by Penny Reid
“Yeah, maybe. I can see that. I’d like to think I will always want the truth from everybody, no matter what, no matter how uncomfortable or hurtful. But I’m sure there are some situations where remaining ignorant is likely best.”
“I agree, to an extent.” We skirted the garage to a side door, then navigated two landings of stairs to a big room. It appeared to be a combination office, break room, and apartment. A big desk and computer sat along one wall facing the window; a small cot, counter, fridge, and sink were along the other. File cabinets lined the third, and a single round Formica table with three chairs sat in the center.
“To an extent?” I asked.
“Yeah, to an extent.”
He left me at the door and crossed to one of the file cabinets. I wandered in after him, glancing around as he fished in a drawer for a few seconds. “Be more specific. What do you mean to an extent?”
He then withdrew something wrapped in a plastic bag and poked a hole to rip it open. “Well, take you for example.”
“Me?”
“Yeah, you. You’re almost too honest.”
I considered him and his statement for a beat, not sure if it was compliment, or an insult, or a complisult; when I couldn’t make up my mind I asked, “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”
“A good thing, real good,” he answered with no hesitation, drawing a set of new coveralls out of the plastic bag. “I like it. I’ve always liked it. But I worry for you sometimes.”
Now, that made my insides feel soft and warm. I was walking toward him without realizing I was moving, obviously he had me caught in some kind of charming tractor beam. “You worry for me?”
“Yes. Most of the time what you’re thinking is on your face, like an open book for anyone to read. I guess…” He paused like he didn’t know whether or not to continue, but then eventually shrugged. “It reminds me of my momma and my sister. You’re guileless, trusting, and that’s great for me. But it can also make you a target.”
“I’m not that trusting.”
Duane’s eyes narrowed and he issued me a sly smile. “Yes, you are.”
“I’m not,” I protested, feeling my hackles rise.
“Okay, whatever you say.” He shrugged, handing me the coveralls, obviously making a half-assed effort to pacify me.
I clenched my jaw, liking and disliking the way his sly smile lingered. “You think I’m naïve. I am not naïve. I’m worldlier than you know.” Naïve had always sounded like an insult to me, akin to childish.
“I’m just saying, when you trust someone, you really trust that person. You’ve always been that way, ever since we were kids.”
I studied him, wondering why we were talking about this; therefore I eventually asked, “Why are we talking about this? Are you trying to tell me not to trust you?”
“I would never tell you that.”
“That’s not a satisfactory answer.”
His features cracked with an involuntary smile. Then he took six steps forward, walking me backward until I was against the wall. Though he was invading my space, he didn’t touch me. I had to lift my chin to keep administering the dirty look I’d adopted.
“Jessica,” he whispered, his gaze sweeping over my face like he was attempting to memorize this dirty look I was giving him. “My priority is making sure all your dreams come true. You can trust me on that.”
“But can I trust you not to push me into a lake while I’m in my Sunday best? Or switch out my travel magazines with Urology journals?”
He nodded and placed a gentle kiss on my nose, but as he retreated he said, “No.”
“No?”
“No. If I get a chance to push you into a lake, I’m probably going to take it, especially if you’re wearing that dress.” His eyes flickered down just briefly, then back to mine.
I huffed, felt my dirty look transform into a disappointed frown. “See now, I’ve been working under the assumption you liked me.”
Duane’s sly smile returned and his eyes heated; I recognized this look, it was his I’ve got plans look. “I do like you, Jessica. See now, that dress is white. And if it got wet, it wouldn’t matter if you left it on or took it off.”
I kept my eyes narrowed, though I felt my own involuntary smile tug at the corner of my lips. A lovely spreading warmth moved from my chest to my stomach to my thighs. I remembered the solemn promise I’d made to myself during church, not to fling my heart or my panties in his direction, to be circumspect and mindful.
He was making it very hard to keep my solemn promises, let alone be mindful.
