Lucy a Texas Diamond in the Rough

Lucy, a Diamond in the Rough

A Stud And His Fiery Redhead Create Sparks

by

Don Mallord

Copyright May 2024

Author's Notes

My thanks, once again, to Kenjisato for his diligent editing efforts. His work and suggestions continually amaze me as he edits my stories.

I'd also like to thank Achtungnight for his beta-reading as someone with first-hand knowledge of The Broken Spoke, an Austin, Texas, dance hall. That's the site of most of the action in this story of a man and his diamond-in-the-rough lover.

Placing this story in Celebrities and Fan Fiction fulfilled a commitment to writing a story for each of Literotica's categories: a bucket list project. This involved a celebrity, but it could easily have gone into the Romance genre or,

shudder,

into Loving Wives. Placed in Celebrities, it is my eighteenth category with twelve to go. I hope that you find it entertaining.

____________________

Introduction

Sometimes, in numerous old country songs, a man gets caught up in things that cause him regret. Sometimes, those things can be fixed, but more often, they don't turn out well. This story recounts one such man and a girl--almost a woman, a rare diamond in the rough, when they meet up with Willie Nelson at an old cowboy hotspot in Austin, Texas.

____________________

Arriving at the Broken Spoke

I wasn't here by choice; I came for

Lucy.

Dodging through Austin's heavy traffic toward The Spoke, in retrospect, I had time to think about the two of us during those six years. I'd let the pleasure of sex with a willing woman get the better of me. I'd proposed we move in together—then marriage. There should have been time to think that through and time to discuss what each of us wanted out of life—beyond the endorphin-enthralled lust of getting it on in bed with a passionate lover.

She'd left home pissed, and my showing up here anxious, well, I figured things could get ugly. The garish motel's neon sign, "Rooms for Rent by the Hour," flickered in the distance. Driving past it, I navigated my pickup through the jam-packed gravel lot of The Broken Spoke on the south side of Austin. Lucy's candy-apple red Mustang was parked haphazardly on the curb, practically begging for a confrontation. I parked so close, she'd struggle to open her door. It was payback; she deserved it, I figured.

"Let's see you slide your cute, petite ass into it," I muttered, under my breath.

Like a straight arrow, a dirt path drew a line between the seedy motel and The Broken Spoke's front door. My boots crunched on the gravel as I made my way toward it. The dim light of The Broken Spoke's sign cast a pale glow on the well-trodden path. I glanced toward the motel, checked my watch, and decided it was too early... I headed to the bar. If I didn't spot Lucy in The Broken Spoke, I'd follow that path back to the motel and start kicking in doors.

The garish sign on the Spoke's front door still read:

THROUGH THIS DOOR

PASS THE BEST COUNTRY DANCERS

in the WORLD

Welcome Come on In

Inside, the raucous blend of music, laughter, and the smell of sweat hit me like a wave. It was like stepping into a chaotic, dank, musty cave. My eyes scanned the crowd, searching for a flash of red hair.

The Spoke, as they call it, is a cowboys' dance hall. A place wannabe cowboys come to blow off steam and get laid at the cheap revolving-door motel next to it. It's a relationship: symbiotic and parasitic; they feed off one another.

The wry-eyed barkeep caught my eye as I approached the bar. "Looking for someone, cowboy?"

I nodded. "Redhead. About this tall. Goes by—

Lucy

."

He smirked while jerking his head toward the main stage. "She's an Irish firebrand, that one. Good luck."

Glancing around, I saw a few good-looking women dressed much like Lucy. I could tell by how they worked the crowd that they frequented and benefitted from working the Friday and Saturday night 'motel guests.' Still, a runway maven like Lucy would stand out like a lighthouse beacon. She'd have her Covergirl look, gyrating dance movements that drew attention, and... a siren's sensuous words. It wouldn't take more than five minutes for her to cull the herd, picking the more handsome in the crowd. Put ten women in a dance lineup, and guys would pick Lucy first—every time.

____________________

Back in the Day

Before we got together in my first days there, I'd heard stories of how a bouncer had trounced more than a few belligerents over who would own her... that evening. I'd discover that Lucy could have handled her own; no man 'owned' Lucy. Everybody that frequented The Spoke, that wasn't drunk, damn well knew that. So, the stories were told as I drank at the bar. She was a damn fine gal.

