The crickets sounded different here
The crickets sounded different here.
Clay had noticed the first night in China that the buzz and whirr of nighttime insects was different than what he had grown used to back in Texas, but he had gotten used to the Chinese night noises. For some reason, now they sounded strange, alien.
Clay sighed, staring up at the ceiling above his sleeping stall.
After Master Fung had dropped that bombshell on him about being banned from breeding, Clay had been hit with a massive wave of homesickness.
The truth be told, his teammates hadn't been that consoling; they'd just forbidden him from going near the gardens and given him his space.
So began a long two weeks of rough sighs, deep silence and restless nights.
Rai and Kimiko accused him of being a drama queen, but if life was meant to be lived without knowing the love of another, of knowing them and becoming their partner and starting a family of his own, then what was the point?
Now he knew why steers just stood around and ate after they had their balls chopped off.
Food had been a great consolation to him, as always.
Of course Rai had started up with the fat jokes again.
The scrawny Brazilian had always picked on Clay about his weight; at first it had simply been the ribbing the big Texan had gotten used to back home but it just gotten old. He wasn't fat, damnit, he was just big and muscular, so of course he had to be a big, stupid, gluttonous oaf.
If Raimundo hurled one more barb about love handles his way, Clay swore he wouldn't be responsible for his actions.
The Dragon of Earth sighed and rolled off of his sleeping mat; it looked like it was going to be another night of reading.
Clay dug a book of cowboy poetry out of his chest and headed out where he could turn on a light without disturbing his teammates.
The large Texan padded out onto the large enclosed porch. It was warm out; not quite at the height of summer when it would nearly be too hot to breathe, but comfortable enough to sit outside in his pajamas and read.
He was just reaching for the string for the overhead light when his tiger instincts kicked in.
Someone was nearby; someone who was trying their utmost to be unnoticed; someone who didn't ibelong here/i.
It had been observed before that Clay could move very quietly for a man his size. Even with that knowledge, it was almost frightening how a big, fair-skinned, blonde haired man in black lounge pants and a loud green T-shirt bearing a picture of a combine and the phrase 'Midwest Choppers' could melt into the shadows.
For several long, quiet minutes, there was nothing out of the ordinary in the sleeping Temple.
Then a startled cricket choked on its song.
The next few moments were a confused mixture of strike, block, dodge, and jab as Clay attacked the figure that had startled the cricket out of its singing.
Then he finally got a good look at who he was attacking by the light of the moon.
"Johnny Betty!"
JB crouched in a defensive stance; a bulky package tucked under one arm. In concession to the warm weather and the need to stay quiet and unseen, she had left off her cowboy boots for a pair of over-the-knee lace-up moccasins, traded her black jeans in for dark blue jean shorts and wore a simple black tank top.
In hindsight, Clay would wonder why she wore her hair loose if she was trying to stay cool, but in hindsight the question would be answered for him.
"What in tarnation are you doin' here, darlin'?"
Johnny Betty blinked big dark eyes at him and blushed.
"Uh . . . . um . . . . I'm . . . uh . . ." she stammered, toying with her hair nervously.
"If'n you came here t' steal Shen-Gong-Wu, I won' go easy on ya, darlin', as much as it pains me t' say . . ." Clay trailed off.
JB was holding out her package, her eyes on the ground. The Apache girl wore a tortured expression that looked as though she would start crying or throw up, or possibly both at the same time, at any given moment.
"B-brought yer boots back," she whispered.
Clay blinked.
In the dim light, he could now make out the shape of the boots he had loaned to Johnny Betty, laced together by the pull-holes with a strip of rawhide.
The large Texan squinted.
They were his boots, all right, but there seemed to be something on the calf, some sort of decoration . . . .
Clay reached out and took his boots. He backed up a few steps until he could reach the string for the porch light and clicked it on. Both Western warriors flinched at the sudden, bright light, but when Clay blinked back the pain, he was greeted by the sight of intricate Native American beading picking out a stylized geometric pattern that . . . well, it almost reminded him of corn stalks, or maybe it was supposed to be cactus?
