by Penny Reid
Duane Winston had come prepared.
He intercepted me where the felled tree met the land and placed his big hands on my waist. With one smooth movement, he lifted me from the log and set me on the ground.
He hesitated.
We stood still for a moment—him staring down, me staring up—our bodies separated by less than a foot.
With each passing second my heart thumped more meaningfully against my ribs. The cool November air suddenly felt warm, thick. I tilted my chin, parted my lips to say something, but words caught in my throat. Meanwhile, he stood as though frozen, his expression almost grim, but his eyes were hot.
Duane Winston was giving me a hot look.
“Duane?” I whispered, surprised when his name sounded like a plea.
He gritted his teeth, his eyelids lowering to half-mast. “We should eat.” Even as he said the words his gaze dipped to the undone buttons of my shirt, then to my mouth, and his fingers tightened on my torso.
In that moment he reminded me of his Road Runner: all hidden depths and barely restrained power. Oh yes, I liked his responsiveness. I liked it very, very much.
“Or…” I slid my hands up his arms and around his neck, annihilating the distance separating us with just a half step, and pressed my body to his. He didn’t shrink back, rather he surged forward, his strong arms winding around my waist, holding me to him. My legs hit the log behind me and I felt the heat of his hard chest and stomach beneath the starched button-down of his shirt and the snuggly cotton of mine. Still holding his eyes—which had grown to firestorm levels of conflicted—I lifted to my tiptoes and licked his lips.
It was just a soft, subtle taste using only the tip of my tongue. But it seemed to shatter some wall he’d built, because Duane immediately covered my mouth, a tortured sounding groan rumbling in the back of his throat as his lips moved against mine.
My belly twisted, feeling delightfully heavy. A shock of desire radiated from my chest to my fingertips. I’d like to say all my focus was on the slick, massaging sweep of his tongue as it expertly invaded my mouth, making me feel needy and lightheaded, but it wasn’t. My mind was scattered in a hundred different directions, all of them propelled by a sudden urgency.
I needed to get his shirt off because I’d die if I didn’t feel the smooth, taut skin of his shoulders, chest, and stomach.
I needed to remove my boots so I could free myself of these accursed pants.
I needed his hands on my nipples. Or his mouth. Or both. Yes! Definitely both.
Without my brain explicitly telling my fingers to do so, I’d untucked his shirt, managed to unlock the first few buttons, and was working on his belt buckle. I had the leather strap free in a surprisingly short period of time, with minimal fumbling, then reached for my jeans only to find Duane’s hands already there.
Therefore, I leaned away for a fraction of a second and whipped off my shirt, tossing it somewhere…anywhere…didn’t care where.
Our mouths met and mated again as I clawed at the remaining buttons of his shirt while he unzipped my pants. The sounds of our rough movements, heavy breathing, and frantic kisses filled my ears. It was a symphony of euphoric anticipation.
We were moving, he was moving us. At some point we’d turned and he was steering me backward toward the blanket, Duane’s large hands in my pants, beneath my underwear, cupping and massaging and squeezing. I tripped a little and then I was being half pushed, half guided into a horizontal position on the soft, quilted blanket. Duane covered me, nothing clumsy about his lissome movements, his shirt now open revealing a blasted white undershirt.
I growled my displeasure and tugged at the cotton, hiking it upward at his sides so I could touch his skin as he settled his muscular thigh against my center.
“Take these off,” I demanded, gripping and pulling both shirts with frustrated movements.
Duane sat up on his knees and tore off his button-down, roughly pulled off his undershirt, his gaze moving over my body.
But then, horror of horrors, he stalled his forward progress and blinked, a spark of sobriety igniting behind his eyes as he caught sight of my black lacy bra, mussed hair, and unzipped jeans.
He frowned like he was confused, shook his head, and said on an unsteady exhale, “Shit.”