"She's an Irish firebrand," the barkeep offered as he set down another beer.

"Who?"

"That redhead you keep eyeing, mister."

After a pause, he added, "That one has danced with many a man like a dust devil blowing across the prairie. Be careful; most find her a real handful."

I smiled, knowing he'd caught me. It seems he was her 'overwatch' and took it seriously.

I'd watched her from a distance for a while, but I never found out if those stories were true... she never seemed to leave The Broken Spoke until closing.

____________________

'Damned seedy,'

I thought, recalling how much it had changed in six years, as

I pushed through the crowd, looking for Lucy. I angled my way through, amidst the herd of guys with their hands wrapped around nearly bare asses in tight skirts, clawing them close. Good lookers commanded high dollars for a trip down that well-worn path outside. The words 'a trip around the world' should have been painted on a sign nailed over the bar.

It wasn't quite like this six years before.

The place was packed as I strained to catch sight of redheads. Lucy's curly red locks would be among them. It would take a while to wade through that much undulating flesh to find Lucy. The place was packed. Of all nights, Willie was playing. It made it harder to see as the house lights were down, and most eyes were on Nelson, playing center stage.

He'd been a bone of contention between Lucy and me once. It got snarly, like two dogs with a bone.

"Why are you dressed like that?" I asked back then, shortly after we'd hooked up.

Lucy looked at me as if I was crazy, or had an ax stuck in the top of my head. She was genuinely shocked at my question.

"Willie is back home and playin' down at Gruene Hall in New Braunfels, silly. It'd be a cold day in hell for us to miss him, sugar. Hurry up, get dressed, come on!"

It wasn't a request, and already in that devil-red dress matching that on-fire red hair, she had that girl-on-a-mission look in her emerald eyes. I had a feeling if I didn't go... Lucy might not come home.

During that road trip to hear Willie, I learned for the first time that Lucy was a Willie Nelson roadie. It didn't matter where in Texas he played; the only way she missed him was as if someone had died, and that might not have mattered much. I felt she'd skip a funeral if she could get in to see Willie Nelson. And Lucy always had a way of wrangling her way inside.

"I used to do harmony for Willie," she excitedly announced, on the drive to New Braunfels.

Lucy didn't need a road map. She had every turn-by-turn direction locked down in her head to wherever Willie Nelson's band played. We'd make many more trips across Texas, this being the first one—together.

I knew she could sing. Good, too. Lucy would fill in for the local bands that played at The Broken Spoke while they were on break. She had a riveting, distinct voice as she sat center stage on a bar stool with an acoustic guitar, and mostly sang Nelson's songs.

I ventured an awkward question during that first drive.

"Why aren't you still singing with him?"

Lucy grew quiet. It was a long, pregnant pause.

"'cause... Willie nearly spanked my ass! Made me go back home; he found out I was... only sixteen."

I took my foot off the gas pedal and slowed down on I-35. She glanced over at me as I dropped speed. Dismay was all over my face, like I'd just spotted the photo of a missing kid on a milk carton.

"Don't be thinking that!" she smirked. "That was an eternity ago."

"What's your definition of an eternity, girl?"

"Look at my ID," she said, fishing out her university identification card.

Hell, I didn't know she went to school. With a quick calculation, I sighed in relief, learning two new things about Lucy I'd not known: she was twenty, according to the ID, and she was a music student at The University of Texas at Austin.

____________________

I meandered across the back rows of The Broken Spoke, filled with four-party seats and tables covered in beer mugs. The crack of breaking balls came from the pool tables in the corner. In the old days, Lucy liked to rack 'em up. It put her jugs out front, and that stretch lured men in.

At twenty-six now, she is as stacked and as hot a fuck as she was six years ago. The fire hadn't gone out in either of us, just... settling into the realization that a party life couldn't be every weekend. At least, that was my thought. Lucy's mind didn't make any such adjustment after we married. Life turned the corner for us this year, like flat beer left overnight. It just wasn't... right.

Like I said, I grew up; Lucy, well, that's why I was here, at The Spoke. When you get married, it ain't supposed to be this way.

_______________

Earlier that Afternoon

"Fuck, Daemon, you've become a stick in the mud. What happened to you?"