There was a certain elegance to the geometric pattern; it was bold and masculine, but somehow JB had managed to incorporate a certain sweeping stroke to the lines.
It was really beautiful.
Some part of Clay's mind wanted to know how he was supposed to explain his beautiful boots to his teammates, but he realized that all the beading was restricted to the calf; with his jeans pulled down over the boots, the decoration would never show.
Why would JB put so much work into something only the two of them would know about?
She was staring at him now; practically holding her breath out of sheer nervousness.
"Did you do this?" Clay asked.
Johnny Betty nodded.
"Yup. I made it for you," she admitted in a tiny voice.
'She made that for you; she put a lot of work into it," Clay thought to himself. 'You say something really nice about it.'
"They're beautiful, darlin'," he admitted. "Thank you."
JB grinned desperately, obviously relieved beyond belief.
Clay started to look back down at the boots in his hands, but he was tackled by nearly two hundred pounds of Texas termagant. JB threw her arms around his neck and brought their mouths together with bruising force and 'clack' of teeth.
The newly-decorated cowboy boots dropped from Clay's hands and he grabbed Johnny Betty by the shoulders and wrenched her away.
"OW! Stop that! Calm down!" He yelped.
"S-sorry!" JB squeaked, her eyes wide.
A hot blush hit the girl's face and the Dragon of Earth got the distinct impression she regretted her hasty hug and kiss.
"Now, now . . . don't look like that. Just . . . calm down . . ." Clay moved his hands from her shoulders, bringing them up to cup JB's face gently. "Calm down . . . ."
Large hands, hands that had learned to push pass the boundaries of what was physically possible and break stone and smash rock, rubbed and massaged the dark-haired maven's cheeks and neck gently.
Johnny Betty's brown eyes – in the low light there seemed to be a touch of gold in there somewhere, like honey and chocolate mixed together – calmed and stilled, her eyelids drooping low.
"Easy . . ." Clay murmured, his voice going soft and deep. "Eeeeaaaaasy . . . . you're all right. You're all right."
JB hummed softly, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.
"Are you gentlin' a horse, or holdin' a girl?" JB teased.
Clay snorted softly, half-embarrassed at being caught using equestrian techniques on a pretty girl.
"Is it workin'?" he inquired, taking a step closer.
"It's workin'," she assured him, leaning into the gentle press of his hands.
"Well then, I'm holdin' a pretty girl," Clay said, still keeping his voice at the softest and lowest register.
"I wasn't sure you'd like it," JB admitted. "I was scared."
"Oh, don' be like that," Clay said, a slight frown creasing his brow. "I don' want you t' ever be afraid a' me, li'l lady."
Still being petted and rubbed by Clay's large hands, JB let her eyes drift closed.
"I ain't scared a' you, Clay," the Apache warrior let out a soft, blissful sigh. "Right about now I think I'd let you strap a saddle t' me an' ride of int' th' sunset."
Clay snorted with laughter.
"I always feel safe with you," JB continued, her eyes still closed. "I never felt like this around nobody; I was always wary an' . . . . didn't think I could trust 'em. . . . . experience's kinda held that feelin' up. But not you. I always feel so comfortable with you . . . . so safe . . . . like I belong here."
Clay wasn't sure what to say to that, so he didn't say anything at all. The large Texan kept looking down into the face of the beautiful young girl who had carefully beaded beautiful designs on his boots . . . . he knew intricate detailing like that cost a couple thousand dollars. JB didn't have that kind of money, so she had done it with her own two hands.
She had made it for him; she had designed and stitched and strung the beads all on her own. It had been a labor of love.
Clay tugged her gently forward, his breath catching in his throat.
A labor of love . . . ? Clay Bailey was a warrior monk; he was forbidden from knowing the pleasures of the flesh, much less the love of a woman. Johnny Betty Pecos here . . . what was she offering with her present? Was she offering to love him?
