Page 98 of Cowboy Bull's Promise

“Oh, shit!”

Visual trauma.

Gramps is in boxers and an undershirt.

And not just standing there.

No, no.

The old Casanova has got a woman on his lap.

Wearing nothing but a half-slip and a bra straight out of the 1950s. The thing looks like it could deflect artillery fire.

Arliss slams the door shut so fast I nearly get whiplash.

“Oh my God.”

She stares at me, face blazing red, hands covering her face.

“Gramps has a girlfriend!”

I try. I swear I try to keep it together.

But the chuckle escapes like a guilty dog off-leash.

“Is he having S-E-X?” she whisper-screams.

“Uh, well, I think that’s a safe bet.”

She groans. I kiss her nose.

“But he’s old!”

“He ain’t dead though, Mo Chroí.”

She peeks through her fingers and glares at me, but only for a second before cracking up and leaning against my chest.

“I can’t believe it.”

“You and me both. But hey, game recognizes game.”

From inside, I hear the old man shout.

“Arliss, dear! Come back!”

“We doing this?” I ask.

She exhales. “I suppose we better.”

We walk in, and thank every god ever worshipped, they’re dressed now.

Sort of.

Gramps is in a robe. The girlfriend—Mrs. Stevens, apparently—is in a floral dress that still looks suspiciously like a nightgown.

She’s in the kitchen now, clinking teacups like nothing happened.

“Arliss, you remember Melody, er, Mrs. Stevens.”