Shiver : 13 Sexy Tales of Humor and Horror

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 Te

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 fla

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.”

After the seventeenth switchback I lost count. All I knew was that Cletus was taking me up the mountain because he had to check on a friend’s house before he could take me home.

We fell into a surprisingly companionable silence as he focused on navigating his Geo Prism. That was also surprising — Cletus’s car choice. Here was a guy who worked on cars for a living. He, Duane, and Beau found old classics and fixed them up to sell at a hefty premium. According to my daddy, the Winston Brothers Auto Shop was doing gangbusters business.

And Cletus was driving a 1990 Geo Prism painted primer gray.

I tried to use the quiet time to ponder my own car situation, figure out a solution. Instead I spent 99 % of my brain power slapping away thoughts of Duane Winston and his tongue. He really did have a lovely tongue. Unlike all of my previous kiss-encounters, Duane seemed to actually know what he was doing with his tongue. He used it in the most delightful ways.