Nevertheless, and even though I was starting to feel that uncontrollable, desperate, building sense of urgency, I managed to squeak out, “I’d like some privacy while I change, please.”
The light behind Duane’s eyes wavered, like I’d said something to confuse him. “You want some privacy?”
I nodded.
“Really?” He took a step back.
I nodded again.
His smile was gone and in its place was a thoughtful—verging on concerned—frown; he examined me for a bit longer then said, “You can trust me, Jess. You know that, right?”
“I know. And I do—”
“Good.”
“—to an extent.”
He smile-scowled at my use of his earlier words, then shook his head like I was a nut. “Fine, I’ll meet you downstairs, Princess. We’ll be changing a tire first.”
I gave him two thumbs up. “Sounds good, Red.”
His scowl deepened, but so did his smile as he turned toward the door and yanked it open. I heard him mutter as he left, “Maybe after we can go find a lake.”
We changed four tires. The shop had one of those high-powered thingamadoodles, yet he insisted we do it the old fashioned way—with a carjack and a tire iron.
Next, he showed me how to check the oil and various car fluids, remarking on the differences between several makes and models, like the fact old VW Bugs’ engines were air-cooled and didn’t have radiators. I was having fun, mostly because watching Duane in his element was fun.
I realized Duane Winston loved cars. He loved how they worked, how each car was different, nuanced, a puzzle to be solved. And he told me more stories about nutty customers that made me laugh even though I couldn’t quite follow them. One was about a man whose air filter was sucked into the throttle body, and another described a customer who added eight quarts of oil to his four-cylinder engine because the dipstick looked dry, except at the tip.
Some of the terms he used—like throttle body—made me press my lips together, avert my eyes from his big hands, and fight a blush. I’d never realized before, but automotive speak was ripe with inadvertent sexual innuendos, like manifold couplings, dipstick, and lube.
Or maybe I just had a dirty mind.
Or maybe it was just Duane. Perhaps his mere presence did things to my throttle body.
Or maybe some combination of the three.
Whatever the issue, I was feeling hot under the collar of my oversized coveralls and had to unzip them to my chest, surreptitiously fanning myself after he’d used the phrases drive shaft and push rod in the same sentence. While I fanned myself, I walked over to a stereo sitting on a well-lit table. Small, greasy machine parts covered the surface of the table, making me think the car part was either being disassembled or reassembled.
I switched on the stereo to CD mode and pressed play, curious to see what had been playing last. To my astonishment, the cool harmonic melodies of The Beach Boys filled the air.
I glanced over my shoulder and found Duane watching me with not quite a smile, though his eyes were glittery.
“The Beach Boys?”
“That's right.” He nodded once and strolled to where I stood, wiping his hands on a rag and stuffing it in his back pocket. He’d changed into a set of coveralls, too. However, his fit, were old with faded grease stains, and had his name embroidered over the left side. “Everyone likes the Beach Boys, at least that’s what my momma used to say. Eve
ryone likes the Beach Boys and pie.”
I grinned, because Bethany Winston was right. Well, she was right about me at least. I liked the Beach Boys and pie.
I turned to face him and he stopped in front of me, smirking as he studied my appearance. I was pretty sure I had grease on my face, probably my nose, and several smudges on the new coveralls. I likely looked a mess. Yet Duane seemed to like what he saw because his eyes grew warm with what looked like affection.
“Come here,” he said, holding out his hand.
I placed my hand in his as chords from Fun, Fun, Fun played over the stereo’s speakers. To my delighted surprise, Duane pulled me into a dancing hold and proceeded to swing dance us around the garage.
I was so shocked at first I’m sure I stepped on his toes and did more stumbling than dancing. But the steps I’d learned in college during my two-week swing dancing phase quickly came back to me—probably because Duane was an exceptional leader—and soon we were moving together in a way that felt effortless.
The next song on the CD was Brown Eyed Girl by Van Morrison. I laughed out loud when he sang the words to me—because I could either laugh or swoon—and I was delighted from the tips of my ears to my toes, feeling dizzy with the force of exhilaration and happiness.
