“You are such a bastard!” I repeated, louder and a little more violently this time as I pointedly tried to ignore the confusing, swirling, humming desire that still twisted in my belly. I used the lingering passion to fuel my anger.
“Nice to see you again, Jess. I admit, you’ve filled out very nicely,” his eyes blazed a path from my strappy sandals to my breasts, “but you’re just as bratty as ever.”
I charged forward and pushed against his chest. “You lying asshat! I thought you were Beau!”
Before I could claw his eyes out, Duane caught my wrists and walked me backward, against the wall, holding my arms hostage over my head; his body trapped me, keeping me in place. I tried to knee him in the groin, but he deftly sidestepped and pressed his legs against mine to keep them immobile.
“Ah, there now, Princess, we’ll have none of that.”
This unfortunate position meant that his impressive erection was digging into my abdomen and my breasts were flattened against his chest. Again, confusing, swirling, humming desire ignited, and I clenched my jaw to keep from rubbing my torso along his. Our eyes locked. His look was still hot but now tempered with something else, something that felt like contempt flavored with bitterness.
“I hope you wander into a hornets’ nest and die of an acetylcholine overdose,” I spat.
“You say the prettiest things.”
“Let me go!”
“Not until you calm down.” These words arrived sounding exceedingly reasonable.
“Calm down? Calm down!?” I bellowed because I’d never been so angry in my entire life. I didn’t know how I was going to calm down. I might never calm down. I might spend the rest of my life as the five foot six, blonde, female version of the Incredible Hulk. I wanted to smash everything, starting with Duane Winston.
“Yes. Calm down.”
“I AM NEVER GOING TO CALM DOWN!” I shouted in his face.
“THEN WE’LL STAND HERE FOREVER!” he shouted in my face.
I glared at him. He glared back. A storm of feelings whirled around and between us. I despised him, yet some nonsensical — obviously mentally-ill — part of myself desperately wanted him to kiss me again. Kiss me and touch me and pull my hair and bite the softest parts of my body. I wanted his hungry mouth and greedy fingers.
I wanted him.
His eyes flared as he watched me, moved between mine then darted to my lips. I wondered if he could read my thoughts, I wondered if I was still throwing him inadvertent hot looks, I wondered at the unfairness of his eyes. He had such pretty eyes, blue and glittering, mesmerizing… it was a shame they belonged to Satan.
“I hate you,” I spat, feeling confused, defensive, and therefore spiteful.
Duane’s fingers loosened just a smidge where he held me, and his thumb stroked the inside of my wrist. I shivered, and I hated myself for the involuntary response.
He cocked an eyebrow and whispered gently, softly, “I hate you too, Jess. I hate you so very, very much…”
Inexplicably my breathing quickened. Further muddling matters, Duane’s pretty eyes were fastened on my mouth, and his mouth was lowering — inch by excruciating inch — closer to mine. As though pulled, as though our lips were still magnetized, I lifted my chin.
Then, like before, he pulled away. Again I felt the loss of his heat first, but this time I felt like he’d also thrown me off a cliff; I was free falling into nothing, with no one to catch me. As well, his eyes — instead of unfocused with desire — were mocking and hard.
He shrugged, stuffing his hands into his pockets, his lips twisted to the side in a derisive sneer. “Did you forget? I’m not Beau.”
I drew myself up, straightened my spine, braced my feet apart, and shot him daggers as I said, “Obviously you’re not Beau. He doesn’t have to lie about who he is in order for me to like him.”
Duane’s flinch was subtle; if I’d blinked, I would have missed it. The muscle at his temple jumped, and his eyes flashed blue fire. He looked like he was going to toss me another insult, so I bent and retrieved my beard, staff, and hat. My cape swirled around my shoulders. I was intent on getting as far away from him as possible, as soon as possible.
“You know what, never mind. Just…just go away, and leave me alone.” I turned, tucking my hat under my arm, and managed three paces toward the curtain before Duane’s hand caught me by the wrist.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
I tried to shake him off, but his grip tightened. “I’m leaving.”