Clay dropped one thumb down to stroke it over the petal-soft curve of JB's plush lower lip. A tiny, feminine gasp shot past her lips. Clay could feel her face heat as she blushed.
She didn't open her eyes, though.
If she had, Clay might not have taken the initiative to tug her another step closer, until her lovely, firm breasts were pressed against his chest, until all he had to do to press his lips to hers was lower his head slightly.
Letting his own eyes drift closed, Clay lowered his head.
His lips pressed gently against JB's, delivering soft, tender kisses on her barely parted lips before deepening the kiss. One of those incredible, intoxicating female noises of arousal escaped from JB. The Dragon of the Earth snaked his arms around her tightly, squeezing her to his chest.
She had said she felt like she belonged with him; by his side. If that wasn't the beginning of love, what was it?
They gently parted, still holding each other close and gazing at each other under the porch light.
Clay stroked a hand over JB's cheek again, letting his fingers tangle in her long black hair. She had such beautiful hair . . . he would have to give her a gift of something for her hair.
Yeah; hair decorations! What else did girls like? Let's see, flowers, candy . . . clothes? Well, maybe not JB; she didn't seem to pay much attention to clothes and makeup.
"Oh!" Clay said out loud. He looked around the porch and quickly released JB to pick up his book.
"What is it?" Johnny Betty asked. "Is someone coming?"
"No; come here," Clay sat on one of the steps of the porch and gestured for JB to join him. "Come here; I wanna show you somethin'."
Johnny Betty did so, sitting on the porch at a respectable distance from Clay. After a moment he scooted closer to her.
"I wanna . . . I wanna read ya my favorite poem," the Earth warrior admitted.
He was more than a little hesitant to admit it; boys weren't supposed to like poetry, tough cowboys especially. He had gotten more than a few 'Brokeback' jokes when Rai had seen him reading a book of poetry.
"Your favorite poem?" JB asked.
Clay flipped through the book until he found the aforementioned poem. After a moment's hesitation, he slipped one arm around the dark haired girl next to him.
"'Mornin' in th' Desert:
Mornin' on the desert, and the wind is blowin' free,
And it's ours, jest for the breathin', so let's fill up, you and me.
No more stuffy cities, where you have to pay to breathe,
Where the helpless human creatures move and throng and strive and seethe.'"
Johnny Betty relaxed against him, laying her head against his shoulder and gazing at the larger Texan like he had just sprouted wings and a halo.
"'Mornin' on the desert, and the air is like a wine,
And it seems like all creation has been made for me and mine.
No house to stop my vision, save a neighbor's miles away,
And a little 'dobe shanty that belongs to me and May.
Lonesome? Not a minute: Why I've got these mountains here,
That was put here just to please me, with their blush and frown and cheer.
They're waiting when the summer sun gets too sizzlin' hot,
An' we jest go campin' in 'em with a pan and coffee pot."
Now she started to look at the book in Clay's hands, a smile tugging at her lips.
"'Mornin' on the desert-- I can smell the sagebrush smoke.
I hate to see it burnin', but the land must sure be broke.
Ain't it jest a pity that wherever man may live,
He tears up so much that's beautiful that the good God has to give?
"Sagebrush ain't so pretty?" Well, all eyes don't see the same,
have you ever seen the moonlight turn it to a silvery flame?
An' that greasewood thicket yonder -- well, it smells jest awful sweet,
When the night wind has been shakin' it -- for its smell is hard to beat.
Lonesome? Well, I guess not! I've been lonesome in a town.
But I sure do love the desert with its stretches wide and brown.
All day through the sagebrush here the wind is blowin' free.
An' it's ours jest for the breathin', so let's fill up, you and me.'"
For a minute or so, there was no sound but the night insects.
"That was beautiful," JB said, wonder in her voice. "When ya think of poetry, y'think a' daffodils an' 'thy' an', an', an' borin' stretches where some fella goes on about some girl in language ya can't hardly understand. But that was . . . that was how it really is when you're out on yer own, just you and the wind an' sky an' good, clean dirt . . ."