Build Me Up Buttercup by the Foundations, I Want You Back by the Jackson 5, and Uptown Girl by Billy Joel rounded out the next three songs. I was out of breath, sweaty, and making no attempt to hide my euphoria when a slow song finally came on; again the Beach Boys, this time it was Don’t Worry Baby.
Duane grinned down at me and pulled me close, pressing my body against his, his bearded jaw at my temple, and moved us in a small, swaying circle. I closed my eyes, using the first full minute of the song to catch my breath. Then I used the next thirty seconds to force my heart to slow. But it wouldn’t.
First of all, I could smell him and he smelled good. So, so good. Plus his arms around me felt remarkable. And the way his body moved with mine, the feel of his chest and stomach and thighs… Oh sigh.
I both loved and hated his embrace—loved for obvious reasons, hated because I knew I needed to keep myself at a distance when all I wanted to do was snuggle, and kiss, and grope him with abandon. But if I did that then I’d likely have to face another of his gentle rejections.
I needed to be mindful and circumspect.
I felt the familiar building of desperation and urgency, but I pushed it away.
He wanted to go slow. I could go slow. I could do that. I could control myself. I could.
I felt Duane lean away, felt his gaze on me, so I opened my eyes and met his. He was frowning, searching my face.
“What’s wrong?”
I shook my head. “Nothing.”
His frown escalated in severity, his forehead creasing. “What’s wrong, Jess? And don’t say nothing. You’re all stiff and distant.”
Emotion I didn’t recognize felt like a swelling balloon in my throat and I pressed my lips together, not knowing how to respond.
And then he said, “Just be honest.”
So I sighed and was honest. “I’m trying to go slow. But, it’s not easy. I, well, I really like you. Like, really like you. I’m thinking about you all the time and last week was difficult, when we were apart. It may sound crazy, but I missed you terribly, and not because you get me all hot and bothered. Yeah, that’s part of it. But you make me laugh, and being with you feels so good, comfortable. But based on how you keep putting me off, I think you want to go slow. I’m trying to…” I shrugged, searched the space around his head for the right words, and finally settled on, “I’m trying to be less wild and reckless. I want to be respectful of you, of your wishes. And that’s the whole truth.”
Duane’s mouth parted slightly and his eyebrows lifted high on his forehead. All hints of his earlier frown had vanished. Unless I was misreading his expression, he appeared to be a little lost, like maybe I’d stolen his breath and his wallet and his passport and his memories. Really, he looked stunned.
I swallowed, not sure what to say or do as the slow song came to an end and silence took its place. My heart thundered painfully in my chest. The moment felt taut and untenable, so I moved to distance myself. Duane’s grip tightened, preventing me from stepping away.
Then something behind his gaze acutely sharpened, and the sharpness felt dangerous. My eyes widened in alarm just before Duane’s mouth sought and claimed mine. He kissed me—wet, devouring, open-mouthed kisses—and gripped my arms a little too tight. He walked me backward until my legs connected with the hood of the Mustang. Pushing me backward, he released my arms, his hands moving to the zipper of my coveralls.
Breathing hard, I gripped his wrists and ducked my head to the side to evade his mouth. Duane’s savageness caught me off guard and sucked me into a vortex of ferocious longing. “Wait…wait a minute. What’s—”
“I want you, Jess. So much. You don’t know…” He unzipped the jumper, pulling it off my shoulders with a yank and trapping my arms against my sides, lowering my back to the car. His mouth and tongue worked, kissing and licking and sucking from my jaw to my neck to my white lace-covered breast. I moaned and whimpered as he did something truly fantastic to my nipple with his teeth and the tip of his tongue. I didn’t know if I’d ever recover, as sharp slices of hot need ran down my spine and to my lower abdomen.