“Not that way, you’re not.”
I huffed, still not looking at him. “Why not?”
Without answering me, Duane turned me around then slipped his hand in mine. I promptly planted my feet in place and pulled out my palm out of his grip.
He turned suddenly and charged me, cursing under his breath before spearing me with a menacing glower and barely-restrained fury. “Listen, Princess, my brothers are probably all waiting for me out there. If we leave the way we came in, they’re all going to see us. Together. And that includes Beau. Now do you understand?”
I frowned at him, absorbing his harshly-spoken statement. At length I nodded once, reluctantly realizing that I would have to accept his help in order to avoid an epic walk of shame. “So…how do I get out of here?”
“Follow me.” He moved like he was going to touch my hand again, but I pulled it out of his reach and took a step back. His eyes shot near-incinerating flames at my retreat.
“You don’t need to hold my hand in order for me to follow you.” I crossed my arms over my chest, closed my cape around me, and lifted my chin. “Lead the way… Duane.”
His eyes moved between mine, dimming, growing remote and guarded. Inexplicably, my stomach flipped, and I felt oddly remorseful.
After a protracted moment, Duane swallowed, his voice thick and gravelly when he finally said, “Sure thing, Princess.” Then he turned away from me toward some unseen exit, his stride unhurried, languid and confident, and still sexy as hell.
I hesitated for a single second, then followed hesitantly. I couldn’t help but admire his backside, the width of his strong shoulders, how is waist tapered at his hips, how he walked, the curve of his bottom.
I kept thinking about his heavenly kisses, his divine, rough hands on my body, his hot mouth on my skin. I pushed those thoughts away, but they were replaced with the memory of how great he’d felt in my hands — long and smooth and hard and thick — and how close I’d come to having him inside me. I bit my lip to stifle a pitiful groan, feeling out of breath and dizzy from the mere possibility.
Despite how I loathed him, I knew now that riding him would not be like anything I’d ever experienced. He was no Shetland pony. He was a stallion.
And, worst of all, I would have to live my life trying to suppress the memory of Duane Winston doing fantastic things to my nipples.
Part 3: Bump in the Night
Cletus Winston took a step back from my truck and scratched his neck. He looked at me where I hovered anxiously by my open driver’s side door and said, “Catastrophic engine failure.”
I blinked at him. “What?”
“Catastrophic engine failure. You have it.”
Feeling abruptly winded, I croaked, “That doesn’t sound good.”
“It’s not good. It’s bad,” he said simply.
I shifted from foot to foot, trying to keep my teeth from chattering. Now ten o’clock and bitterly cold outside, I was still dressed as sexy Gandalf. I was sure my nipples were hard as frozen peas and gave my chest a lovely headlight effect. To Cletus’s credit, he didn’t appear to be interested in my nipples.
“What can I do?” I asked, grimacing at the small, desperate quality of my voice. The evening’s events were catching up with me.
After Duane had led me outside from a hidden exit behind the stage, I took off without looking back and re-entered the community center from the front door. Immediately, my brother and father saw me and proceeded to throw disapproving glares at my skimpy costume.
I welcomed the distraction because every part of me missed the feeling of Duane’s hands and mouth. All evening I shivered, but it wasn’t from cold. I tried my best to ignore it.
I’d effectively put off Claire’s pointed questions. I’d excelled at chit chat with my students' parents — despite my ironic costume choice — and I’d successfully avoided seeing both Duane and Beau. Granted, based on what Beau had said about leaving for Bandit Lake, they were probably long gone from the community center well before I tried to leave. Duane was probably off with that girl Beau had mentioned — Trixie or Tami or Bambi or whatever her dumb name was.
I shook myself out of my weird musings about Duane — who I most certainly did not care about — and tried to focus on something else, anything else. For instance, Naomi Winters’s insistence that on All Hallows' Eve, aka Halloween, the veil between the spirit world and our world was the most vulnerable.
