He slapped his hand upon his Bible, causing Alex to jump. Raising his index finger into the air, he shouted, “Resist all temptation, daughter! I command every lascivious impulse to desert your head and mind and body. Now,” he bellowed.
He slumped, as though the exorcism had totally drained him of energy. Alex stood transfixed by disbelief. Coming to her senses, she glanced around uneasily, hoping that no one had witnessed this madness and her unwitting involvement in it.
“As far as I know, I have no lascivious impulses. Now, I must go. I’m late.” She stepped off the curb despite the fact that the traffic light was flashing instructions not to walk.
“God is counting on you. He’s impatient. If you betray his trust—”
“Yes, well, I’ll try harder. Good-bye.”
He lunged off the curb and grabbed her by the shoulders. “God bless you, daughter. God bless you and your holy mission.” Clasping her hand, he pressed a cheaply printed pamphlet into it.
“Thank you.”
Alex worked her hand free and jogged across the street, quickly putting two lanes of traffic between her and the preacher. She trotted up the steps and barreled through the courthouse doors.
Glancing over her shoulder to see if Plummet had followed her, she ran right into Reede.
He caught her against his chest. “What the hell’s the matter with you? Where have you been?”
She wanted to lean against him, feel his protective strength, until her heart stopped racing, but didn’t allow herself the luxury. “Nowhere. I mean, I went out. To lunch. At the, uh, the B & B. I walked.”
He studied her, taking in her windblown hair and ruddy cheeks. “What’s that?” He nodded down at the pamphlet she was clutching in her white-knuckled hand.
“Nothing.” She tried to stuff it into the pocket of her coat.
Reede snatched it out of her hand. He scanned the cover, flipped it open, and read the message heralding doomsday. “You into this?”
“Of course not. A sidewalk preacher handed it to me. You really should devote some attention to clearing the panhandlers off your city’s streets, Sheriff,” she said haughtily. “They’re a nuisance.”
She stepped around him and continued downstairs.
Chapter 22
Nora Gail sat up and retrieved the filmy garment she’d worn into the room.
“Thanks,” Reede said to her.
She gave him a reproving glance over her milky-white shoulder. Drolly she replied, “How romantic.” After shoving her arms through the ruffled sleeves of the peignoir, she left the bed and moved toward the door. “I’ve got to go check on things, but I’ll be back, and we can talk.” Patting her beehive hairdo, she left the room.
Reede watched her go. Her body was compact now, but in a few years it would go to fat. The large breasts would sag. Her oversized nipples would look grotesque without any muscle tone supporting them. Her smooth, slightly convex belly would become spongy. Her thighs and ass would dimple.
Even though they were friends, he hated her at the moment. He hated himself more. He hated the physical necessity that propelled him through this travesty of intimacy with a woman.
They rutted, probably more mindlessly and heartlessly than some species of animals. The release should have been cleansing and cathartic. It should have felt great. It didn’t. It rarely did anymore, certainly not recently.
“Shit,” he muttered. He would probably go on sleeping with her through their old age. It was convenient and uncomplicated. Each knew what the other was able to give and demanded nothing more. As far as Reede was concerned, passion was based on need, not desire, and sure as hell not on love.
He got off. So did she. She had often told him he was one of the few men who could make her come. He wasn’t particularly flattered because that might be, and probably was, a lie.
Disgusted, he threw his legs over the side of the bed. There was a pack of cigarettes on the bedside table, courtesy of the house. The carefully rolled joints you had to pay for. He lit one of the cigarettes, something he rarely did anymore, and drew the tobacco deep into his lungs. He missed the postcoital cigarettes more than any others, maybe because the tobacco punished and polluted the body that continually betrayed him with a healthy sex drive.
He poured himself a drink from the bottle on the nightstand—that would be added to his bill, even if he did fuck the madam herself—and tossed it down in one swallow. Rebelling, his esophagus contracted. His eyes teared. The whiskey spread a slow, languid heat through his belly and groin. He began to feel marginally better.
He lay back down
and stared at the ceiling, wishing he could sleep, but welcoming this coveted time of relaxation when he wasn’t called on to speak, move, or think.
His eyes closed. An image of a face, bathed in sunlight and wreathed by loose, dark-auburn hair, was projected on the backs of his eyelids. His cock, which should have been limp with exhaustion, swelled and stretched with more pleasure than it had felt earlier tonight.