I lifted my hands to reach for him and he shook his head again, his face twisted with what looked like frustration and anguish. He stood suddenly and walked away, leaving me on the blanket staring after him as he paced to the felled log, followed it to the stream, then stopped.
I inclined my torso and rested my weight on my elbows, watching his back, my chest rising and falling as I tried to catch my breath. My body was still…ready. Actually, ripe was a better word for it. And he’d looked quite ripe as well. But, despite the ripeness of my coconuts and his banana, he’d put an abrupt halt to satiating our hunger.
As I stared at his back, a song floated through my consciousness: (Can’t Get No) Satisfaction, by The Rolling Stones. Why was it difficult for him to take what he so obviously wanted? What we both wanted?
When I realized staring at Duane Winston’s muscled back and fine ass wasn’t helping matters, I stood, zipped my jeans, heaved a confused sigh, and crossed to where I suspected my shirt lay discarded.
He wanted me just as much as I wanted him, that much was clear. It was also clear we’d entered into a pattern of behavior. His withdrawal here, and in the supply closet of the garage, and at the edge of the lake, and backstage at the community center all pointed to the fact that Duane Winston wanted me—badly—but was trying to be noble. Or, something akin to nobility.
I tugged on my shirt and heaved another sigh, marinating in the oddness of the situation. When my previous boyfriends were intent on pushing me further than I was willing to go I broke things off. But with Duane, I felt like maybe I was pushing him. I didn’t want to push him. In fact, the thought of pushing him made me feel wretched. I wanted us to move together.
“You’re a siren who doesn’t need to sing.”
I turned my head at the sound of his words, cutting through the soundtrack in my head. Duane was facing me now, his muscled arms crossed over his delicious bare chest. His expression told me he was exasperated—with himself, me, or the situation in general—I had no idea where his ire was directed.
I gave him a smile I hoped communicated my regret for being pushy, but also communicated my hope that the date wasn’t over yet. “Is this your way of telling me I’m too sexy for this picnic?”
Some of his exasperation melted away and he huffed a short laugh, but then he sobered almost immediately. His focused gaze grew earnest. “Jess, doing this right, it’s important to me.”
I nodded once, faced him, and mimicked his stance. “I surmised as much when you brought flowers for my momma.”
I saw his chest rise and fall before he continued, taking a few cautious steps toward me. “I think we’re suited.”
“So you’ve said.” Something like panic tugged at my heart, and I was afraid of where this conversation was heading.
“But like you said in the car, we don’t know each other anymore, not really.”
“I get it,” I said on a rush, because I did get it. I did.
And yet...
But then he admitted quietly, “I want to know you.”
… I want to know you.
I blinked at him; stared dumbly, really.
Those words penetrated some wall—around my head and heart—I didn’t know existed. He came to a stop directly in front of me, his arms still crossed over his chest as his eyes roamed over my face, and they held reverence, hope. His expression and tone were distracted when he added, “And I want to be known.”
That’s what did it, his quiet admission. I realized I was being self-centered. And, more than that, I felt torn. Now he was forcing the issue, crossing self-preservation boundaries I’d drawn without meaning to, I was going to have to be completely honest as well…and damn it all, I didn’t want to. I didn
’t want our time together to end before it even started.
I had a plan: save money, gain teaching experience, leave Green Valley. Duane’s clear-as-day intentions and my unpredictable, growing feelings were not part of the plan. His desire to court me was not part of that plan. Marriage and picket fences were not part of that plan.
I think I must’ve flinched or winced, because Duane straightened, and even though he didn’t move, I felt him draw away. I knew at once he was misinterpreting my reaction, so I unthinkingly reached for his arm and stepped into his personal space, beseeching him with my gaze.
