Read Tex's Revenge: Military Discipline, Book Two Online
Authors: Loki Renard
Tex's Revenge: Military Discipline, Book Two
Tex’s Revenge
Military Discipline, Book Two
By
Loki Renard
©2012 by Blushing Books® and Loki Renard
Copyright © 2013 by Blushing Books® and Loki Renard
All rights reserved. No part of the book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
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Renard, Loki
Tex’s Revenge
eBook ISBN: 978-1-60968-723-6
Cover Design by stillydesign.com
This book is intended for
adults only
. Spanking and other sexual activities represented in this book are fantasies only, intended for adults. Nothing in this book should be interpreted as Blushing Books' or the author's advocating any non-consensual spanking activity or the spanking of minors.
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Loki Renard
Prolific author of romantic and genre fiction, Loki Renard is primarily concerned with the dynamics of power as they exist between strong willed heroes and heroines alike. There is no room for wilting wallflowers in worlds where dynamic personalities clash and spark, kiss and spank, live and love.
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This book is intended for adults only. Spanking and other sexual activities represented in this book are fantasies only, intended for adults. Nothing in this book should be interpreted as advocating any non-consensual spanking activity or the spanking of minors.
Chapter One
Zora stood on her rickety porch and looked out over the scrubby farmland that sort of passed for being a town. A bottle of beer was clutched loosely in her left hand, a mostly ash cigarette dangled from her lips. She wore a checkered shirt one size too large for her and faded jeans almost worn through at the knees. Her once dirty blonde hair had become a brash red mass that hung limply around her ears because she'd cut and dyed it herself in a fit of misguided inspiration.
She was a mess.
She knew it.
She didn't much care.
It had been six months since Savage had walked out the front door. Six months without word from the man who professed his love for her. She was beginning to think he'd abandoned her, or worse, that he was dead. Maybe they'd killed him when he'd gotten back to the base. The only sign that she wasn't completely alone was the money that showed up monthly in a bank account. A few days after she'd been left in the godforsaken dump a credit card had shown up in the mail and on the fifteenth of every month, five hundred dollars was deposited to it. That alone wasn't proof of life, she knew it was little more than a slim hope to cling to, but she clung to it fiercely none the less.
What they don't tell you about being a wanted criminal on the run is the fact that it's boring. Incredibly boring. Once you get over the daily adrenaline spikes caused by a new mailman or a dog barking at the wrong time of the day or night, it's just like ordinary life again. Ordinary life without prospects, without the chance to improve your lot, just dreary, grinding ordinary life that stretches on and on and on until the distant promise of death.
Zora had made the best of her situation in her own way. There was one automated teller machine in town in the grocers cum pharmacists cum outfitters – the general store. That was a good five miles away, a distance that would have probably kept her fit had she walked it, but she'd put a portion of the savings she'd been making from her allowance towards an old beater. No two panels of the late 70's Ford were the same and there was an oil leak that nobody could quite put their finger on, but it got her into what passed for a town center well enough and allowed her to stock up on beer.
The fifteenth of the month had rolled around yet again and she was heading out on a supply run, eager to see if the money was there, but even more eager to drop by the town's only bar. She scuffed down the steps of the porch and yanked the car door open then slid into the driver's seat, drained the rest of the bottle between her cracked lips then tossed it into the growing pile of abandoned bottles that were piling up along the foundations of the house.
The car failed to start on the first try, but roared into life on the second twist of the key that she never bothered to take out of the ignition. Smoke came sputtering out of the tail pipe in great billowing clouds and she was off down the dusty, bumpy roads. She passed near the turn off to the main road and just like every time, there was a wild impulse to take that turn off and go zooming back to Savage. Memories of armed men slamming through hotels and choppers hovering above made her hesitate however, and she remembered his promise. He said he'd come for her if he could. If he could.
She scowled at the dusty road. Savage had never been able to make life anything more than mildly tolerable for her. He should have left her alone in the first place. He should never have dragged her out of her life and forced her into the military servitude that had put her in such danger. It was his fault as much as it was the fault of his evil superiors. It was his fault and yet day after day she waited for some sign that he was still there, that he still cared, that he still loved her. The waiting and longing twisted her mind and heart so she took refuge in the alcohol. After a few drinks the pain would go away to be replaced by something more rosy and glowy. Sunsets were better after a glass or two, so was breakfast for that matter.
Before long she was in town. Not that town was largely different from not town. The center of Iron Horse was two things, the general store and the bar. Zora parked outside the bar and went inside. First things first, money was nice, but it could wait.
“Hey Laura,” Melissa the bartender sang out as Zora entered. Laura was the name Zora had taken to protect her real identity. As Laura told things, she'd once been a high flying Hollywood type before suffering a nervous breakdown and retiring to Iron Horse. It was a solid enough story and as the few townsfolk had all witnessed her transformation from toned blonde bombshell to slightly chunky red head, nobody much questioned it anymore.
“Whiskey,” Zora said, slapping a twenty dollar note on the bar and settling into her favorite stool, the one right at the end of the bar where the lights weren't so bright, where nobody bothered her.
“Coming right up.” There was no need to ask how Laura wanted her whiskey. She always had it the same way, double shot on the rocks. A kind hearted middle aged woman with breasts the size of Zora's head, Melissa slid the drink over to Laura along with her change. “You doing okay?”
“Better now.” Zora made an attempt at a smile that came out looking more like a sick grimace and took a big sip of the whiskey. It burned, oh it burned so good, a potent heat seeping through her chest and belly, making everything okay.
“A drink makes the day right, doesn't it?” Melissa beamed with good humor. She took her role as enabler quite seriously. She'd never been known to turn anyone down for a drink. If you could still articulate what you wanted and you had the coin to pay for it, well, Melissa reckoned it was your god given right to have it.
Zora downed her drink and ordered another. Things were beginning to look up for the day. A beer buzz didn't cut it anymore, not really, left too much room for thoughts. Now whiskey on the other hand, whiskey was an entirely different beast.
Whilst she was contemplating the wonder that was whiskey, the bar door opened and a man entered. Zora didn't see him, but she could tell by the way Melissa's face lit up that it was a man, and a handsome one at that. Melissa didn't believe in playing hard to get or hiding her desire. When she saw something she liked her lips would become pouty, her eyelashes would start batting and she'd stick her chest out for all that she was worth.
“Hey stranger.” Melissa's voice dripped with honeyed seduction.
“Howdy ladies,” a deep, gravelly voice responded. Melissa almost cooed with joy and even Zora felt a shiver pass through her. The man had some voice. She found herself glancing over her shoulder as he approached the bar. Her first impression was of a sleek blackness. He was dressed in a black silk shirt and black jeans – not the sort of attire suitable for a dusty little town. His boots, which had probably been clean before he arrived were already covered in a light golden dust.