Clay felt a smile stretch his lips. He never thought he'd hear the phrase 'clean dirt' out of anyone. He didn't think anyone would understand how dirt could be clean. Internally, the Dragon of Earth parceled out a piece of his heart to a girl he had once considered nothing but trouble.
"That's cowboy poetry, li'l darlin'," Clay murmured. "This is an old one . . . writt'n anonymously, but ev'ry time I hear it, th' person recitin' it's got th' same look on their face as you got right now; like they wrote and lived every syllable an' maybe invent'd th' alphabet, too."
Johnny Betty grinned at him.
"'Invent'd th' alphabet'; list'n t' you!" She swatted him playfully on the arm. Clay responded by hugging her tight, pulling her against himself too tightly for her to even think about striking him, even in jest, and somehow, they were kissing again.
The book slipped to the steps of the porch as the two young warriors kissed passionately. One of Clay's hands found itself on JB's thigh and delighted in the soft, warm, and above all, bare skin it found there. The dark haired girl gave a startled jump; like she wasn't used to someone touching her that way, but didn't protest. Johnny Betty's hands were skimming over his chest, scratching lightly with her nails as she felt his muscles through his T-shirt.
Clay finally broke the kiss, but only so he could let his mouth rove down her long neck. Some deep down male instinct pointed out that there were better things to touch than her thigh and only a few inches higher in those totally 'grab here' booty shorts.
Oh, he shouldn't . . . it wasn't very gentlemanly to grab a lady's tush on the first . . . . no, the second heavy make out session.
Then Johnny Betty's fingers stole up under his T-shirt to skate lightly over his bare chest.
The practical part of Clay's mind pointed out that, all things being equal, if JB got to feel up his chest, it was only fair that he got to touch her luscious moneymaker.
Slowly, expecting a slap in the face at any given moment, Clay let his hand creep upwards until he had one round, plump cheek cupped in his palm. JB let out a soft, delighted squeak and wriggled against him in a way that made his blood heat up fast.
"Dragon of the Earth."
At those soft words, Clay and Johnny Betty shot away from each other, trying to tug their clothing back into something resembling order.
"Um . . . howdy, Master Fung, sir," Clay squeaked, hazarding a peek at the teaching monk.
Master Fung descended the stairs and looked sharply at first Clay, then at Johnny Betty. JB tried to comb her fingers through her hair. Clay, Master Fung couldn't help but notice, stood with both hands clasped strategically in front of him.
"To what do we owe this late night visit, Miss Pecos?" Master Fung asked coldly.
"I . . I . . . brought back Clay's boots," JB gestured to where Clay's boots had fallen after she'd tackled him.
"I see. Well, I'm sure Clay is most grateful for the return of his footwear. Good night, young lady," Master Fung stated primly.
"Um, good night," she murmured.
The Apache girl cast a warm look at Clay, then turned to go.
"Wait!" Clay left his spot by the teaching monk and grabbed Johnny Betty by the shoulders and turned her back to face Master Fung. "Master Fung, please, y'have t' let JB stay here! She ain't evil! She don't need t' stay with them low-down snakes!"
"She has made the choice to side with Evil, Clay," Master Fung said firmly. "I don't know what her reasoning is –"
"Too bad she ain't here; we could ask her," Johnny Betty said dryly.
If anything, Master Fung's expression grew more stormy.
"But Master Fung-!" Clay protested.
Johnny Betty sighed and turned back towards the big cowboy.
"Naw, it's all right, Clay. He ain't gonna change his mind about me." JB suddenly looked up at the big cowboy through her lashes. "Thank you for th' poem. An' for likin' my beadin'."
She was standing very close to Clay now. You'd have to be blind and deaf not to notice the flirtatious stance she was in, or the coy look in her eyes.
Master Fung was glaring at the girl. He muttered something under his breath and Clay felt himself go cold.
The teaching monk had only muttered it, and it had been in Chinese, but Clay could have sworn he'd said: 'I lose more monks to whores than evil.'