“Duane, please.” My arms were still trapped and I was laying on the hood of the car, writhing and arching my back, trying to get closer. He was over me, devouring my skin, pressing his thigh where I needed him.
“Don’t change a thing. God, Jess. Don’t change a single thing. Be wild for me, be reckless. I love your kind of wild. I love…”
His words were lost as he moved lower, his hand replacing his leg. My breath came in short, excited bursts and I briefly fought the sleeves holding my arms to my sides. But then my captivity was forgotten and I melted against the metal of his Mustang, a bundle of nerve endings and feelings and insensible desire.
He had me trapped. I was helpless to him. As he touched and tasted my body, he watched me, his gaze a mirror of the urgency and desperation I felt at his hands and mouth.
Maybe I was being absurd and reckless, misguided and foolish. I knew he would push me, I had no doubt. But I trusted him. I trusted that, even though Duane would definitely push, he’d also be there to catch me when I fall.
Chapter 16
“I never travel without my diary. One should always have something sensational to read in the train.”
Oscar Wilde, The Importance of Being Earnest
~Duane~
She wanted to give me a blow job.
I suggested fried pie instead.
It took some convincing, but Jess finally agreed. Yet her agreement came only after I pointed out that Daisy’s Nut House would be closing in an hour. If we were going to secure pie, the time was now.
While she righted herself, I grabbed my clothes, took a walk upstairs, and shoved my head and neck under the cold water faucet, thinking of England and the Queen. This was a trick Cletus taught me some years ago. When faced with a stubborn boner, thinking of all those wrinkled, disapproving monarchs in their fancy clothes usually worked.
It didn’t exactly work this time, but it worked enough. I couldn’t keep wearing my tented coveralls, so I switched back into my pants.
I’m not sure why I turned her down. Feeling her lose her mind against my mouth and fingers, this time lying on the hood of the Mustang I was determined to give her, was going in my long-term memory storage for frequent replay.
I should have taken her up on the offer to reciprocate, but I couldn’t. Fuck I wanted to…but I couldn’t. Not until everything was just right. Not until we had more than a few hours.
So instead I tried to recall the names of Henry the Eighth’s six wives, and how each had met her demise.
Both easing and increasing the torture, on the ride over Jess snuggled close to me, opting to use the center seatbelt and laying he
r head on my shoulder as I drove. She sighed a lot. And she smiled a lot.
At one point she picked up my hand from where it rested on her thigh and studied my fingers, holding them close to her face and tracing my knuckles.
“I like your hands.”
“My hands like you.”
She smiled again. Then sighed against my neck.
“This feels good.”
“What’s that?” I slowed to make the turn into Daisy’s, scanning the cars in the lot. It was fairly packed.
“I don’t know what to call it…post-orgasmic bliss, I guess.”
I released a short laugh and shook my head. “Don’t tell me I’ve given you your first?”
She shrugged. Even though we’d parked and I’d turned off the engine, she made no move to relinquish her spot curled against my side.
“No. I’m quite talented at the art of self-pleasuring.”
At this statement, two thoughts warred for my attention: first, I was vehemently determined to get her to myself again as soon as possible, because I’d very much enjoy watching her talent in the art of self-pleasuring.
And second, unless I’d misunderstood, her admission meant I was the first guy who’d brought her to orgasm.
My possessive impulses were back with a sudden fierceness. I leaned slightly away so I could see her eyes.
“Jess, have you ever—I mean, are you…?”
A small V formed between her eyebrows as I struggled to ask my question, but then her forehead cleared when she understood.
“Oh, no. No. I’m no virgin. First of all, my hymen broke when I was a teenager while horseback riding at my aunt’s farm in Texas—thank God, because I hear breaking through that thing the old-fashioned way is like getting stabbed in the hoo-hah. And secondly, I had sex with a guy in college. He was really nice, but it was…underwhelming in the extreme.”
I frowned at this news, irritated someone else had touched her. But also strangely both pissed and relieved the experience had been underwhelming.
“Just one guy?”
