by Penny Reid
She huffed, released a long, frustrated growl and shouted, “This is unbelievable!”
I pressed my lips together. I wasn’t going to laugh again, though I sorely wanted to. She was so angry and the cramped space of the car meant every time she twisted the elbow caught inside her dress nearly knocked me in the nose, forehead, or chin.
I had to help her off my lap and felt her eyes on me as I set her bottom on the seat to my side.
“I can’t believe you’re laughing. You’re still laughing.”
“I’m not,” I lied.
“You are!”
“It’s just,” I turned her around so I could see the row of buttons running down her back; I swear there were a hundred of them. “Why would you wear this? Who helped you button up?”
“No one. I used a mirror.”
“You must be crazy flexible.”
“I am.”
I stopped laughing.
“Hush, let me concentrate.”
I reached for the buttons again, but now she was laughing. And when she laughed she shook. But her laugh was also pure magic. I let my forehead fall to her shoulder, my hands dropping to her waist, and just listened to the sound while I breathed her in.
My earlier conviction surfaced again: our first time wasn’t going to be in a car. No. I wanted to be with her, make her laugh, make her crazy, take my time, take her time. Even if she didn’t care about the where and how, I did.
As her laughter receded, I withdrew and gathered a fortifying breath, zipping my zipper and searching for my shirt.
She glanced over her shoulder and I noticed she’d freed her elbow from where it had been trapped in her dress, pushing it back through the sleeve. A smile lingered on her lips, but her eyebrows drew together with a question.
“What are you doing?”
“Take off your boots,” I ordered gruffly, recovering my shirt and pulling it over my head.
She only hesitated for a second before I heard the zipper of her boots release and I glanced at her legs. Beneath the boots she’d been wearing long pink and black striped socks that reached almost to her knees. I dug my fingers into my thighs to keep from touching her legs, or rolling the socks down her sculpted calves.
“Duane?”
I lifted my eyes to hers, she was waiting for me to give direction.
“Take your panties off, Jessica.”
She hesitated, then asked, “What about the dress?”
I shook my head. “Just the panties.”
Her wide brown eyes studied my face for a beat and then she was lifting up her hips. I closed my eyes so I didn’t have to see her shimmy out of her underwear, but I imagined her sweet center exposed and I nearly reached for her. When she finished, I felt her hesitate next to me.
I opened my eyes, found her staring at me. Her cheeks were flushed. As I suspected, she was again waiting for me to give direction. The fact she was so willing and trusting strengthened my resolve.
“Climb on my lap.” My voice was softer this time.
She immediately did so, and reached for my fly at the same time.
I stilled her hands. “No. Leave it be.”
“But—”
“Shhhh…” I slipped my fingers beneath her skirt, savoring the skin of her legs. Her hands came to my shoulders for balance, and her eyes grew hazy as I brushed the back of my knuckles up her inner thighs.
“Duane,” she pleaded, both choking on and swallowing my name.
Lights from a passing car in the distance dimly illuminated the interior and I saw the Road Runner’s windows were completely fogged.
I stroked her with the tip of my middle finger and her thighs clenched, her eyes closed, and she stutter-sighed. Moving one hand around to her ass, because she had an amazing ass, I held her in place and touched her again, parting her, entering her once then teasing her with control and precision.
Watching Jessica was a revelation. Yeah, I was sporting angry wood at this point and my dick envied my hand, but how she responded to me, how she moved and sighed and pleaded, wound itself around my chest, filled my lungs. I experienced something akin to wonder.
She’d been right. It didn’t take long. When she gripped my wrist as she panted and rocked on my lap, her mindlessness at my hands made me want to give voice to my possessive and claiming thoughts.
Your body is mine.
This is mine.
You are mine.
I didn’t, though. Even as I felt her glorious body clench around my fingers and watched her come apart in beautiful waves, I swallowed the words.
Because she was mine.
But with an expiration date.
Chapter 15
“The traveler sees what he sees. The tourist sees only what he has come to see.”
G.K. Chesterton
~Jessica~
I saw Duane at church.
Reverend Seymour held two services every Sunday: the “fast service” at eight, and the “leisurely service” at ten.
Bethany Winston, when she was alive, and all the Winston boys went to the fast service. It lasted for an hour, tops. My momma called it fast-food religion. She complained loud and often about the regular attendees, calling them Catholics parading as Baptists.
My family had always attended the 10:00 a.m. service. It lasted anywhere between one and a half to three hours, and community worship was the name of the game. Sometimes it felt like everyone in attendance spoke at least once—asking for prayers, or saying a special prayer, or giving witness. Even after church was over, it was still going on. Groups of people met in the hall. They socialized, ate doughnuts, held prayer circles, and drank weak coffee.
For this reason I’d hardly ever seen Duane at church, and I likely wouldn’t have, except my daddy unexpectedly woke me up early Sunday morning for a heaping helping of fast-food religion.
I suspected he was anxious to get Sunday service out of the way because the Cowboys were playing the Patriots at noon. This suspicion was confirmed when I spotted the fixings for nachos and a six pack of Corona in the fridge—my father’s version of wild and reckless behavior.
