Soul Rest: A Knights of the Board Room Novel (17 page)

“I’d say you’re getting used to your Master’s touch, Celeste. Wanting more of it, aren’t you?”

“I think so.” Her heart started thumping erratically when she didn’t deny that possessive.
Your Master.
Tonight his eyes reminded her of desert sands, the different golds and browns on a Nevada landscape. She’d never been out to Vegas, but she’d looked at pictures on the Internet.

He scooped her off the stoop, bearing her weight on his hip to set her on her feet on the walkway. Tucking her hand into his elbow, he led her to the truck. “You have a nice place,” he commented.

Nice because her rent included outdoor maintenance. Her landlord sent over a company to mow, trim, repair and pressure wash when needed. Things she was never home long enough or in daylight to do. “It’s a good space to work and sleep.”

“So are you in a twelve-step program for the workaholism?”

“I can stop anytime I want,” she deadpanned, and pushed at him when he pinched her. “Says the cop. There’s a real nine-to-five job.”

“Hey, I was just checking to see if you wanted to join my support group. We can neck in the back of the room during the testimonials.” He opened the door and helped her up into the truck.

A cluster of wildflowers were arranged in a vase tucked into the cup holder. She fingered them as he came around, got in the truck. “Are these for one of those cowgirls? Your booty call after you drop me off tonight?”

She expected him to continue in the same teasing vein, but instead he reached over, touched her face, skimming his knuckles along her jaw. “They’re for you.”

She drew back from that look in his eyes. Looked down at her hands as he closed his door. She started, not expecting it when he leaned over her. He pulled the seatbelt down over her, buckled it securely, his fingers sliding along the strap that ran between her breasts, giving her collarbone a caress before he returned to his side of the truck. She’d forgotten her seatbelt and rather than reminding her, he’d done it himself. Keeping her safe.

Or buckling her in before a bumpy ride.

“I can’t stop myself from messing things up, you know,” she said to her hands. “I know that sounds pathetic.”

“No, it doesn’t.” As he pulled away from the curb, he reached over, captured her hand while he drove one-handed. “We’ll talk about all that later. Right now, simple questions, simple answers. Do you like the flowers?”

“Yes.”

“What’s your favorite kind?”

“These.” Because it was the first time anyone had given her flowers. Her eyes stayed on them because the passing city lights cut through the darkness of the cab, highlighting the colors.

Thanks to its humidity, Baton Rouge had fairly good stretches of decently warm weather in the fall, mixed with the cooler temps, but since it was closing in on November, she wondered how he’d found such a diversity of wildflowers. But she didn’t ask. Magic didn’t need to be explained.

When they pulled into the parking lot of Darla’s Roadhouse, she saw it had an unassuming look, just a brown building covered with weathered wood siding, making it look like a run-down barn. There appeared to be a modest-sized crowd for a Wednesday night. “I expected you’d be taking me to The Texas Club,” she said.

“This place is smaller and less rowdy. Here I usually don’t have to break up a fight or arrest anyone.”

“So you didn’t bring your cuffs?”

“When I’m off duty, there’s only one reason I pull those out, darlin’.” The lights of the neon sign outside the bar washed his golden skin in red, flashing off his piercing eyes. Then he was out of the truck. As she reached for the handle, he made a quelling noise. “Un-unh. Stay there.”

She let herself stroke the flowers as he crossed in front of the truck to come and open her door, hand her out. When he walked them toward the entrance, he had his arm around her waist, and the only logical place for her arm was around his. She hooked her thumb in his thick belt, and felt the ripple of muscle under her touch as they walked together, their hips creating a pleasurable friction.

Leaning down, he brushed her ear with his lips. “Tell me what you’re wearing under your clothes, Celeste.”

“A thong. Pale gold, like my bra. Lots of silk and lace, very little fabric.”

He chuckled at that, nipped the chain between the gold studs, tugged on it. “Just keep teasing me, darlin’. Friday I’ll have you at my mercy.”

Her mouth went too dry to say anything to that, but they were in the lobby then, and he was occupied with paying the cover charge. He was obviously a regular, because the thin, tall fiftyish man in Western-style jeans and plaid shirt taking his money greeted Leland by name and gave her a speculative but friendly look.