"Hey, Jesus Christ, I've got work to do. Lucy, babe, I told you Monday was going to be hectic. I can't spend the goddamn weekend partying. The plans are due."

"Then, I'll leave you to your Jesus Christ-damn plans, lover. Have fun, jerk yourself off on that damn computer, to some porn, right?" she retorted. Pissed, she headed for the bedroom and slammed the door.

I turned back to the CAD program and tried to focus on the exterior elements of the new car dealership I had bid on. Although most of my work was for apartment complexes, this was my first time doing a single high-end auto complex. It should have been easy... Saturday slipped away. By dark, I was getting tired and ready to take a break.

The radio blared out, as our bedroom door burst open. I looked up just in time to see Lucy swaying out of the hallway and strutting across the living room in her favorite, fancy cowgirl boots, an ass-short skirt, and a near-see-through blouse. Her nipples, visible without a damn bra, nearly punched a hole through the silky fabric, just like the old days. Snatching her car keys from the credenza, she ignored my glare and headed for the front door. Her defiant stride on the hardwood floor was to the beat of the music, 'Boot Scootin' Boogie.'

"Lucy? What the..."

"Told you, I'd entertain myself! Just go fuck with your damn—dealership," she groused, as she ended her line-dance shuffle with a dip and clap of her hands. Shaking her titties, she flung open the front door, and slammed it behind her.

"Fuck you," I yelled, as the bang from the door echoed down the hall. I poured half a glass of Jack Daniels. As I downed the top half, the echo from down the hallway returned,

"...and the fuckin' horse that's gonna ride her—lover!"

I poured another glass of amber anger-killer and stewed over what just happened. Lately, she'd left pissed and would come back in a couple of hours, but not dressed like... The defiant look and those pursed ruby lips said this was gonna be different. That look wouldn't register until later, when the effects of that glass of Jack Daniels set in.

An hour more—another glass—nothing else poured from my mind onto the meandering CAD plans. My thoughts ran to where Lucy would be... maybe it would just be line dancing and a couple of beers. Cool down after that, and she'd come home. Makeup over tequila and lime, perhaps, I'd peel off that tight skirt and....

"Who the fuck was I kidding?"

That damn look in her eyes and an angry smirk on that pretty face spelled f-u-c-k me lover! I could picture a pretty boy in tight jeans and a bulging cock trying to get her drunk enough to stroll across the parking lot to that one-hour rental motel. He wouldn't know that he didn't need to ply her with alcohol, just—ask her.

I saved the CAD file, knowing I had to do something about that. I grabbed my boots and spent twenty minutes looking for my keys. I eventually found them—tossed into the trash can.

Bitch.

Lucy's cowgirl image from six years ago popped into my head as I drove to The Broken Spoke. Back then, I had gotten up the courage to slide my ass off a barstool and strolled over to a redhead's table. She was alone then. And I gave her my best smile. I was a stranger in town straight out of Engineering Design—an architect background—and out to rule the world. I landed in Austin, Texas. Guys at my new job said The Spoke was where to meet women... and more.

_______________

Lucy in the Sky—Dance Lessons

Six years ago, I approached a striking redhead sitting alone at a table with a stack of twenties, as she sorted them into two piles. I asked, "What do people do here for fun, hon?"

I wasn't good at pickup lines, but I thought it was a decent one to strike up a conversation.

She raised her curly, fiery-red head with a snap. Those sparkling green eyes raked me over before her warm, sultry voice answered, "Most guys come here to drink. It gives them enough courage to dance. Dancing gets up their adrenaline and

that

gives them the courage to ask... a girl to fuck 'em."

She grinned, grabbed the beer from my hand, and took a swig. Watching my eyes widen, she smiled, then quipped, "Which one did you come here for, tall, handsome stranger?"

I stood towering over her, as she sat staring up; her eyes roamed over me like I was cattle. I wasn't sure how to take that.

She'd set me back a bit with her smack. I gave her a nervous smile and replied, "I've already got the beer, so maybe we should dance next?"

"Handsome," she chuckled, "The Spoke charges twenty dollars... for dance lessons. I teach dancing here."

Before I could stop myself, I said, "You

'teach'

for twenty dollars?"

I took that as some code phrase the place used. My mind had gone far afield at that price, thinking of her as some twenty-dollar...

girl.

