SueFromDenver Ch. 01

Prologue

"Mr. Rasmussen," I said, putting as much anger as I could into my voice, "I am NOT interested in being nice, in compromising, in settling."

When he started to speak I raised my hand, outstretched, fingers up, the universal "stop" signal.

"Mr. Rasmussen," I started again, drawing a calming breath, "I am the one being traded in on a little blonde ball of fluff half my age. Let me be as clear as I can. I want to be absolutely certain that the last fucking I give him is better than anything he'll ever get from her. I want the house. I want the car. I want the furniture and the art and the dishes and the pool table and the fucking CAT! And I don't even like the goddam cat. Got it? If you don't want the job I'll just start back on Google and search 'divorce lawyers near me' again."

He held up his hands in surrender.

"No mas Mrs. Morgan," he said, chuckling, "I'll be happy to work with you, so let's get to it."

Six months later the divorce was final and I got pretty much everything I wanted. He would keep paying for the house, I kept everything in it except his personal stuff. I didn't even let him have that that absolutely terrible art he liked so much, an abstract that was supposed to be, well, hell, I don't know what it was supposed to be. Anyway, I kept it and when everything was final I burned the damn thing in the backyard. There was no alimony involved, but I DID get 49 percent of every dime his practice made and it was stipulated that a CPA of my choice would audit him annually to make sure he wasn't hiding anything.

Then I packed a small suitcase, loaded up my little blue PT Cruiser convertible, lovingly and expensively restored and modified so I had the turbocharged engine and a five-speed transmission. As far as I know, it's the only one like it.

Anyway, I loaded up and set off on a fuck and suck tour of the country. I figured to go border to border and coast to coast. I had plenty of money so I took off with just a small bag and my debit card. At that time I had never heard of Jack Reacher, but I was pretty much pulling a Reacher.

Chapter One

It was a bar, just a roadhouse, something out of the Patrick Swayze movie of that name. Just like a thousand like it I had been in during the past three years. I settled onto a barstool, ordered a screwdriver, and turned, elbows hooked on the bar, to look over the scene.

At a little after five, it wasn't busy yet. It was easy to spot the regulars, they were the sad-looking ones. There was a pool table, a jukebox, a few dart boards on one wall, the old-style bristle boards not those new plastic numbers, and an honest to God 20 foot shuffleboard table. I couldn't help the grin that spread across my face as I remembered my cousin teaching me to play when I was 14.

"Buy you a drink?" he asked, easing onto the stool next to mine.

I turned my head and looked him up and down, slowly, making it obvious. I almost laughed, he was such a perfect Marlboro man. Tallish, I guessed six-foot, making him about a half foot taller than me, a mustache Sam Elliot would have been proud of, and nice, almost musical baritone voice. Here in Wyoming, where I had been for the past two weeks, I figured he would be either a miner or a cowboy.

"Depends," I said, meeting his eye, "are you a good fuck?"

His eyes went a little wide and then he grinned. "I like to think so," he said.

I hopped off of the stool and offered my hand. "Let's find out," I said.

When he hesitated I said, "come on cowboy, either shit or git off the pot," doing my best western voice.

He accepted my hand and I led him out the back door.

Over the past three years, I had learned to scout a new bar. This one was pretty typical, with a back door that opened out onto a small parking lot. My little blue car was back there, discrete in the shadows. I went to the car bent over, lifted my skirt, and put my hands on the little hump the tiny trunk made.

When nothing happened for a few seconds I looked over my shoulder and said, "come on big guy, or don't you want a barfly like me?"

I heard his zipper and knew I had him.

He was big, not huge, but big enough that I was glad I had been generous with the vaseline before I left the motel room. He fit nicely and it turned out, he was a good fuck. He lasted a reasonable amount of time and when I felt the tension of his release I was right there with him. I rarely have to fake it.

When he softened and slipped out I stood, not bothering about the slickness leaking down my thighs, and turned.

"Thanks," I said, "I'd take that drink now."

I had seen the word "nonplussed" written before, but this was the first time in my experience that it fit.

He looked nonplussed for a moment and then held out his hand.

"Wes," he said in that wonderfully laconic way of western men.

"Susan," I said, accepting the handshake, "Sue to the world or, if you prefer, SueFromDenver, my screen name on a lot of sites."