She explained that Halloween was based on a Celtic festival named Samhain and was the most significant of the ancient holidays. In addition to marking the first day of winter, Celts believed that at the time of Samhain, spirits of the dead were able to intermingle with the living. They believed that at Samhain the souls of those who had died during the year traveled into the beyond.
Naomi happened to be a Wiccan. She worked at the library in town and taught classes in witchcraft and Celtic mythology. One might think such a thing would be frowned upon in eastern Tennessee, the bosom of the south, but it wasn’t. This was likely because Naomi was a lovely, kind, and generous woman. This was also because Green Valley was filled with nice people.
As the evening wore on, I’d even sat still long enough to listen to Cletus Winston play his banjo solo in one of the music rooms during an oddly charming folk rendition of Michael Jackson’s Thriller.
But I was tired, and my head was muddled, and I was tired of my head being muddled, and my monster truck wouldn’t start. Thankfully, just as I was about give up hope, Cletus was walking by my truck with his banjo case tucked under his arm.
He recognized me from my perch, and he stopped. Without asking any questions, he motioned for me to pop the release and took a flashlight out of his pants’ pocket. Then he delved under my hood.
At present he was shaking his head, his lips twisting to the side. “Your timing belt broke. You need a new engine.”
“I need a new engine?” I asked dumbly.
“You need a new engine and a new timing belt.”
All the wind left my lungs in a whoosh, and I staggered a bit to the side. I was dizzy, mostly because there were little dollar signs flying around my head. I couldn’t afford a new engine. I couldn’t afford a car. I had student loans out the wazoo.
In an instant, Cletus was at my elbow, his hand wrapping around my waist.
He must’ve realized I was about fall down, because he scooped me up in his arms and said, “You’ll have to grab my banjo and carry it on your lap.”
“What?” I stared up at him, at his brown beard and his perma-serious hazel eyes.
“My banjo case, you’ll need to carry it on your lap. I can’t carry both you and the case unless I put you over my shoulder. But I think that would be counterproductive, seeing as your skirt is extremely short and has already hiked up around your thighs.”
I glanced down at myself and found his words to be an understatement. I’d taken my cape off earlier. Along with my beard, hat, and staff, it was in the cab of the truck. Therefore I was basically mooning the darkened parking lot.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” I shook my head to clear it. “Just…just put me down. I’ll figure something out.”
Cletus deposited my feet on the ground but didn’t move away. “Did your daddy already leave?”
I nodded. My dad and my brother would be on duty tonight. I had no desire to call them for a ride.
“What about your momma?”
“She’s visiting my aunt in Texas.” My teeth chattered and I glared at the monster truck.
I heard Cletus sigh. With his arm still around my waist, he walked us both to his banjo case and picked it up. “Well, looks like you’re coming with me. Do you have a sweater or something?”
“Naw, Cletus. I don’t want to be a bother.”
His hand gripped me tighter. “Nonsense. You’re no bother. But I have to make a stop before I take you home. What about that sweater? A coat maybe?”
“I have a wizard cape in the truck,” I offered weakly.
Cletus grunted and kicked my driver’s side door shut; he then pushed me gently against it. “Hold still.” He said, placing his banjo back on the ground. He took off his red and black flannel jacket and handed it to me.
I thought about pushing it away, but something about his deadpan expression told me not to argue.
“Thanks, Cletus.”
“You’re welcome, Miss Jackson.”
I frowned at the formal salutation. Cletus Winston was the third oldest of the Winston kids and was a full six or seven years older than me. “You can call me Jessica, you know.”
“Nope. You’re my teacher. It wouldn’t be fit.” He grabbed his banjo case in one arm, me with the other, and marched us to his car.
“Wait,” I glanced over my shoulder. “I didn’t lock the truck.”
Cletus shrugged. “I wouldn’t fret too much about it. In order for someone to steal the beast, they’d have to install a new engine.”