Abruptly, Clay was pissed off.
It took a lot to make him angry, but now he was. So Master Fung thought JB was a whore? Why; because she was sexy? She couldn't like a boy without being labeled a slut? Kimiko and Rai flirted worse than what she was doing now and the teaching monk had never said the first word about it.
JB dropped out of her flirty pose as she caught the look on Clay's face.
"He don't like me, does he? That's all right; nobody does," she said quietly.
"I like you, darlin'!" Clay insisted. Without a care for Master Fung – or maybe because Master Fung was watching – the Dragon of Earth grabbed JB by the shoulders and laid a hot kiss on her plush lips.
The young maid squeaked in shock.
Her brown eyes rolled towards Master Fung briefly, but Clay tightened his hold and deepened his kiss.
Johnny Betty went limp against the warrior in loving submission.
"What's going on? Why are the lights still . . . . . on?" Kimiko's voice trailed off as she beheld Clay and JB in a tight clinch.
The Japanese girl's mouth hung slack as she saw how the normally sedate Dragon of the Earth gripped and squeezed his paramour firmly, powerfully, with a dominance she'd never seen before.
Clay glanced up through the hanging shag of blonde hair and his blue eyes flashed with defiance.
Then the cowboy ripped his mouth from Johnny Betty's. For a moment, the Apache girl hung limp in his grasp, a hot blush on her cheeks and a thoroughly goofy grin on her face.
Kimiko looked at the blissful grin on Johnny Betty's face.
She tried to remember if she'd ever felt that wonderfully gooey after a kiss from Rai.
"D-Damn, Clay . . . . ." JB drawled, getting her feet back under her.
Clay smiled benevolently at the girl in his arms. He didn't look like the shy, sedate warrior Kimiko had trained with for over four years; he looked like a strong, confidant man.
"It's getting late, li'l darlin'," He murmured in a smoky voice. "Since you isn't welcome here," Clay voice took on a sudden edge as he shot a killing look at Master Fung, then softened again as he looked back at JB. "Maybe you'd best run along home."
The Apache girl sighed, gazing at Clay in total smit.
"All right, handsome. If'n you say so," she replied breathlessly.
The dark haired girl suddenly hitched up to peck at Clay's lips before she peeled herself off of his chest. Johnny Betty hopped down from the porch, paused to wave at Clay, loped across the lawn, turned, somersaulted, pushed up hard when she landed on her feet and easily sprang up over the twelve foot wall that ran around the Temple grounds. She landed on her hands on the red tile cap that ran over the wall and pushed up again, flipping back upright to (presumably) drop back down to the ground.
Abruptly, Kimiko hated her.
She hated the Texan for being tall and curvy. She hated her for being super strong. She hated her for being satisfied with brown eyes and black hair. And she really, really hated JB for seeing through the boy Clay had been to the man that lurked within.
Kimiko wanted that man; she wanted the blue fire that lurked deep down.
Clay walked a few steps forward to pick up his boots, then simply paused, one hand on his hip, and stared at Master Fung.
"Well, Clay, it seems you have more energy than you know what to do with. In the morning, we shall have to see what we can do about that."
"I reckon we will," Clay growled. His eyes drifted down to the Dragon of Fire. "Sorry I woke ya up, Kimiko. Go back t' sleep."
Clay headed back to the sleeping stalls. As he passed Kimiko, he reached over and ruffled her hair affectionately.
Now Kimiko hated Clay.
You didn't ruffle the hair of a young woman; you ruffled the hair of a child. He didn't see her as a woman; he saw her as a little girl.
The Dragon of Fire glared at Clay as he continued down the hallway.
Of course he wouldn't want her, the woman he had fought and worked with for four years; he wanted some redneck bimbo with huge breasts and a big butt who couldn't even make up her mind whether she was on the side of good or evil.
Master Fung sighed, looking down at Kimiko.
"I fear Clay is going to seriously regret this," the teaching monk said mournfully.
"Yes," Kimiko said with a strange intensity. "Yes, he is."