Bull Mountain(32)

He carried his share of scars, but for the most part managed to keep his body whole and in pretty good shape. His face, on the other hand, looked like it belonged to someone else entirely, and maybe it did. It was haggard and weathered like saddle leather. His eyes were disappearing more and more every year behind the crow’s-feet branching out from the corners of his narrow sockets, and the skin under his eyes was loose and dry. It was an old man’s face.

His old man’s face.

He wasn’t completely sure why, but he was beginning to hate it. His father used to be the cornerstone of everything. Now he was just a crazy, feeble old coot, more embarrassing than anything else. Gareth wondered how long he had before he would follow the same path.

The young girl sprawled out behind him on the queen-size bed rolled over onto her belly. She was a gift from his new partner. She just showed up at the door with the bottle of whiskey—the same brand he’d drunk at Wilcombe’s bar. He wasn’t a cheater, but Annette was gone, so it didn’t matter. He was drunk and angry, and a go at this one was just what he needed. Now, though, he was ready for her to leave. He hadn’t bothered to clean the slick of her off himself. He just crawled off her, laid a couple of twenties on the table, and went back to drinking. He hoped she would take his money and silence as a hint to collect her things and shove off. She didn’t. That made Gareth angry, but then again, everything made him angry. Anger was the only constant he had these days. He should be thrilled to have a huge problem taken care of after this deal with Wilcombe and his guns. He should be relaxed after bedding this sweet, young piece of tail, but he wasn’t. He was angry, and he felt the slow burn of it right underneath his skin. Every sip of whiskey brought it closer to the surface.

“Oh, Papa, come back to bed,” the girl said. “Let me rub some of that tension out of your shoulders. I’ve been told I’m pretty good at it. Back in Mobile, I took some classes. I thought about doing it full-time, but you know, life and all.”

Gareth took another pull from the bottle and rubbed the tattoo. “You mean whorin’ and all?”

“Well, you ain’t gotta be all mean about it, Papa.” She pulled the motel’s scratchy wool blanket over her bare ass and patted the bed next to her. “Come sit yourself down right here.”

Gareth pictured himself dragging her out of the bed by her hair.

She called herself Angel, but Gareth knew that was her working name. She was more likely to be a Betsy, or a Ruth Ann—something painfully ordinary. He watched in the mirror as she squeezed at one of the pillows, sinking her bleached-blond head into the starched cotton. Gareth sneered and curled his lip in disgust. He wanted her gone. He was done with her. But there she was, frolicking in the sheets like it was Sunday morning and he was going to cook her up some pancakes and bacon. Gareth picked up his smokes from the vanity and lit up. Angel came up behind him and took over rubbing his neck. Her skin was like milk—pale, scarless, and perfect. Nothing stretched out or ruined by childbirth, like Annette’s. Her mouth was small and round, and Gareth thought about kissing it just a few minutes earlier. She tasted like hard candy. The kind his grandma kept in little dishes around her house, all sticky and tart. Nothing like Annette, she tasted clean—like rain.

“Hey, baby, you in there?” Angel said, and waved a hand in front of Gareth’s blank expression. He looked at her pressed up behind him in the mirror and she smiled crookedly, her lips curling up on the left side. She started to rub the muscles in his shoulders. It was like trying to soften granite. She rubbed her hard raspberry nipples across his back, but he was over her and it did nothing but irritate him further.

“You’re bound up tight, sugar. I could have sworn you just had wild sex with a pretty girl. I got you off. I know I did. I normally don’t let a man come inside me, but you were so into it. I know I was. That must make you special. Not like all these boys around here.”

“Stop talking,” Gareth said, and took a swig from the bottle.

“You’re starting to hurt my feelings,” she said.

“You’re starting to irritate me with all the mouth.”

Angel moved her hands down his back and scratched her way up, using pink lacquered fingernails to follow the curves of his back. “I know it’s none of my business and all,” she said, “but you can talk to me, too, you know. That’s part of the package.”

Gareth took another hard gulp from the bottle, finishing it off, and set it down on the vanity. Angel took notice of the tattoo on Gareth’s chest and leaned in over his shoulder to get a better look. “Who’s Annette? Your girl back home?”

Gareth shook her hands off him hard enough for her to back off toward the bed. “None of your business,” he said. He picked up the bottle, forgetting it was empty, and slammed it back down on the vanity with enough force to break it. The glass cut his hand. He put the bleeding edge of his palm in his mouth and Angel backed away. She quickly wrapped herself with a sheet from the bed.

“I’m sorry, Papa. I didn’t mean nothing by it.”

Gareth glared at himself in the mirror. Seeing his father. Hearing his wife. Tasting his own blood. The sudden eruption of tears down his flushed cheeks surprised him as much as it did her.

“Oh, Papa. Don’t cry. Let me make it better.” She came back up behind him. “I can be Annette if you want me to.”