Her smile turned upside down as she studied the incredulous look on my face. She was sharp, caught my tone, and like I had wounded her pride, she replied, "Dancing is all you get for twenty,

mister.

Pull a Benjamin Franklin from your fat wallet and see the girls at the bar if you want something else."

"Apologies," I stammered. "I think we got off on the wrong foot, Miss. I meant that twenty doesn't sound like a lot if you have to split that with The Spoke.... not that... you..."

"You've already messed this up, mister. Stop while you're behind, and don't make me put my boot up your ass, as well."

I'd never met a woman so domineering. I nodded, taking her rebuke seriously, left my beer, and turned to go.

"Sa' matter, giving up, so easy, handsome?" she called out. I felt a soft hand touching my back, stroking downward until she tugged on my belt. I stopped.

The Spoke was abuzz with music, and crowds flowed around us. Yet, there seemed to be a bubble in the conversations—one just for us. A sphere that kept the distractions flowing around the cute redhead's table and the crowds away from our conversation.

I caught the word—handsome—her word—and turned around.

"Pardon?"

"The Spoke charges twenty, sugar. I make my money—from dancing tips. My time here pays me well. It just so happens my dance card has an opening if you're still interested."

She didn't give me time to consider before adding, "Tell you what, dance with me, and if in twenty minutes you haven't learned something... I'll set you free. Otherwise, you pay me double—for almost calling me a... Cheaper than a trip over to the bar."

All five-foot-five of her stood up in her cowgirl boots and her deep-vee, bare-midriff-spangled top. Before I realized it, her arm was linked through mine, and we were out in the crowd on the dance floor.

"That's line dancing, cowboy. You up for that?" the redhead asked, leaning in close, so I could hear her words above the music. Her breasts pressed against my arm. By their softness pressing against me, I could tell nothing had them corralled under that getup.

I shook my head, watching her shift into the line-dance moves. I leaned in as she had done, saying, "My dancing style comes from my mom teaching me the box-step moves for senior prom."

She smiled and replied, "In that case, this is gonna be the easiest forty bucks I ever earned, greenhorn."

With that, she took my hand and led me out of harm's way to the crowd's periphery.

"Follow my moves; I'll guide you, stand beside you, and teach you to dance... and five, six, seven, eight..." She flowed into the rhythm while holding my hand, leading me on.

I moved with her, watching and imitating her line-dance steps. Her body swayed and dipped in a way that was as hypnotic as it was graceful. I spent twenty minutes with her at my side, then together at the end of the line, as dancers moved across the floor. I got the hang of it, but wasn't all that graceful. She coached me well. By the end of the hour, I had the diamond-in-the-rough in my arms. Holding me closely, she had honed my Texas two-step moves. At least, I had a smile and wasn't on the toes of her cowgirl boots by the end of the hour.

"You're a natural," she chuckled, as we returned to her table. I dropped four twenties down: one for The Spoke, two I owed her for the bet, and one for a tip.

"My name is Lucy Diamond."

"Daemon, Daemon Walters," I answered, looking at that bright, youthful face, as charming as any Texas Austinite club girl could beam.

"You know... that's almost as much 'lettuce' on your table as you said it would cost me at the bar."

My words, I guess, weren't all that subtle. Her lips pursed again as her eyes roamed over me as if in thought. I figured she was thinking what I was... but then those fiery eyes sparked...

"Sugar," she retorted, "I told you to take a Benjamin out of your wallet and ask at the bar... if that's what you want. When you came into The Spoke, you expected to buy a drink, not buy and own the bar. You paid for a dance with me, that doesn't mean you bought me—and you damn sure don't own me for the cost of a dance."

It took three weekends of dancing lessons before she warmed up to me and agreed to go out.

"How 'bout you let me take you out to dinner and get away from all this noise?"

"Tell you what, Daemon Walters, I'll meet you for dinner; pick a place on Sixth Street, and I'll see you there... it's dinner, not anything else."

"How about the Mexta Restaurant downtown? Mexican then?"

She smiled, "I like the cuisine! Pricey, though. Remember, this is a dinner date, not..."

It was pricey, but then I had a date with the hottest country dancer who had ever entered The Broken Spoke. Dinner was delicious, her smile was infectious, and I thoroughly enjoyed her company. But, as usual, words seem to diminish on first dates as eyes wander and unspoken thoughts emerge in the interlude.