“I’m sorry,” I said, shaking my head at my blind selfishness, realizing I should have been upfront on Wednesday, when he’d asked me out originally. “I’m sorry. You’re right. You’re so right, and I’m…I don’t know how to say this without being completely honest so, here goes: I moved home with a plan. I’m back with my parents and teaching at the school, but that’s all temporary. I’m here, in Green Valley, for less than two years, tops. Just long enough to pay off my loans and save enough money to move on. I’m not ready to settle down, I don’t think I ever will be. I want to see and experience things. I have wanderlust and it consumes me. If I had the money, I’d leave tomorrow. I thought…I guess I didn’t really think. I just like you so much and I…” I couldn’t finish my thought because my voice caught.
As I spoke Duane’s eyes widened, then narrowed; their usual internal brilliance seemed to dim, fade, as it was replaced with a severe disappointment that completely pierced my heart. Then his expression hardened into understanding; and finally bitter, guarded withdrawal.
For the first time ever I wished I wasn’t this girl. I wished I wanted to live in Green Valley and be content as a small-town teacher, a wife, a mother, a member of the community. But that wasn’t what I wanted, that wasn’t who I was.
I had no illusions my dreams were bigger. My dreams weren’t bigger, they were just different. I’d chosen my profession because it meant I could move anywhere; no matter the city, science and math teachers were needed. And I wanted freedom from possessions—owning them and being owned by them—I wanted to experience the world, not just one tiny corner of it.
Duane nodded, slowly at first. His eyes fell away before he turned and sauntered back to the blanket to retrieve his shirts. He pulled on the white undershirt, but didn’t bother with the button-down; instead he stuffed it into the backpack. I didn’t know what to do, couldn’t read what he was thinking, so I stood by the log and waited for some sign.
Some selfish part of me wished I hadn’t told him the truth. After all, I had two or three years left in the Valley. No one understood my desire to travel the world, why would I expect him to be any different? I’d always been the odd one in my family, feeling like I didn’t quite belong. I’d learned to hide this side of myself, and almost all of my other crazy instincts, from my parents years ago.
Duane and I could have dated, had fun together—me knowing it was temporary, him thinking it was leading to something permanent. I could have kept my dreams to myself, planned my trips in secret.
Then, when the money was saved and the time came, I could’ve just broken things off. Hell, we might not have even lasted that long. Maybe we weren’t suited. Maybe it would have only been a few weeks or months.
… No.
I heard the word in my head as though it had been spoken out loud. I knew with a rare certainty that Duane was right. We were suited. Withholding the truth of my dreams would be withholding myself, and that was exceedingly unfair to him. It was one thing to pretend with my folks, because they could handle me being zany from time to time, and assume my wanderlust was a phase.
It was quite another matter to keep my true self from Duane. He didn’t deserve that.
At length, he lifted his gaze to mine and I was saddened—but not surprised—to see it was completely shuttered.
“Are you hungry?” His tone was flat as he indicated to the cups and covered bowls with a tilt of his chin. “Because I’m hungry.”
I tried to apologize with just my eyes and my chin wobbled; I managed to answer, “Yeah, I’m hungry.”
He nodded again then turned, dropped to his knees, and gestured me over with a wave of his hand. “Then let’s eat.”
CHAPTER 10
“One's destination is never a place, but a new way of seeing things.”
― Henry Miller
~Duane~
“So, how was your date with Catastrophic Engine Failure?”
I wasn’t expecting the question because I wasn’t expecting my brothers’ return until later in the afternoon, so I couldn’t hide my automatic grimace.
I lifted just my eyes from the wood pile, found my brothers nearing the chopping block and watching me expectantly. Then, to my chagrin, Beau and Cletus shared a concerned glance when I remained silent.
“That bad, huh?” Beau scratched his beard.
“I don’t want to talk about it.” I picked up a new log, set it in place, and brought the axe down, splitting it with one stroke.
“Okay.” Beau nodded, letting the matter drop.
“What happened?” Cletus asked, stepping forward and not letting the matter drop.
What happened… That was the question I didn’t much want to think about. That question drove me out here to the woodshed, splitting logs we didn’t need, biding my time until I could race at The Canyon this evening and burn off my aggression.
