04-09-2026, 02:52 PM
She reached over and grabbed his limp cock, squeezing it and finding a sudden tension but then it went soft again. Hell, he’d cum twice in the last several hours and he was in his late 40s. She was amazed she’d left him with any life in it.
“And that’s a prime piece of meat, my friend, no doubt about it. But I don’t want to break it. Besides, there will be plenty of other times when I’ll be happy to abuse and degrade you. Trust me.”
“You couldn’t wait until your contract expires? You told me once there are always new assignments coming along. You’ve got a good reputation and you’re not hurting for cash. Why this one? And why give up a cushy writer in residence assignment?”
“I couldn’t wait out my contract. Not for this one.”
In answer to her unspoken question, he said, “There’s not a lot of time to waste on this one and it could mean really big bucks. There’s this little piece of
hell tucked away in central Africa. It’s claimed by two or three countries. There are some mineral rights, some diamonds, maybe some oil. There are three or four government armies and about a half dozen private armies tangling with each other on any given day.”
“The worst of the worst, they say, is a local warlord. Some say he’s a former French mercenary, others that he’s a Brit. Whatever, he’s a son of a bitch. They say he eats babies, but that’s probably just propaganda he puts out. For sure, his favorite execution method is tying a man’s hands and putting him over a sharp pointed spike anchored in the ground. The point of the spike is....aimed right at the...asshole. It’s high enough that you can’t touch the ground with your feet. You can try to hold yourself up with your hands, or use your thigh muscles to keep a grip on the stake. But eventually gravity does its dirty work.”
“Oh, God.”
“Exactly. He’s covered whole fields with dozens, some say hundreds, of men
—and women—planted on those spikes. A real class act.” “But what does that have to do with you?”
“Here’s where the story gets interesting. As you might expect, the poor bastards who live in this little corner of hell have been human fodder for every gang of marauders passing through. They eat the locals’ food, bang their women, and enlist their men and boys in their armies. Like something out of the 12th century. Naturally, the local residents are sheep. Their resistance was broken a long time ago.”
“Until a couple of years ago. Stories started coming out about this Saint who had shown up out of nowhere. The people are primarily Roman Catholic going back to the 17th and 18th centuries when Catholic missionaries were active in the area. The stories said this Saint, a woman, could heal the sick, raise the dead, calm storms. All the typical Saint-type stunts. But - and this is where it gets good
- they said that wherever she passed, flowers bloomed. Whole gardens of beautiful flowers. Now that’s something you don’t hear about too often.”
Debbie just stared at him.
“You believe this? Flowers grow where this woman walks? Sounds like something out of a fairy tale.”
Clint rubbed his hands and took a chug of his beer.
“Of course. Can’t be true, but the people there believe the stories. They believe it enough that they’ve started resisting the top warlord and the other asshole mercenaries working the area. They’re refusing to cooperate, killing mercenaries who get caught away from their buddies. They’re letting themselves be tortured and killed rather than give any information about the resistance.
“It’s driving the tough guys crazy. Nobody’s ever stood up to them, and then this WOMAN of all things shows up and suddenly the natives develop backbones. So every army there has a bounty on the head of the woman they’re all calling ‘The Saint of the Flowers’.”
“What does all this have to—“
He just looked at her and she knew. “No.”
She sat up and without realizing what she was doing slapped the beer bottle and it sailed across the room spraying beer in its wake. She swung at his face with an open palm and he barely caught it.
She pulled away from him and the vision of Bill covered with blood filled her mind.
“Or you could end up a rotting corpse in an African field with a spike up your ass and crows eating your eyes out and hyenas fighting over what’s left. Are you insane?”
He reached out and touched her face gently.
“I know part of this is because of what happened with Bill, but I’ll be with experienced people and people get murdered on the streets of Jacksonville. I don’t intend to die in an African field. I intend to walk away with a book that will get me on The Morning Show and Today, and probably Oprah.”
They held each other in the center of the bed and she could hear cars faintly as they roared past on the highway. It was hard to believe there was a world that could hold butchery and Saints outside this room, but it was real.
The moment stretched out.
