by Reid, Penny
“Too many worms.” I sent him a look that couldn’t be misinterpreted and craned my neck, wishing to discover precisely where in the payment process Patty was with my check.
Deveron quieted for a bit, probably catching the shade I’d been throwing his way, but then cleared his throat and said, “Her daddy seemed happy about it though. Real happy.”
My head whipped around, and I studied him, the man now having my full attention. “Is that so?”
He grinned meanly, maybe thinking his words were hurtful rather than informative. “That is so. I saw him—”
“Where?”
“At the Front Porch.”
The Front Porch being the only steak house near town, where Deveron worked as a waiter. Tips were easier to hide from the IRS than other types of income, especially when one is doing their darndest to avoid child support.
“Who was he with?” I pressed, but then reminded myself not to sound too eager.
“Not with his daughter, if that’s what’s got you so interested.”
I made a show of looking disappointed and rubbed my neck. “Oh. He was eating alone.”
“Nope. He was with his woman, Elena, on a double date with her sister—Patricia—and Roger.”
“Roger who? I don’t know any Roger.”
“You know Roger. Roger Gangersworth.”
“Oh, him. And Jenn wasn’t there?”
“Nope. But they were talking about her, and how she’d called off the engagement to you.”
I nodded, making a fist with my hand on the bar. “I bet they talked about me all night.”
“They did not.” His lip curled. “They talked about lots of stuff.”
“Sure they did. Don’t try to make me feel better. I bet they talked of nothing else but me and Jenn all night.”
“No, I’m telling you, you came up maybe once. Mostly they talked about the state fair baking contest, how stupid Diane Donner was to buy those cows, some sort of new hotel thing they’re working on, and—uh—” His tongue poked out of his mouth and he glanced upward, like he was trying to remember something. Eventually, he smacked the bar. “Oh yeah, and Patricia’s chickens.”
An awareness bell sounded between my ears, but—other than blinking several times—I schooled my expression. Ensuring my voice was both flat and disbelieving, I said, “Chickens? Really?”
“Yep. Chickens. She’s a chicken farmer. Or will be one now, I guess.”
“It’s okay, Deveron. If they talked about me for the entire night, just tell me. I can handle it.”
“I’m telling you, they did not.”
“Sure. Okay. They talked about chickens.”
He huffed, stepping closer. “They did! Look, Patricia said she and Elena raised chickens when they were little and entered the hens into the fair as teenagers, won prizes and such, but hadn’t been raising for a while.”
“You got all this from listening to their dinner conversation? Sure thing.”
“No. Not all of it. I asked her myself, later, when she was catching a smoke out back. Women like it when you act interested in them and what they say.” He gave a superior sniff, like he knew all about women, and fiddled with a square bar napkin, spinning it in a circle on the gleaming wooden surface.
“I thought she was on a double date with Roger?”
“She was. Or maybe she wasn’t. But anyway, I got her number and she told me all about her new chickens. She didn’t know she was getting them. She’s had to keep them inside her screen porch until she could build a coop. We talked for near a half hour. Maybe she didn’t like Roger all that much.”
Unexpected chickens are unexpected.
“How many chickens we talking about? Two?”
“She made it sound like a lot. At least a dozen, maybe more, and kept going on and on about how pretty they were.” He chuckled at that, and then made a face. “She sure loved talking about those chickens.”
“But you got her number?”
“I chatted her up, so yeah, I got her number. You know, fishing.” He winked his smarmy wink.
“Oh yes. Fishing.” My small smile was entirely sincere. “I’m beginning to appreciate the art of fishing more and more.”
Chapter Nineteen
“Too long a sacrifice can make a stone of a heart.”
― William Butler Yeats
*Cletus*
Neither Billy nor Roscoe threw up on the way to their rooms, a small miracle for which I sent upward a prayer of gratitude. Next to their beds, I placed a bucket, a glass of water, and several chewable pain relievers. I find it’s easier to chew a tablet than swallow a whole pill after drinking to excess.
I then snuck out to the carriage house and called Jenn, pacing back and forth until she picked up.
“Cletus!”
“Jenn—”
“I missed you,” we both said in unison. We sighed a laugh, also in unison.
Feeling lighter, I sat on the couch, not minding the dim darkness with her voice in my ear. We weren’t technically together—as in, inside the same room—but being with Jenn in any capacity after being apart unlocked and unwound an unwitting tension within me.
Or maybe, like Billy had said, she held a part of my soul. When we spoke or touched, that piece returned home, and the rest of my soul rejoiced at the reunion.
Melodramatic musings aside, it would explain why I found her presence so addictive, why I yearned to be near her, hear her, smell, touch, taste her. Evidently, this piece of me she carried was essential, and I needed it—her—to feel whole.
“Are you still there?” Her voice sounded a little breathless, or unsure.
“Yes,” I said softly, not minding I could hear my heartbeat, for all the rest of me was now so entirely still. “I’m here.”
“I missed you.”
“You said that already.” I grinned, knowing my voice betrayed it, but I didn’t mind.
We’d been texting every day and talking every night but had agreed seeing each other was too big a risk.