Last night after Jessica’s clarification of the situation, what it was she wanted, we’d eaten in silence, walked back to the car in silence, driven home in silence, and I’d dropped her off. And that was that. Things were over before they’d begun, because I wasn’t going to fuck around with Jessica James.
There are just some girls you can’t fuck around with, because doing so would be handing over your man card. She’d own my pride first, then my heart, then my spirit. Then she’d leave, taking all three with her.
On my drive home I’d briefly considered calling Tina. I could fuck around with her, no problem. But I didn’t. Nothing had changed, not really. I was tired of fucking around. And the thought of touching Tina when I craved Jess… No. There was no adequate substitution.
I frowned at my older brother. “Nothing. Nothing happened.”
Cletus returned my frown and paused, as though mulling the issue over, before he asked, “Will there be a second date?”
“Cletus.”
“Duane.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Can I ask her out?”
I reckon something in my glare must’ve communicated the intensity of my sudden, irrational, and visceral response to his question, because Cletus lifted his hands between us as though he surrendered, and took a step back.
“Hold your claws, Wolverine. I’m not going to ask Miss James to step out. I was merely gathering data. I see your feelings for her haven’t changed.”
“No. They haven’t.”
“Then I guess I just don’t understand why things aren’t progressing in a satisfactory manner. Did Jackson James do something to interfere?”
“Nothing of note.”
“Did her parents object?”
“No,” I said through gritted teeth.
Cletus pressed his lips together, his eyes narrowing on me like I was under suspicion of criminal consorting. “Did you do something untoward?”
“No. Damn it, Cletus! Can’t you just let this go?”
“No, sir. I cannot. I like things to be fixed, situated, orderly, where they belong. You and Miss James aren’t situated, where you belong. As such, I feel compelled to fix the situation.”
I threw the axe down so the blade cut through the earth. “Fine. You want to know what happened? She told me she’s only interested in a temporary thing. She’s not planning on staying in Green Valley. She wants to leave as soon as possible and isn’t looking for permanent. She’s got…” I paused, glaring unseeingly around the yard as I searched for the
word she used; finding it, I threw my hands in the air and kicked the pile of split wood as I finished, “She’s got fucking wanderlust bullshit issues.”
Beau’s eyebrows arched high on his forehead. “Fucking wanderlust bullshit issues? You mean, she likes to go hiking?”
“No,” Cletus answered for me, his expression grave and thoughtful. “I believe our dear brother Duane means she’s wanting to travel the world, and doesn’t want any strings holding her to one place.”
“Yes, that. What he said.” I lifted my chin and scanned the contents of the shed behind them for no reason. The sooner this conversation ended, the better.
Beau glanced between Cletus and me, he appeared to be confused and confirmed my suspicion when he said, “So?”
“So…” I shrugged. “So there’s not going to be a second date.”
Again, Beau glanced between Cletus and me like he was missing something. “Why not?”
This time Cletus and I shared a look of commiseration.
Cletus huffed his impatience, then turned to Beau like he was going to set matters straight on my behalf.
“Because…” Cletus started, but then stopped. He blinked at Beau. Then his eyes narrowed like he was thinking the matter over and reconsidering his earlier assumptions.
I frowned at them both.
“Now wait a minute.” Cletus held his index finger up and pointed at Beau, then he pointed at me. “No, wait just a minute. Beau has a point.”
I groaned, seething, and glanced at the darkening sky over their heads. Why were we still talking about this?
Meddling brothers. Goddamn chickens, the lot of them.
“She wants a temporary interlude, so what?”
I gritted my teeth, crossed my arms, and decided to wait for Cletus to talk himself tired. But then, surprisingly, his next statement caught my attention.
“Everything is temporary, Duane. This,” he gestured to our surroundings, “this is temporary. Even mountains fall. Nothing lasts forever. You got a chance at happiness, even for a week, a month, a year? You grab it and you hold on to it for as long as it lasts.”