“When I come back, and I will come back, I’m going back to Palatka. I never said goodbye properly. I was too hurt. I’m going to put a really nice tombstone up in her memory and try to say goodbye. And then look around for someone I can love - the way you loved Bill.”
He just smiled at her.
“Don’t say it. We’re friends. We’re good friends, but that’s all you feel for me and all I feel for you. I want more. I want what I had. I’m going back to Palatka and I’m going to put up a tombstone that reads, ‘Here Lies A Most Beautiful Lady,’ from the Masefield poem, and I’m going to move on with my life.”
They were lying together and after awhile she told him, “Turn the lights out. I changed my mind. Do you mind if I stay the night?”
As they lay together in the darkness and she eventually felt him relax in sleep, she wondered how it had happened.
She’d always had men in her life, attracted them without effort. And now the man she’d loved for half her life was in another bed, the man she’d left her husband for was halfway across the country, and a man who was probably the best friend, male or female, that she’d ever had was going to go off a half world away and get himself killed.
In the darkness she wept quietly for everything that had been lost and would be lost.
“And that’s a prime piece of meat, my friend, no doubt about it. But I don’t want to break it. Besides, there will be plenty of other times when I’ll be happy to abuse and degrade you. Trust me.”
He gave her an odd look. “Actually...”
She thought about it for a second.
“Don’t tell me. Are you breaking up with me? You’ve bedded the campus sex symbol and now you’re moving on?”
He took a sip of his beer and looked her square in the eyes. “I’m not breaking up with you, but I am moving on.” “What are you talking about?”
He put the beer down on the side table and slid down to lie beside her.
“I was planning on telling you, but you were so hot tonight, as you always are, that I just - put it off. I’m taking an early leave from my contract with the university. It was going to expire in April anyway, but my contract was written so either side could break it without penalty. I’ll inform the university on Monday and they should be able to get a lecturer in to replace me for the rest of the six months or so left on the contract. There are always writers who want a place to hang their hat and a regular paycheck for awhile.”“But why?” “Something’s come up.”
“Just like that - something’s come up?”
“You know I alternate between fiction and freelancing articles. Well, about two weeks ago the company that has given me a fair number of longer freelance articles contacted me about another assignment.”“You couldn’t wait until your contract expires? You told me once there are always new assignments coming along. You’ve got a good reputation and you’re not hurting for cash. Why this one? And why give up a cushy writer in residence assignment?”
“I couldn’t wait out my contract. Not for this one.”
In answer to her unspoken question, he said, “There’s not a lot of time to waste on this one and it could mean really big bucks. There’s this little piece of
hell tucked away in central Africa. It’s claimed by two or three countries. There are some mineral rights, some diamonds, maybe some oil. There are three or four government armies and about a half dozen private armies tangling with each other on any given day.”
“The worst of the worst, they say, is a local warlord. Some say he’s a former French mercenary, others that he’s a Brit. Whatever, he’s a son of a bitch. They say he eats babies, but that’s probably just propaganda he puts out. For sure, his favorite execution method is tying a man’s hands and putting him over a sharp pointed spike anchored in the ground. The point of the spike is....aimed right at the...asshole. It’s high enough that you can’t touch the ground with your feet. You can try to hold yourself up with your hands, or use your thigh muscles to keep a grip on the stake. But eventually gravity does its dirty work.”
“Oh, God.”
“Exactly. He’s covered whole fields with dozens, some say hundreds, of men
—and women—planted on those spikes. A real class act.” “But what does that have to do with you?”
“Here’s where the story gets interesting. As you might expect, the poor bastards who live in this little corner of hell have been human fodder for every gang of marauders passing through. They eat the locals’ food, bang their women, and enlist their men and boys in their armies. Like something out of the 12th century. Naturally, the local residents are sheep. Their resistance was broken a long time ago.”
“Until a couple of years ago. Stories started coming out about this Saint who had shown up out of nowhere. The people are primarily Roman Catholic going back to the 17th and 18th centuries when Catholic missionaries were active in the area. The stories said this Saint, a woman, could heal the sick, raise the dead, calm storms. All the typical Saint-type stunts. But - and this is where it gets good
- they said that wherever she passed, flowers bloomed. Whole gardens of beautiful flowers. Now that’s something you don’t hear about too often.”
