Page 17 of A Real Goode Time

We went out and sat side by side on the top step, and again, we were just slightly too close. And this time, her thigh was touching mine. Like I was fourteen again with Shania, my heart was palpitating. Before we slept together the first time, every time I was around Shania, my heart would hammer and my palms would sweat, and my kneecaps would feel numb. Odd, that last one, I know. I’d have involuntary hard-ons around her that would last for fucking hours, until I could get alone and alleviate things for myself.

Those feelings went away after Shania and I screwed, and I haven’t felt them since.

Until now.

With Torie.

Heart? Hammering like a damn kettledrum. Palms? Damp and clammy. Kneecaps? What kneecaps?—they were totally numb.

Involuntary hard-on? Had one since…shit, since I saw her in that wet fuckin’ T-shirt.

This was shaping up to be…potentially problematic since, again, she was bound to exit my life permanently, and soon.

More’s the pity for my dick, since I was feeling fairly desperate to see her without a shirt on…if not get my hands on her.

I doubted it would happen before she vanished to the far north, but a guy could dream, right?

Although maybe fantasize was a better word…

3

Torie

Stupid man, with his stupid sexy stubble.

And his ridiculously huge, grease-stained hands, which were always fidgeting. He had so many scars on his hands—from skinning them and burning them on hot engine parts and smacking them on sharp nuts and hard edges. Strong, nimble hands.Hugehands, especially considering he wasn’t a huge guy.

Dad had been a big guy—six-four, and toward the end of his life weighed probably near three hundred pounds and, sadly, for his health, it hadn’t exactly been all muscle. I remember being a little girl and being fascinated by how enormous his hands were. He could engulf my entire hand in his, and if I made fists, he could fit both in one hand.

Rhys’s hands were bigger than Dad’s had been.

I watched his hands, now, as he plucked at a loose thread on the knee of his coverall, the grease in the wrinkles and folds, and under his nails. Even if he washed his hands, I knew they’d still look slightly grease stained, as if the grease and oil was just embedded in the molecules of his skin itself.

His eyes, god his eyes. Puppy dog brown.

Growing up, we’d had a beagle, Mr. Dillingsworth, named by six-year-old Charlie. We all called him Dilly. He had the biggest, brownest, most mournful and expressive brown eyes I’d ever seen. One look into his eyes and you’d just melt and want to hug him and snuggle his big floppy ears, and give him all the treats. Of course, the amount of treats he’d gotten from being so darned cute had probably contributed to his demise at the not-very-old age of twelve. But still, Dilly’s eyes had just been these huge brown pools of warmth and love and exuberant puppy affection.

Rhys’s eyes reminded me of Dilly’s, only less mournful and more…everything else male and intoxicating. Intelligent, amused, kind. So many things, and all of them had this way of just sucking me in. Drawing me in and refusing to let go.

We’d been just sitting on the step for who knew how long, not talking, not quite touching except for the outside of my thigh on his. I had my one-hitter and lighter in my hand, wondering if this was me being a bad influence on this otherwise amazinglygoodman.

I handed him the paraphernalia. “You first. Only if you want to, though. I won’t, like, think less of you for saying no, okay?”

He sniffed the tip of the one-hitter. “Wow. Smells…pretty cool actually.” He glanced me. “First timer, here. Just…light it and inhale, huh?”

“Draw it into your mouth first, and then breathe in. Otherwise it’ll shotgun into your lungs and you’ll start hacking.” I tapped the ceramic tube. “That’s very,verypotent stuff, so one hit is all you need.”

“Am I going to, like, see shit?”

I laughed. “Marijuana is not a hallucinogen, so no, you won’t see anything. You’ll just feel…floaty. Loose. Happy, probably. Maybe a little paranoid.”

He sighed. “Well, I guess we’ll see, huh?”

I touched his hand to stop him. “Rhys—”

He smiled at me gently. “I appreciate that you’re concerned about not pressuring me. But hon, I made it through middle school and high school without giving into a shitload of peer pressure. Like, Shania smoked cigarettes, my best friend Dougy was a pothead, everyone I knew drank like fuckin’ fish, and several dudes I knew well got into meth and crack. I was the goody-goody in my town. Didn’t get drunk pretty much ever, didn’t smoke, didn’t do drugs. Didn’t skip school, didn’t go to none of the parties in Old Man Fenner’s back forty.”

“Old man’s who’s what?” I asked.