When Leland pushed through the double doors to the main area, she saw a long polished bar with various metal and wood signs over it that fit the décor. Cow Crossing, the Bar Q Ranch, Truck Stop Ahead – Free Showers. Mounted horns from longhorn cows, photographs of Western life from the 1800s. An assortment of antique guns. Black and white framed prints of James Arness, John Wayne, Clint Eastwood. All signed.

The playbills on the door had given the schedule for weekend live music performances, but tonight there was a DJ playing popular country tunes. About fifty couples rotated on the dance floor in various set dance routines, giving her butterflies. She could gyrate properly when dancing was called for, but she didn’t know any formal dances.

Leland’s hand was low on her back, though, fingertips tucked into the waistband of her skirt while he stroked her hip with his thumb, making her body tingle. He leaned up against the bar and lifted two fingers, catching the attention of the bartender, a lush thirty-something with blue eyes that lighted at the sight of him. She had a riot of red and gold hair piled on her head and a generous bosom enhanced by a sparkly T-shirt. “Your usual, sugar?” she asked. Then her gaze tipped over to Celeste. “Well, sakes alive, miracles do happen, don’t they? Or is this one related to you, too?”

She gave Celeste a wink as she moved in their direction. “Last time he brought a woman here, it was his sister. She didn’t count.”

Celeste grinned. “Until I met him, I thought I was the only one who’d given up dating for the twenty-first century.”

“I hear you, honey. Ain’t enough good ones out there worth leaving home most nights. You might have snagged yourself one of them, though. Hold on a second.”

Tossing her towel over her shoulder, the bartender nodded to another man calling out an order. Pulling out a frosted beer mug from the well, she ran it under the beer tap and slid it to him with a deft push that took it eight feet down the polished wood. Then she closed the distance to Leland and Celeste.

“We’re not related, Margie,” Leland said dryly. “As if her lack of tan didn’t give it away.”

“I don’t profile.” The bartender gave him a sassy wink. “What’ll you have, handsome?”

“My usual.” He looked at Celeste. “What would you like?”

You. For tonight to go well. For me not to fuck everything up. I want to stop worrying that I’m going to fuck it up.
“Bud Light.”

As the bartender pulled their order, Celeste leaned against the bar, looked around. “You know, speaking of tanning, there aren’t a lot of black people here. Like maybe none. The guy in that back corner is debatable, but I think he just hasn’t had a bath in a while.”

Leland nudged her with his hip. “All you need to be accepted here is an appreciation of real country. The only time they threatened to throw me out was when I sang Toby Keith on karaoke night.”

“That bad?”

“No, honey.” Margie slid Leland his beer from the tap and placed Celeste’s bottle of Bud Light in front of her. “That good. Made a lot of girls rethink the dates they came with that night.” She winked. “White boys already feel threatened by black men. You know why? They have bigger peckers and can dance.”

Celeste choked on the first swallow of her beer. Leland helpfully snagged it from her hand and rubbed her back as the bartender left them to handle the next order. When Celeste could breathe, she gave Leland a look.

“Does she have firsthand experience on the non-dancing part of that statement?”

“Not from me. But it’s God’s honest truth. You could put it in your blog.”

“It’s speculation.” She sniffed. “And the source isn’t solid. She’s hoping for a big tip.”

“You keep telling yourself that. It’s as much speculation as saying the sky’s blue.”

She rolled her eyes at him, then gestured with her beer at the whole scene. “I don’t get it. Why you like this.”

“What, you think all of us like rap? Racist.”

She punched him in the side and he caught her fist, laughing as he squeezed it. Then he opened her fingers, caressed her palm. As her eyes fastened on what he was doing and her body vibrated under the attention, his expression grew more serious. Guiding her hand to his waist, he let her have the decision of letting it rest there as he shifted closer. Leaning against the bar so his elbow was braced in front of her, he tipped her chin up, bent and kissed her. The brim of the hat shadowed them on the bar side, closing them into their own world. Her fingers clutched his waist, the belt, and she sighed her need into his mouth as his lips parted, his tongue stroking hers so that she came closer, lifting her mouth to take him deeper. A moan caught in her throat as his hand moved to her jaw and settled on her shoulder, thumb tracing her sternum, a small path up and down that sent tingles straight through her.