Debbie just stared at him.
“You believe this? Flowers grow where this woman walks? Sounds like something out of a fairy tale.”
Clint rubbed his hands and took a chug of his beer.
“Of course. Can’t be true, but the people there believe the stories. They believe it enough that they’ve started resisting the top warlord and the other asshole mercenaries working the area. They’re refusing to cooperate, killing mercenaries who get caught away from their buddies. They’re letting themselves be tortured and killed rather than give any information about the resistance.
“It’s driving the tough guys crazy. Nobody’s ever stood up to them, and then this WOMAN of all things shows up and suddenly the natives develop backbones. So every army there has a bounty on the head of the woman they’re all calling ‘The Saint of the Flowers’.”
“What does all this have to—“
He just looked at her and she knew. “No.”
She sat up and without realizing what she was doing slapped the beer bottle and it sailed across the room spraying beer in its wake. She swung at his face with an open palm and he barely caught it.
“Debbie...”
“Damn you, Clint Abbott. You stupid bastard. Is every man in the world a moron with a death wish?”
He enveloped her with his arms and held her while she tried to hit at him. “Debbie, don’t go crazy on me. It’s not what you think.”
“Let go of me, let go of me before I scream bang and get your sorry ass thrown into jail. I should do that anyway. Keep you from killing yourself.”
But he wouldn’t let her go and finally she stopped struggling. “You’re going to do it, aren’t you?”
“The company has contacts and they think they can get me into the country with an experienced war correspondent/journalist. The guy is good, from what they say, and has been in and out of a dozen war zones without getting a scratch. If we can interview ‘The Saint of the Flowers’ and her followers, get pictures, we can write our own tickets. It’s a joint enterprise. He’ll have his clients for short articles and I’ll be contracted to get a book out of it. It could make me a pile of money. Enough so I wouldn’t have to work again if I didn’t want to.”She pulled away from him and the vision of Bill covered with blood filled her mind.
“Or you could end up a rotting corpse in an African field with a spike up your ass and crows eating your eyes out and hyenas fighting over what’s left. Are you insane?”
He reached out and touched her face gently.
“I know part of this is because of what happened with Bill, but I’ll be with experienced people and people get murdered on the streets of Jacksonville. I don’t intend to die in an African field. I intend to walk away with a book that will get me on The Morning Show and Today, and probably Oprah.”
They held each other in the center of the bed and she could hear cars faintly as they roared past on the highway. It was hard to believe there was a world that could hold butchery and Saints outside this room, but it was real.
After awhile he said, “I shouldn’t be more than a few weeks or a month or two but, whatever happens, I’m not coming back here.”
“Why?”
“You remember when we talked about you and Bill and not having closure. You reminded me that I seem to be hung up on a woman who cheated on me and died nearly 20 years ago. I got to thinking about it and you were right. It’s been almost two decades and I’ve never had a serious relationship with another woman. There’s something wrong there.”The moment stretched out.
“When I come back, and I will come back, I’m going back to Palatka. I never said goodbye properly. I was too hurt. I’m going to put a really nice tombstone up in her memory and try to say goodbye. And then look around for someone I can love - the way you loved Bill.”
He just smiled at her.
“Don’t say it. We’re friends. We’re good friends, but that’s all you feel for me and all I feel for you. I want more. I want what I had. I’m going back to Palatka and I’m going to put up a tombstone that reads, ‘Here Lies A Most Beautiful Lady,’ from the Masefield poem, and I’m going to move on with my life.”
They were lying together and after awhile she told him, “Turn the lights out. I changed my mind. Do you mind if I stay the night?”
As they lay together in the darkness and she eventually felt him relax in sleep, she wondered how it had happened.
She’d always had men in her life, attracted them without effort. And now the man she’d loved for half her life was in another bed, the man she’d left her husband for was halfway across the country, and a man who was probably the best friend, male or female, that she’d ever had was going to go off a half world away and get himself killed.
In the darkness she wept quietly for everything that had been lost and would be lost.
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