn’t stop now.

He forced her down onto the couch and pressed his hips down onto hers, all his weight against her struggles, her gasps.

“No, please.” She pushed at him, not strong enough. “Please, don’t do this.” She turned her head away and whined.

He sucked her ear, hot against his lips, his tongue.

Her hips moved under him now, trying to turn away, and her eyes turned back, staring into him with rage.

What the . . .

A low growl and hot breath pushed against the side of Kirby's face. He turned and stared into the hazel eyes of the kid’s dog, growling louder. He bumped Kirby’s cheek with his nose, a warning.

“Nice dog.” Kirby slowly climbed off.

She scooted off the couch and stood facing the fire, shaking, crying.

Jesus.

“You hurt my mommy.” The kid came from nowhere, holding his dog.

Chapter Twenty

“Jesus!” Kirby slammed the steering wheel fifty seven times, more like three, and turned down Sonora Pass Highway toward Pickle Meadow.

That stupid kid and his stupid dog had spoiled everything. Another lousy minute and she’d have been moaning in ecstasy.

Just like Mona.

He smiled, remembering.

Man.

The clouds had dropped lower, hugging pavement. He rode the brake pedal, scared brainless.

He shifted into low gear and the Rolls slowed to a crawl.

His high beams and fog lights reflected back from the cloud vapor, hard to see the edge of the road on the downhill side. He hugged the uphill side of the road, boulders and cliff so close he could reach out and touch them. Scraping the driver’s side would be far preferable to falling off the edge of the world.

His hands ached from his tight grip on the steering wheel. His eyes ached from being peeled wide open, staring into bright white electric mist.

What the hell time is it?

He dared not take his eyes off the road to look. He'd left her house at around 10:30 or 11:00pm.

He reached Pickle Meadow, up-shifted into drive and accelerated under the canopy of clouds, clear visibility out to the reach of his high beams.

He reached State Highway 395 at 11:42pm and turned left toward the Nevada state line. The ribbon of black highway through Walker Canyon had too many curves, slipping and sliding on the best tires money could buy. He slowed to 55mph.

A truck coming in the opposite direction flashed his high beams up and down, nearly blinding Kirby.

Imbecile. 

After the truck passed, horn blaring, a sign loomed to the ride side of the highway, barely above plowed snow.

WELCOME TO NEVADA, Land of Unlimited Recreation.

The highway moved away from the edge of the Walker River Gourge and another sign showed above the snow.

“Ah!”

GOLDFIELD CASINO at Topaz Lake.

He slowed and turned right on Mark Twain Lane.

Stupid name for a road.

It made him think of John Potter, how much he’d liked Mark Twain. Kirby didn’t even miss Potter anymore. Having him killed had been the smartest thing he’d ever done. Potter had always been in Kirby's way. Carolyn's continued loyalty to the guy was still in his way. The fact that John Potter had been the only man on earth who’d ever called Kirby a friend hadn't mattered.

He was in my way.

It had been Potter’s fault anyway.

The idiot.

Anybody with half a brain would have had the contract notarized and given a registered copy to his wife before turning over that much cash. That fool had always put too much trust in his fellow man.

Besides, he should never have gone behind his best friend’s back to cut a deal with his best friend’s father.

Stupid bastard.

That familiar knot formed in Kirby's stomach, his urge to get at some gaming tables, change his bad luck to good and roll up some spending cash.

Where in hell is that stupid casino? 

He passed snow covered shacks and trailers on both sides of the narrow road then drove through a pine grove, thinking the place might have burned down.

Ah.

A flashing neon arrow pointed to the right and he turned onto Goldfield Drive. He drove into a snow packed parking lot and parked in front of a flat roofed, stucco building. It looked more like a nursing home in Palm Desert than a casino.

Probably owned by