Kissin' Tell (Rough Riders 13)

“Not that it ain’t great to see you, Thurman,” Tell said, sliding into the booth at Ziggy’s, “but you don’t normally call on league night lookin’ for a drinking buddy. What’s up?”

Thurman swigged his beer. “I’m not lookin’ to get drunk. I’m headed outta town tomorrow and I wanted the lowdown on you and Hot Lips, since you guys took off so fast Saturday night. How’re things goin?” He waggled his eyebrows. “Planning that trip down the altar yet?”

“Fuck off. She’s busy this week so I haven’t seen her.” That sounded plausible. Casual. Not like she’d dumped his ass. “I’ve been dealin’ with ranch stuff and the always fun family shit anyway.”

“Does the fun family shit have anything to do with Dalton?”

“No. Why?”

“I’ve heard a couple of things. Normally I don’t put much stock in rumors…but this one about Dalton caught my interest.”

Thurman wasn’t the type to gossip, so Tell immediately went on alert. “Don’t keep me in suspense.”

“Evidently he rented a motel room in Hulett sometime in the last month. Claimed he was trying to set a new McKay record for the most women f**ked in a single night.”

“Jesus. There’s a life goal. And he’s makin’ it sound like all the single McKays ever did was sit around bragging about female conquests.”

“Your family has a reputation, Tell. Whether it’s bullshit or deserved, ain’t my concern.” Thurman shrugged. “I just wanna make sure somebody knows what Dalton is up to and that he ain’t knocking up half the young ladies in the damn county.”

Their food arrived, which gave Tell time to consider this news regarding his brother.

Something had changed with Dalton right around the time their father had checked into rehab. With so many other things on his mind, maybe he hadn’t paid as much attention to his little brother’s escapades. But Dalton was a twenty-five-year-old man, not a child. He didn’t need a baby-sitter.

“You’re awful quiet, Tell.”

He looked at Thurman. “Just debating on whether it’s my responsibility to check up on him.”

“No, it ain’t. I didn’t tell you this because I expect you’ll stake out the Shady R Motel in Moorcroft to see if Dalton’s truck is in the lot.”

“I appreciate it, even though it don’t make me happy.” Tell signaled for another beer. “Curious, though. Did your source say how many women Dalton…serviced that night?”

“Why? You think your record might have his beat?” Thurman teased.

Tell flipped him off.

“I heard Dalton was with thirteen different chicks.”

“Thirteen? Holy shit.”

Thurman shoved his plate aside and leaned closer. “But that’s not the kicker. My understanding is he did it with all thirteen women in the room with him. And these ladies were giving him pointers and feedback.”

“Like a sex focus group?”

“Or a sex seminar.”

Tell shook his head. “Damn. I don’t even wanna think about twelve women standin’ around, watchin’ me have sex with another woman and critiquing my performance.”

“You and me both.”

“Even when I was a teen and my dick was hard all the freakin’ time, I don’t think I jacked off thirteen times in one day, say nothin’ of getting it up and getting off that many times in a few hours.”

“Boggles the mind, don’t it? I’d guess he’s beat Chase and Colt, who I’d lay odds were previous McKay record holders.”

“It’s not like I’m gonna ask them.”

“Dalton might. Just for bragging rights.” Thurman drained his beer. “Come on. Forget about it. I’ll let you lose a game of pool to me before you lose at darts.”

On the drive home, Tell realized he hadn’t managed to put Georgia out of his mind, even for three hours. He’d found himself looking around the bar, hoping she’d show up.

He missed her. Given his schedule, tomorrow was a wash as far as reconnecting, but if he hadn’t heard from her by Thursday night, he was showing up on her doorstep.

Wednesday morning, Georgia tackled the businesses on the other end of the Sandstone Building. First stop: Healing Touch Massage.

A soft chime sounded as she walked through the door. The space had been decorated with western touches—fake cowhide print chairs in the reception area, a coffee table crafted from logs. With mocha-colored walls and plush carpeting, the area embodied a sense of calm.

From the back, a voice trilled, “I’ll be out in a sec.” Then a drawer slammed and the pregnant blonde Georgia had met at Dairy Queen ambled around the corner.

Oh hello, hostility. This was going to be a fun sale.

Georgia smiled brightly, hoping it didn’t look cheesy. “Great place you have, AJ.”

“Thank you. Are you here for a massage?”

“No. I’m selling advertising space for the Devil’s Tower Rodeo program guide.”

AJ rested her folded arm on her belly. “I bought an ad last year and I didn’t see the benefits.”

“That’s why the committee hired a new PR company. We’re expanding the guide this year.”

“I never asked where the ad money actually goes.”

“A portion goes to printing the brochures. A portion goes to the local committee. They use it to try and bring in bigger sponsors.”

“So local sponsorship by local businesses isn’t enough? If you’ve got bigger fish to fry, why should I fork out my money?”

Talk about prickly. “Let me explain. Bigger sponsors will provide bigger payouts for the event purse, which will attract better competitors, which will bring more people into the area and into the area businesses. We aren’t looking to replace the business ad you’d place with one for a bigger sponsor.”

“Oh. Well, that makes sense.”

“Would you like to see examples of ads we’re doing for other businesses? And hear the promotion I’ve sketched out, which requires little to no effort on the part of the advertisers?”

“I guess.”

When Georgia had shown AJ all the options and the pregnant woman’s only responses were a sniff, a grunt or a shrug, Georgia lost all confidence in herself and any hope of a sale. She tidied up her papers. “Thanks for listening.”

“That’s it?” AJ’s eyes narrowed. “If you’re done, why do you still look so tense?”