"Pleased to meet you, Susan," he said, "now for a drink. I seem to be a bit parched."

I giggled a little and we walked back into the bar, companionably.

"So tell me, Susan," he said, turning to look at me after our first drink, "what, exactly are you trying to prove and to whom are you trying to prove it?"

Which made me laugh.

"To whom?" I managed when I got myself under control.

"Why shucks, ma'am," he said in a western twang so thick it was hard to understand him, "some of us hicks ain't stoopid, why hell, some of us even got us one of them college edyoukayshun things (I'm trying to spell it like he made it sound)."

I laughed again.

"Just livin' the life, cowboy," I said.

We drank in silence for a few minutes while we both processed.

A few more customers came in as the clock worked its slow way around and finally I pulled a ten-dollar bill out of my handbag and went to the jukebox. I let my hips twitch in time to Blake Shelton singing about "Cotton Picking Time" and sort of giggled when another hip started bumping against me. I looked over, expecting to see Wes, but instead, there was another cowboy. Well, anyway, a cowboy-looking guy.

He was youngish and pretty obviously full of himself.

"Come on good lookin'," he said, "let's dance."

I flashed my best "fuck it" grin and said, "honestly, I'd rather fuck," and started heading for the back. I couldn't tell if he was following me and, if we're being honest here, I didn't much care.

At my car, he finally arrived but wanted to talk.

I did the turn around and lift my skirt thing, and leaned against my car, hands on the trunk, ass available.

"Take it or leave it," I said.

I waited a long 30 seconds and when he didn't move I pushed off of the trunk, said "fuck it," and headed back to the bar.

I brushed past him on the way. He said something but I wasn't really listening.

I was halfway down the hall, past the bathrooms when I felt his hand on my arm. I had been expecting it so it was just an exercise in mechanics, a move practiced thousands of times in a dojo, to lock his thumb with my hand, forcing his wrist into an awkward angle and giving him no choice but twisting and bending at the waist. Otherwise, his thumb would have been broken.

"Junior," I said, "grab me again and I'm breaking it."

He looked up at me, pure hatred in his eyes. So I figured I'd better see it through.

"Do you understand me?" I snapped.

He said nothing so I applied a bit more pressure, forcing him to his knees.

"DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?!" I snapped, not yelling, but no longer trying to be quiet.

"YES," he said.

So I released him and went back to my barstool and my new friend Wes.

"He has friends," he said.

"Oh honey," I said, "I've been through a hundred men like him over the past three years."

He looked me up and down and said, "I suppose you have at that."

"Come on, sweet cheeks," I said, "let's dance."

Blake Shelton was on again, he seemed to be popular in this bar, this time doing a slow number, something about "Austin." The tempo was slow and he danced reasonably well. It felt good.

The evening went like that and for the first time since the divorce, I found myself talking to the same man for an entire evening. It was kind of fun, if we're being honest, not heading out to my car several times for a fresh load of cum to run down my thighs.

It was getting late and I had had several screwdrivers. Well, I didn't keep count, but I had obviously had at least one too many because they took me by surprise.

The bag over my head disoriented me immediately, and the sharp punch to my kidney took my breath away, stopping me from yelling. I was hustled out back, knocked to my knees, skinning them painfully. Fingers in my hair jerked my head back and the bag was pulled off my head quickly, a handful of dirt thrown in my face making me close my eyes, and then something was stuffed into my mouth before the bag was pulled back over my head.

A kick to the ribs made me hunch up, trying to protect myself, and wondering if my ribs were cracked. Another, delivered to my knee brought tears.

I lost track then. I had the presence of mind to wonder if they were going to kick me to death, but I had lost the ability to fight back.

"Gonna fuck it?" I heard a voice ask.

"Not with your dick," another voice said.

I felt pressure on my hand, my thumb, and then suddenly a sharp burst of pain as it was broken.

And then I was alone, in the quiet. I heard a couple of vehicles start up and then the sound of tires on gravel and then asphalt. I reached up and yanked the bag from my head, pulled the gag free, it turned out to be a sock, rolled up onto hands and knees, and threw up.

I realized I was hurt worse than a few bruises the way it hurt when I retched.

I tried to get up but wound up back on all fours when I retched again.

