Free Southern Spirits by Edie Bingham

trousers – while still watching Cat’s recording.
    Unoffended, Faye’s eyes followed his, as they fucked and watched.
    Ben Oliver could barely hold onto the clothes he carried from the open suitcase to the drawers. ‘Did you see the lines on her? Beautiful example of the Imperial III. Remember riding one as a boy.’
    â€˜I know,’ Hannah Oliver agreed. ‘So powerful and sleek. That GM D-78 engine runs through you like a . . .’ She trailed off, stretched out as she was on the plush bed, but then sat up on her elbows, her face sobering as she looked at her husband. ‘Ben . . . we’re going to be OK, aren’t we?’
    He swallowed, knowing what she meant. It had been a rough year, the company laying him off, being unable to find successive employment, both of them forced to survive on what she earned behind the bar, and keeping the wolves and their final notices at the door. His grandmother’s favourite phrase may have been ‘The truly rich are those enjoy what they have’, but for Hannah and Ben what they had nowadays was precious little. It was perhaps a terrible mistake to spend what savings they had on a weekend on the Silver Belle, but it was so welcome to get away from their house and their problems.
    But the problems seemed to have followed them like cabooses.
    He drew close, stroked her face. ‘We’ll be fine. We’ll be back on our feet before you know it.’ He pushed down the sensible part of him, the one that saw the mounting debts which didn’tgo away, and dropped to her lips to kiss her, determined to at least make this weekend an unforgettable one.
    Tara was sitting on the edge of the bed, unbuckling her black leather ankle boots, grinning widely to herself. It was incredible! The energies onboard, thick, flowing like blood through veins! She’d never felt such a concentrated source before!
    And the people she’d met: that sad Mr Newholme, the odious Mr Kolchak, the animated Mr and Mrs Oliver, and that new couple, with their secrets and dances . . .
    She needed to strip off, shake off the distracting impressions she received from wearing fabrics, even ones made from natural fibres. She rose to her feet and undid her jeans, wriggling out of them even as her thumbs slipped into the waistband of her white panties and made them follow. Lifting her short brown legs from the clothing at her feet, she pulled her T-shirt over her head and cast it beside her. Then she lay back and ran her hands briskly over herself. A vibration ran through her, as if the train had an extra engine with a frequency aligned with hers.
    She was going to enjoy being onboard.
    Richard Newholme took his time unpacking. He was never in any hurry, feeling no need to join in any of the carnal activities. He would be content to spend most of his time in his private berth – with his lover . . . He sat down, closed his eyes and relaxed, waiting for her . . .
    . . . ‘Ten minutes to Willoughby. Ten minutes to Willoughby.’
    The conductor’s voice barely carried through the berth door, announcing the train’s final stop.
    Their final stop too. There wasn’t much time.
    Enrique was in Val’s arms, looking so handsome in his armyuniform, his smooth, sunburnt skin glistening with youth and excitement.
    The room they’d found was bare, the single bed bereft of sheets or pillows, the drawn shutters letting only a few strands of sunlight in, and the air smelt of disinfectant. None of which meant anything to her as she pulled Enrique into an almost feral kiss, their lips grinding, parting, their tongues meeting, Enrique’s shock at her boldness quickly melted first into acceptance, then boiled into a desire that matched her own. His cap fell off his head, ignored. He pushed her back against the wall, then his hands moved over her hips, around to her back, touching her through her navy-blue Sunday best dress, the erection in his trousers