I’d called her after she’d fought with her mother weeks ago, listened to her cry on the phone about how awful it was, and how guilty she felt. She’d been a little better every day since—or, if not better, more resolved—making sure to go out and be places, be seen. Best-case scenario, her father would stumble upon her out in public, they’d talk out in public, and arrange a time to meet not in public.
“I know.” Now she sounded pained. “I just really miss you. Are you sure you can’t sneak over here? You could park down the hill and walk up, no one would see. I just—” she heaved a breathy sigh, and I thought I heard her recline on a bed, or something else soft and aloft, in the background “—really, really, really miss you.”
“Where are you? Right now?” If she didn’t tell me, my imagination would go into overdrive. Hopefully, she was picking her nose or cleaning maggots out of a neglected garbage can.
“I’m in bed.”
I closed my eyes, the steady ache of longing accelerating into the reckless pain of lust.
Temptation, thy name is Jennifer Sylvester.
“Oh,” was all I managed, knowing I’d called her for a reason other than to torture myself, but unable to remember why. Possibly, I’d never speak again, and instead just sit here on the couch, wishing.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes.”
“You sound—are you hurt?”
Yes. It hurts.
“Cletus?”
Somewhere, beyond the dark recesses of my mind, a single word burst forth, chickens.
“Chickens?”
I blinked my eyes open, breathing in deeply. “Yes! Chickens,” I said on an exhale, the events of the evening returning into focus. “I think I found Mr. Badcock’s purloined chickens.”
“You did? That’s great!”
“And there’s more, but let’s start with the chickens.” Leaning back and getting as comfortable as was possible given the state of my body, I proceeded to describe the conversation I’d had with Devero
n Stokes, proud of myself for minimal editorializing of his smarminess.
“You think Patricia—Tricia—Wilkinson has Mr. Badcock’s chickens?”
“Deveron said more than twelve unexpected chickens, fully grown and real pretty. Where else is someone going to get so many good layers all at once?”
“That’s true. All the feedstores round here sell only chicks. Goodness.” I heard sheets rustle and I closed my eyes again, which was a bad idea when combined with the knowledge that Jenn occupied a bed at present and my healthy, heterosexual, testosterone-fueled imagination.
“What should we do? Give Boone the tip?”
My eyes flew open. “The tip?” What?!
“About the chickens? Tell Boone to check out her screened porch?”
“Oh. That tip.”
“Yeah. Is there another tip? Did I miss something?”
“No. That’s the only tip. The chickens.” I pulled off my jacket, suddenly roasting. “And, yes, first thing in the morning, you call Boone and tell him to check out Tricia Wilkinson’s porch. If he shows up to walk the place unannounced, she won’t have time to hide them.”
“You don’t want to call Boone?”
“I’d prefer if you called him. I have my reputation to consider.”
“Which reputation would that be?” Her tone held amusement. “I thought you liked Boone.”
“I like Boone all right, but liking a person doesn’t gain that person entrance into my sphere of trust.”
“What does?”
“Family, obviously, with a few notable exceptions.”
“Of course.”
“Shared scruples and valuable abilities.”
“Like your friend Alex in Chicago?”
“Exactly.”
“What about me?” She moved again in the bed, I heard her adjust her pillow, or maybe she stretched.
“What about you?” Still hot, I unbuttoned my flannel shirt.
“Am I in your sphere of trust?”
“Of course you are.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m in love with you.”
Working on the last few buttons, I pressed the phone to my ear with my shoulder. She said nothing as I worked, but then I realized she’d said nothing for several seconds, which made me worry I’d accidentally disconnected us.
“Jenn? You still there?”
“What are you doing? Right now?”
I glanced down at the last button to unbutton. “Sitting on the couch in the carriage house, taking off my flannel shirt, and talking to you.”
She grew quiet again, but I could hear her breathe. I knew she was still there and contemplated asking if she was okay. I thought about asking what she was thinking.
But what I asked instead was, “What are you wearing?”
Her breathing accelerated, and she didn’t answer right away, but when she did, she sounded out of breath. “My pajamas.”
“What do they look like?” We hadn’t spent enough nights together for me to know, and I found myself incredibly invested in her forthcoming description of said pajamas.
“They’re—uh—well.” She cleared her throat. “My friend in France, my pen pal, sent them to me.”
“So they’re from France?”
“Yes. And they’re red.”
“Red?” I sat forward, my breath catching at my mind’s eye image of her in red. I’d never seen her in red, not really. Just the one time when she wore red lace underwear and nothing else.
I’d like to see her in red.
“Red, with lace for the bodice and red silk for the skirt part.” Jenn’s voice lowered to a rushed whisper, like she’d told me a secret, and I guess I knew why. What she wore currently—as described—didn’t sound like pajamas.
“Jenn.”
“Yes?”
“That doesn’t sound like pajamas.”
“What does it sound like?” Her husky question had me closing my eyes, fighting another swell of reckless lust, and driving the air from my lungs, replacing oxygen with fire.
Jennifer was in bed. Fact.
Wearing red lace and silk. Fact.