"Jesus, Susan," I heard Wes's voice, "I don't want to touch you and hurt you any more."

I sensed rather than saw or heard him, kneel beside me.

"Oh," he said, "you look like shit too."

Which made me laugh softly and that hurt so I groaned.

"Can you stand?" he asked.

"Not sure," I managed and retched again.

His hand was light on my back, caressing lightly, not even rubbing.

"Easy," he said, his voice gentle, "I've got you, Wes is here." I could picture him saying the same thing to gentle a horse. And it was working. I was relaxing.

"Okay," I said, "help me up."

I yelped when he touched my broken thumb and he said, "sorry."

"Come on," he said, "I'm taking you to the emergency room."

On my first step pain lanced through my belly and I managed to say, "that's probably a good idea."

He surprised me by leading me to an older model Chevy Impala. I've always liked cars and I thought it was a 1966. The fender badge announced it was a "396." I chuckled and winced.

"What?" he said, opening the door and helping me in.

"I just lost a substantial bet with myself," I said, " was betting on a pickup truck."

He chuckled, fired the big engine up, and shifted into reverse.

"This is my baby," he said.

The nearest Emergency Room was, of course, in the next town over. The 20-mile ride was agony. Every pebble in the road sent a wave of pain up my spine from my ass where they had kicked repeatedly to my scalp, hurting from the way they had yanked my hair. The only saving grace was that he had an honest-to-God 8-track tape player and the Beach Boys sang of Barbara Ann and a 409 and a Surfer Girl and the rest.

When we arrived he was the perfect gentleman, opening the door and then escorting me, carefully, gently. At least the room wasn't crowded.

"Wes," the pretty and curvy nurse said, "what have we got?"

"Meet my new best friend Susan," he said, "Susan, meet Marie."

I said something like "pleased to meet you," and then started to offer my hand but thought better of it.

"Help me," I said, handing my little clutch purse to Wes.

He fished out my wallet and pulled out the insurance card. I noticed he also palmed my little Ruger LCP and slipped it into his pocket. Marie was nice about it, taking down information and writing it in her tidy, Zane-Bloser cursive. She asked the questions and I answered through swollen lips. Finally, she escorted me to one of those little curtained-off cubicles.

It took about 10 seconds to realize I needed help. "Wes," I stage whispered, "come here please."

He came, his eyebrows raised in a question. "Help me," I said, raising my thumb to show him the problem. He was oddly shy and modest as he worked on my buttons, giving me my first real giggle since I got my ass kicked.

"Seriously?" I said, "you're being silly about my angelic body after what we did within 10 seconds of meeting?"

Which broke the ice. He went about the business of undressing me, oddly gentle and apologetic when he would hit a bad spot. When he had me naked he held out the hospital gown and then tied the back. "Nice ass," he added as he tied the middle tie. "Thanks," I said, and stepped up onto the table. "Now scat."

He left and Marie was back, looking me over

She had me lean forward and untied the back, then peeled it down.

"Jesus," she said, softly, "should I get a rape kit?"

"Not necessary," I said. "There was sex but it was purely consensual."

She kind of smiled. "He IS a sweetheart," she said and I managed a smile.

I yelped when she touched the black bruise over my ribs and again when she touched low on my back. "Damn girl," she said, "any allergies?"

"Nope," I said.

"Okay," she said and went to a drawer.

"Take two of these and let's get you down for some x-rays," she said.

I took the two pills, washed them down with the cup of water she handed me, and got off of the table, yelping again when my feet hit the floor, jouncing where I hurt.

She walked me down to a room marked "Radiology," where we did the "hold still" thing while she took several x-rays.

Then it was back in the little examination room where I waited. But I didn't mind. The little pills were doing their work and I wasn't hurting. Well, not hurting as much.

I had actually managed to relax a bit when she came back in.

"Okay," she said, oddly cheerful, "pretty good news all around."

I groaned as I sat up, "oh, I could use some good news."

"Well, the thumb is broken," she said, "but it was a clean break so I'm going to put it in one of these splints. You'll be able to take it off and wash and you'll know if you use the thumb wrong by the yell you let out. There are no other broken bones, including your ribs, which kind of surprises me to be honest. The other bruises are deep and they're going to hurt like hell, but there's no permanent damage."