We arrived a few minutes early and sat in the back. Duane and three of his brothers—Billy, Cletus, and Beau—arrived a short time later and strolled to one of the middle pews. At first I was struck speechless by the sight of them; four tall, fine-looking men, with broad shoulders and narrow hips, dressed in their Sunday uniform of black pants, white button-down shirts, moving with an intrinsic kind of swagger, grace, and confidence in their step.
Really, it was too much handsome. It felt like an assault.
The last time I’d seen so many male Winstons together all at once was when I was thirteen and all six of them were at a church picnic. Roscoe, Beau, and Duane had been in braces at the time. They were cute-handsome then. But now they were all grown up. I imagined it would be difficult for any red-blooded female to keep focus on the worship with an entire pew of Winston men in attendance.
As soon as my wits recovered from the Winston-handsome-assault, I thought about calling out or making some sign to Duane, but I felt my daddy’s narrowed eyes on me and therefore opted to remain quiet.
Furthermore, I felt conflicted about how our date had ended the night before. I’d assumed things were going splendidly. Well, it had gone splendidly until the very end when I’d tried to reciprocate his wonderful ministrations, and—instead of enthusiastically taking me up on the offer—he’d gently pushed away my advances. He drove me to my parents’ house, mumbling something about having me home by a respectable time. Once there, I received a kiss on the cheek, and he left without making any new plans.
Service started and I couldn’t concentrate. For me, the difficulty was having Duane within such close proximity. It’s problematic for your soul when your body is recalling fleshy pursuits from the night before, and the week before that, and the week before that. I felt a twinge of embarrassment at how I’d behaved, how I’d been behaving since weeks ago at the community center,
how I’d basically thrown myself at him multiple times, and how he’d gently rejected me each time.
Maybe he didn’t want my enthusiasm.
Maybe he wanted to take things slow.
Or maybe my fervor—for his touch and kisses and embrace—was a turn off.
This last theory didn’t sit right. He seemed to like it, liked making me feel good, watching me lose my control. Maybe he just didn’t want to lose his control…
As well, this behavior was not typical for me, and my thoughts turned inward as I tried to determine why I’d been acting so out of character.
Yes, I liked to kiss and be kissed, flirt and have fun. However, anything beyond kissing hadn’t ever felt quite natural with anyone else. Putting on the brakes in the past had been effortless, and I’d mindfully explored at my own pace, even the guy (a.k.a. the Shetland pony) I’d lost my virginity with. In college, if I felt pressured by a boy to round the bases, I’d move on. Walking away had been easy.
Yet, with Duane…well, I realized I didn’t feel in control. I felt needy. I felt urgency. I felt desperate. I wanted to be with him or close to him all the time. When we weren’t together I was thinking about him, specifically conversations we’d had as kids and adolescents, and viewing them through a new lens. He was becoming dear to me with alarming speed because I was allowing our history to tangle with our present.
And, truthfully, part of the problem was I just liked him so much.
I wasn’t going to play games, games were dishonest, but I made a solemn promise to be more circumspect and careful about flinging my heart and panties at him in the future. He’d caught me unawares with his backstage trickery, then his vulnerable honesty at the lake. I decided I was going to slow down, adopt a more mindful attitude. If he wanted to take things slow then I could take things slow, too.
When the service was over just thirty-five minutes after it had begun, I was surprised my father didn’t rush out of church; he even placed a staying hand on my arm when I moved to leave the pew.
“Just a sec, Jess.”
I glanced at him, allowing my confusion to show on my face.
My daddy gave me a small smile and lifted his chin toward the aisle where people were filtering out. “Your young man is here. Wouldn’t be right, leaving without a word to Duane.”
I squinted at my father, immediately suspicious of his intentions. At best my father was indifferent to all my previous boyfriends—the ones he’d met anyway—and at worst he’d been dismissive and rude.
“Daddy, is this your way of telling me you like Duane Winston?” I whispered.
“No. This is my way of telling you I like Duane Winston,” he cleared his throat and returned my squinty expression, “Jess, I like Duane Winston.”
I couldn’t help the surprised laugh that bubbled forth or the smile of wonder that claimed my features as I studied my daddy. “But you don’t like anybody.”
“That’s because ain’t nobody good enough for you.”
“And Duane is?”
“No. But his momma, rest her soul, was the best sort. Now, if I had my pick I’d have rathered Cletus or Billy, but you know how Jackson and I are worthless with cars. It would be nice to have a mechanic in the family.”
I’m sure my eyes bulged. “Daddy. We just started dating!”
“Yeah, but it’s clear that man has his mind set on the long term, and if Duane Winston turns out to be a reason for you to stay in Green Valley instead of following through with your absurd plans, then I’ll happily put up with him courting my daughter.”
I gave my daddy a sad smile and my heart fell just a tad. He didn’t bring up my plans to leave often, but when he did, he always used words like absurd, reckless, preposterous, misguided, and foolish—stopping just short of calling me stupid. I didn’t like disappointing my parents, so I never brought them up.
“Hello, sir.”