He lifted his head, their faces so close. “I’m going to teach you that you have nothing to fear when you’re with me, Celeste.”

She stared up at him. She wanted that. God, she did. But she had no faith or trust in such a thing, so she drew back, went back to holding her beer with one hand and the side of her chair with the other, keeping her hand to herself. For his part, he turned so his arm was hooked behind her, his hip against hers as they watched the dancers on the floor. He liked surprising her with those mind-numbing kisses, offering them at unexpected moments. He seemed to realize it took her a couple minutes to unscramble her brain after them, because he had a tendency not to talk right away. Very considerate of him. It made her want to punch him again.

“So what is your story?” she asked. “Your background.” She slipped into the mode she knew, daring him to object, since the only one nosier than a reporter was a cop. It was second nature to both of them to ask questions.

He gave her a look that said she hadn’t gotten away with anything, but he answered her question. “My daddy was a tobacco farmer. Not a really great one, but it was what his father did, and my father didn’t have a lot of education. We were dirt-poor growing up.” He gestured with his beer. “So a lot of the things they sing about in classic country songs are things I know about. The only reason I’m here instead of on the same track as my dad is that way of life died out and Mama stayed on my ass to make sure I graduated high school. My dad died when I was a high school freshman. Lung cancer. We had to move to Baton Rouge to live with my mother’s sister, and that’s how I got here. I was good at football, but not scholarship material, so right after I graduated, Mama marched me down to the Marine recruiting office so I could get a college education when I finished my tour. Entered the academy out of college.”

“The picture in your bathroom, the tobacco fields? Is that similar to where you grew up?”

“Yeah. Liv, my mom’s sister, gave me that as a graduation gift, to remind me of my roots. No chance I’d forget. It was hard, but it was good, too, if that makes sense. My dad wasn’t really smart enough to make a better life for himself or his family, but there was never any question that he loved us. We had a picnic every Sunday after church together, and he’d play ball and fish with us, listen while Mama had us tell him what we were learning in school. Other men like him would ignore their families, go out and drink to escape a life they knew they’d never leave, but he saw his blessings.”

He took a swallow of his beer, studying the dancers. “You know, when we came to Baton Rouge, I worried that the other kids would laugh at my old, patched hand-me-down clothes, but I still have one of those shirts. Doesn’t fit anymore,” he acknowledged with a wry smile. “But I wanted to keep something Mama had mended. She had the tiniest stitches, could make it look almost like new. We were always clean. She made us scrub ourselves pink before we headed off to school. We came to Baton Rouge in the summer before I entered tenth grade. That first morning of school when I was getting dressed, she came into my room. She could tell I was worrying. She fixed my collar, smoothed her hands down over my chest and then gave me this smile. She was always tired. Always. But when she looked at us, you could tell that didn’t matter. She loved us. All of it was worth it to her.”

Celeste glanced up at him. He’d put the bottle down behind her, had his hand clasped on it. His eyes hadn’t left the dance floor, but his expression said that wasn’t what he was seeing at all.

“When she smoothed my shirt and stepped back, I said, ‘Mama, why do you always look at me like I’m dressed in a fancy suit?’ She said, ‘Because I see your soul, Leland Keller. Your soul is as a spick-and-span and sharp as a man in his church suit. That's what’s important in life. Make sure your soul is dressed right, always in its church clothes. That's the only thing that matters to God.’”

He picked up the beer, took another swallow.

“I’m sorry,” Celeste said, her throat tight. “When did she pass?”

“Fourteen months ago. A minute ago.” He took a breath, turned so he was facing her again. “Your turn. Tell me about Esther Celestial Lewis.”

She shook her head. “Let’s not, okay? Not tonight.” No way could she follow that kind of story up with her own. She was dealing with enough raw feelings around him. She wanted him to kiss her again, help her lose herself in that feeling, but she could already tell the riot of feelings inside her would turn that sour.

“All right,” he said. “So we dance instead.”

“What? No. I don’t do this kind of—”

He was already pulling her toward the floor, lifting her off the stool in one smooth movement. “I wasn’t finished with my beer,” she protested.