I was not with her. Cruel reality.
My throat working, I surrendered to a future with another cold shower. “I think maybe I should—”
“What are you wearing?” she asked, urgency in the question.
She couldn’t see me, but I shook my head. “Jenn, I don’t want to do this.”
“What? You don’t want to tell me what you’re wearing?”
I smiled reflexively at her playing dumb even though all I felt was frustrated, ferocious discomfort. “You know what.”
“But why?”
“Because I’ll go crazy. I can’t—” I breathed out, hoping some of the fire would leave my lungs. It did not. The fire spread behind my eyes, down my arms, spine, and legs. I launched myself off the couch. “I have to go.”
“Come over.”
Pressing my forehead to the nearest wall, I shook my head. My imagination did not allow me the luxury of the thinking without the doing, I wasn’t wired that way. Maybe if these last two weeks hadn’t been part of a larger period of austerity—
“Come over.”
Lowering the phone to my side with one hand and gripping my forehead with the other, I wondered if it were possible for physical desire to tear a person in two. Lifting the phone again, I resolved to say goodbye.
But before I could, she said, “I’m touching myself.”
I groaned. I hurt. This hurt. I couldn’t breathe.
“My hand is in my—my underwear and my middle finger is drawing a circle around my—”
“Get on your knees on the bed, face the headboard.” I didn’t know where that command had come from. Furthermore, I didn’t remember pressing my palm to the front of my jeans, stroking down, but here I was.
I heard her shift, a change in the ambient noise level—like she’d put me on speaker—and the sound of her breathing filled my head along with the image of her moving to obey.
“I’m on my knees,” she said, her tone eager. “What do you want me to do?”
“Take off your underwear.”
A pause, and then a breathless, “Okay. Done.”
“Spread your legs.” I unzipped my pants. I reached inside. “Wide.”
“O—okay.”
“That’s how you’ll sit on my face.”
She moaned, her breath hitching.
“Palm your breasts, feel their softness, their perfect weight. Imagine I’m there, beneath you, my mouth and tongue tasting you. All the time, I’m looking up, watching you play.”
“Can I—”
“No, not yet.” My hand moved inside my boxers, stroking, seeing her. “Move your hips, I want you to move above me. Watch me lick you.”
“Cletus, please. Can I—”
“No. Suck on your fingers, get them wet. I’m still watching, put on a show.”
She panted, moaning again, the image in my mind real, vivid. Existence became something else, a blur of the darkness in the carriage house, Jennifer alone in her bed saying my name, and also me beneath her, devouring her body while she rocked against my mouth, spread open, tasting like heaven.
“Now, make your fingers into a V and touch yourself.”
A hitching breath, a high-pitched whine, a shuttering sigh.
Straining, sweating, burning, I gripped the hard length between my legs, now agonizingly painful, knowing this exercise was only for her. For me, it would be another moment of frustration, another moment spent foolishly wanting and wishing, a step closer to the crossroads of discontent and misery.
“You wish it were me, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“You wish my tongue was inside you, my eyes on your body.”
“Yes!”
“After I make you come, I’ll want you on your hands and knees.”
“Oh God.” Her tone dipped, deepening, her voice shaking.
“And when I push inside,
it hurts a little, and you can’t move, but it also feels good, so good. And you’re afraid, embarrassed, that I’m fucking you like an ani—”
I stopped because she came, her cries rising over my filthy speech, and I listened with desperation. I listened to her lose control, the sounds she made, and could almost taste her on my tongue, if not for the bitterness. Gritting my teeth and pushing away from the wall, I zipped my pants over the painful erection, my jaw aching. I wiped my brow.
“Oh, Cletus,” she purred, drowsy, content, a little shy. “You are very good at that.”
Evidence of her pleasure sanded some of frustration’s rough edges, and I leaned against the wall, knowing I wouldn’t be able to sit. “You’re very good at following directions.”
She laughed, and I heard her sigh happily before saying, “Shall I tell you what happens next?”
I needed a minute to combat the rising animosity that was in no way her fault. It just was. Having her talk dirty to me over the phone might—one day—be enjoyable. But not now. Not after two months of having her so close and yet removed. Like so many weeks ago, the desire to punish her for neglecting me frayed at the edges of my control. But I wouldn’t. I would never.
“I’m . . . tired. I’m—uh—it’s been a long day. I’ll call you tomorrow. Sweet dreams.” Not giving her a chance to respond, I ended the call. I would push her from my mind.
I made a list of all the cold places I’d never been and would like to visit. But when I couldn’t stop imagining her with me at each of those places—in various stages of undress and capitulation—I made a list of all the items I required from the hardware store. But when that list started including items for a sex swing, I made a list of all the biting insects in East Tennessee.
And then I subjected myself to the world’s coldest shower.
* * *
Simmering in discontent, I drank my coffee with open scorn, read the newspaper while unabashedly glowering at the headlines, scoffing at the bylines, and berating the reporters under my breath for burying the lede.
Which is why Roscoe should’ve known better than to shuffle noisily into the kitchen, walk loudly to the sink, and effect a sigh like air leaving a tire.