I twisted back toward the aisle, finding Duane standing just inside our pew with his hand outstretched to my father. The other three Winstons were loitering in the pew to my right. I realized they were all waiting to pay their respects.
After greeting my father, Duane turned his attention to me. He didn’t offer his hand. Instead he stuffed both into his pockets, nodding once in my direction and saying, “Jessica,” in that way he did, with a slight whisper, and giving me the entirety of his intense focus.
“Hi, Duane.” I tried to be circumspect and mindful—after all we were still in church—but it didn’t work. My simple greeting sounded beyond delighted even to my ears, verging on enthusiastic. Music only I could hear switched on; this time is it was Just the Way You Are, by Bruno Mars—except the shes were replaced with hes.
Goodness, I was pathetic.
Because of the distracting music in my head and the intensity of Duane’s attention, I missed most of the other conversation, and the friendly chit-chat between my daddy and the rest of the Winston boys. I was only able to recover when Duane shifted his attention back to my father.
“I imagine you and Jess have plans for the day?” I heard my daddy ask.
We didn’t. We hadn’t made any plans.
Therefore, I was surprised when Duane nodded. “Yes, sir. We do.”
“What are you kids up to?” he asked, using his Sheriff’s voice.
“We’re heading to the shop and I’m planning to teach Jessica how to change a tire.”
I’m sure my face betrayed my astonishment. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Beau try to hide his smirk, and I was glad my back was mostly to my father so he couldn’t see my expression.
“Good idea, son. While you’re at it, teach her how to check the fluids, change the oil and such. Then she can teach me and Jackson.”
“Be happy to, sir.” Duane gave my daddy a short, respectful nod then returned his eyes to mine; once again I was struck by how he was looking at me.
He was looking at me like he had plans.
“Brown sugar? Why would he put brown sugar in the radiator?”
“Because someone told him it would stop the leak.”
“Did it?”
“No. Brown sugar doesn’t work. But eggs do.”
I’d left church with Duane. All the Winstons had driven their own cars. Now I was facing him, one leg tucked under me, my elbow resting on the bench seat of his Road Runner and my face propped in my palm. I stared at his profile, trying not to notice how he’d rolled his shirtsleeves to his forearms. The man had beautiful forearms.
“Eggs? People put eggs in their radiator?”
“Yep. I’ve done it before to stop a leak, in a pinch. Some places in these mountains it’s easier to find a hen house then it is to find electrical tape.”
“Why do eggs work and not brown sugar?”
“I reckon because they’re heavier when cooked, sink in hot water. Brown sugar gums up but it floats.”
I stared at Duane for a long moment, thinking about his reasoning. “Huh… That’s crazy.”
He shrugged as we pulled into the Winston Brothers Auto Shop. “I’ve seen crazier. People with no money, desperate to have a working car are worse than patients with no health insurance or access to a doctor. They’ll try anything.”
“Tell me something else.”
“Like what?” He didn’t park out front, instead opting to wind the car around to the back of the building—which I thought was odd for exactly three seconds. Then I remembered it was Sunday. I surmised he didn’t want anyone knowing we were here and therefore checking to see if the shop was open for business.
“Something about cars and wackadoodle customers. Tell me something else weird or funny.”
Duane cut the engine, and glanced at me. “Let’s see… Sometimes people will complain about the cost of service, but we can’t do anything about how much parts cost. So Cletus came up with the idea of adding fake line items, to spread the cost around.”
“Like what?”
“Like muffler bearings.”
“Muffler bearings?” I
asked just as Duane exited. I was already out with the door shut by the time he made it to my side, despite his hustling.
“Yeah. It’s strange.” Duane took my hand, frowning at the car door behind me like he was irritated with it for letting me out. “People won’t question an itemized bill as long as each individual charge is small. I came up with a few fictitious charges after arguing with this one guy about the cost of a new transmission.”
“What are some of yours?”
“Well, let’s see…” Duane’s eyes went up and to the right as we walked toward the back of the shop. “Blinker fluid.”
I giggled. “Blinker fluid? You told people they needed blinker fluid?”
He nodded, a reluctant smile tugging his mouth to the side. “Or spark plugs for a diesel engine, power antenna fluid, that kind of stuff.”
I shook my head, laughing harder. “I can’t believe no one has caught on.”
“I don’t think they want to catch on. They feel like they’re getting a good price on the main work, and no one really wants to know how their car works. People just want it to work, they want it fixed." He released my hand in order to open the locked door and flipped on the overhead lights as we entered. The space was just as cold as the outside and smelled like a medley of oil and actual car fluids.
“I can see that. I mean, if you told me my car needed muffler bearings I wouldn’t know enough to contradict you.”
“We don’t do it to everyone, just people who are perpetual complainers, or we get a sense ahead of time who might be trouble. Watch your step.” His voice echoed in the cavernous shop and he squeezed my hand, lifting it as he indicated to a muffler on the cement floor directly in our path.
I followed his lead, careful to watch where I stepped, and spoke as I thought. “It’s interesting to me, how some people need to be pacified and don’t even know it—about themselves, I mean.”
“Lots of people are like that. Almost everybody, to one degree or another.”