I let out a heavy sigh. "Good," I said.

"So I'm going to give you some pretty heavy-duty pain meds and tell you to get back in here in one week," she said.

She shook a dozen pills into a little amber pill bottle and handed me a slip off of her prescription pad. "Fill this at any drug store in town," she said.

She leaned out of the curtain and said, "Wes, she's all yours."

I let him help me on with my blouse and slacks, leaving my bra in the little plastic bag Marie had given me.

He drove to a place on the outskirts of town, one of those old-fashioned motor inns that had been converted into apartments.

"Wes," I said, "you can just take me back to my motel."

"Not a problem, Susan," he said, setting the parking brake carefully and then running around the car and opening the door for me.

It felt good to lean on him as we went to the door and then as he opened up. Inside I looked around. They had clearly removed a wall, making this a one-bedroom apartment rather than just a motel room. The front room included a kitchenette. He sat me on the couch and got me a glass of water.

"Marie said you should take two of these and then straight to bed," he said, shaking out two of the little white pills and offering them to me.

I took the pills and washed them down.

"Wes," I said, "I'm really not in any shape for anything."

And I saw the first sign of anger he had shown.

"Susan, will you please knock the whole fucking 'I'm a worthless barfly please fuck me' act off," he snapped. "Goddamit, the most interesting you were this evening you had your damn skirt down. I. do. not. consort. with. whores." he said, and the way he said it made the punctuation obvious. "Now if that's what you truly are, say the fucking word and I'll take you back to your crib."

I felt my eyes get big at his speech.

"No," I said in a very small voice, "thank you."

He smiled and it was a very nice smile.

"All right then," he said, "now come along my dear. I'm going to take you into the bedroom, strip you naked, admire your body a bit, worry about it a bit more, then walk you into the bathroom where you can do your business. Okay?"

I just nodded.

He took my hand and led me into the bedroom. There was a big, king-size bed, tightly made. I giggled and said, "will a quarter bounce?" and he said, "hell yes."

I stood still while he unbuttoned my blouse and worked it past the splint on my thumb. Then he sat me on the edge of the bed and got to his knees to untie and take my shoes off. Still on his knees, he had me stand, unbuttoned and unzipped my skirt and let it drop. He bent and kissed my belly button lightly and stood.

He led me into the bathroom and helped me sit before shutting the door. I peed and pooped, crying out when a bolt of pain hit when I pushed. I wiped, and managed to stand. When I looked back, worried, there was some blood in the water. "I hope Marie was right and there's nothing major fucked up," I thought.

I washed my hands, splashed some water on my face, and for the first time since I got attacked, looked at myself in the mirror.

Christ, I was a mess.

I had a black eye and a fat lip. I tested my teeth behind the bulging lip and was kind of surprised to find none loose. My right breast had a very dark bruise on the side where I had been kicked. My arm had another bruise. And low on my ribs was a bruise and swollen area. I took a deep breath but didn't feel the sharp pain of a cracked rib. There was another bruise low on my belly, a kick I didn't remember I thought, and one high on my thigh, I kick I DID remember. I turned and looked over my shoulder. Both kidneys had very black bruises over them, and another bruise right at my gluteal sulcus (that line where the ass meets the thigh) reminded me of the kick that was trying to send my right butt cheek over the goal posts. Two other bruises up my thigh reminded me it had been a literal ass-kicking. I was a mess, that's for sure.

I rummaged through his drawers looking for a toothbrush but couldn't find one so I thought, not first the first time that night, "fuck it," and used the toothbrush from a glass on the vanity.

I opened the door and he was standing, waiting.

"Come on, Cinderella," he said and I giggled softly, making me wince again.

He led me into the bedroom where the bed was turned down nicely. He shook out the T-shirt that was laying on the bed and said, "arms up." I lifted my arms and he dropped the T-shirt over me. It fit like a short nightshirt.

He helped me into bed and tucked me in gently.

"I'll walk down and get your car," he said, "so don't shoot me when you hear the door open." I watched as he took my little Ruger LCP from my purse and laid it on the nightstand, "but I can understand if you're a bit nervous," he added.

He bent and kissed me, very softly, on the forehead.

"Now sleep, sweet Susan," he said.

I didn't hear the door when he left. I was already asleep.