Chapter 7

They drove back home in silence. As Hank braked the car to a halt in the drive, he turned and looked down at her. Above them, the trees held back the moonlight, and she could glimpse his face only as a pale blur in the darkness. Beyond him the lawn lay dappled in moonlight and shadow, and there was the faintest possible stirring of night wind.

"Why is it," he spoke out of the silence that gripped them, "that every time you and I are together, we fight?"

"I honestly don't know," Cynthia said. "I think it must be that we live in two different worlds as far apart as the stars. The things that seem important to you are meaningless to me; the things I feel are important seem silly to you. So how could we possibly be friends?"

She saw by the shifting of the blur that was his face that he had shaken his head.

Her mind whipped off into fantasyland, which at this point was the only place she could meet Hank and explore their ideas of pleasure. Or at least her ideas of their ideas of pleasure.

But she knew what he would like right now. She could lean over and grab that big throbber that lay inert in his pants, and put her face and hands to it and smother the bulging and growing peckerhead with soft and wet sensations. As it grew she could trace the ever-larger line in the front of his jeans with her teeth, putting them lightly on either side of the fat bulge and gripping it.

Then she could bring her hands to the fly and clasp and open the trousers, letting his dork pop out and stand erect from the car seat like a flesh-toned stick shift. As far as Cynthia felt, the blue-veined pecker was a shifter. By riding it around she could gear up a man into overdrive.

She could put her hands around the bottom of the fat thing and make it get even harder with a few firm strokes. She wouldn't fist it-oh no. She would hold her thumb upon the top of the base and put her fingertips-right at the tickling nails-side by side along the thin line that ran at the bottom.

Then she would pull, slowly of course at first.

She would increase her speed, but only after long and labored minutes of pulling at his rippled foreskin and watching the prick stab away underneath her grip.

He would start making low noises in his throat, maybe start asking her to "Suck it,"

"Chew it!" or "Swallow my knob...."

She was ready and willing to do it all in her head, but not in real life....Not yet.

Then she thought about her mouth around Hank's custom shifter, licking the knob round and round until it shone like chrome.

Of course she would feel his poor cock bucking around and twitching between her lips. She didn't care-she was ready to gobble it down and deep-throat it.

She could feel the fat thickness moving along her spread lips, so tight that every ripple and vein in him could be felt as she slowly sucked him past and tucked his helmet into her throat.

Her lips would then be chewing at him, pulling up at the length to try to enjoin his juices to free flowing splendor. It would happen in time.

She would then be bobbing on the pecker, holding it at the bottom and jerking it deftly while her mouth swallowed and circled about the rest of it, keeping the tool hard and happy in her face.

Then she would be sucking him down and in and pulling his spitting love semen into her mouth, where it would flow easily down her gulping throat and make her stomach warm and content.

Then, she knew, he'd want to fuck.

What he would probably do was to lean over and grab her hips under her dress. He'd pull the dress up and her panties down. And then he wouldn't eat her cunny, but instead he'd give her his best hand job.

He'd form a cock with his fingers and take that hand and shove it in her bush. The other hand would grasp her clit, and in his complete control she would writhe there on the car seat, until she finally flowed so heavy and full that he climbed in and took her fast, wet, and gobbing with sperm.

But alas, Hank was talking too seriously tonight.

"The only thing I need is to know that you love me and that you're going to marry me!" he insisted firmly, as he got out of the car and lifted her down and held her cradled for a long, exquisite moment tight in his arms.

"I love you, Hank, but marriage?" Her voice shook.

"I know. It's a big word, and we're both scared of it and all it means, but we're not going to let it throw us, are we? Hush your mouth, baby," said Hank very softly, and silenced her quivering lips with a kiss. "I said we'd find a way, and we will. But we're not going to worry about that now. We're going to relax, and enjoy this earth-shaking discovery that we have just made.

He held her tightly for a moment, then let her go and without another word went down the steps and out to his car and drove away.

Cynthia stood where she was in the darkness, watching as the red taillight on his car winked out of sight, before she turned and went soberly into the house....

When she came down to breakfast next morning, Maggie shot her a probing glance.

"If you were a drinkin' woman, which, praises be, I know you're not, I'd swear you had a hangover," Maggie accused her.

"I didn't sleep very well," Cynthia answered, and there was a curtness in her tone that silenced Maggie's teasing tongue.

It was not until after breakfast, when they were in the car driving into town, that Cynthia said without preamble, "Hank Dowler is in love with me."

Maggie nodded, completely unsurprised.

"Of course," she said cheerfully.

Cynthia stared at her.

"What do you mean-'of course'?" Aren't you surprised?" she demanded sharply. Maggie's eyebrows went up slightly. "Should I be?" she asked mildly.

"Well, I am!"

"It's your own fault, then," Maggie said comfortably. "I tried to warn you and you wouldn't listen. Question now is-are you in love with him?"

Cynthia set her teeth hard, in the hope of steadying her voice, and said huskily, "Yes, Maggie."

Maggie nodded. "Then what's your problem?" she asked reasonably.

"Oh, Maggie, for heaven's sake!" Cynthia burst out sharply. "There are so many problems, and I'm scared of them!"

"Oh, fiddle-faddle!" snorted Maggie. "If you love him and he loves you, then I can't see any problem except the one that ends, 'And so they were married and lived happily ever after.' "

"Where?" asked Cynthia flatly.

Maggie stared at her, as Cynthia slid the car expertly into its accustomed parking place and switched off the ignition.

"Where? Well, here in Reidsville, of course," Maggie answered. "There are a lot of opportunities for enterprising young men like Hank Dowler."

"Such as opening a service station?" suggested Cynthia dryly.

"Well, why the blazes not? He ought to know a whale of a lot about cars."

"You heard him on the subject of his pal, Jenks, and the service station."

Maggie made a little gesture of dismissal.

"Oh, that was Jenks," she pointed out. "When it's Hank himself, he'll see what a smart trick it is."

"Maggie, he wants to drive in the Grand Prix at Sebring in April," Cynthia told her grimly.

"So let him run in the Grand Prix, whatever the heck it may be."

"It seems to be an endurance race for sports cars and their drivers, and whoever wins the most points is declared world's champion race driver."

"Well, that should give him a nice big cash prize."

"There's not much money in racing, he told me. The men who do it are in for the, the thrills!"

"Well, do tell!" Maggie was unimpressed. "That sounds like kid stuff. You'd think a man Hank's age would want something with a little more coin of the realm in it."

Cynthia got out of the car, locked it, and she and Maggie walked to the stairs leading up to her office.

"Funny," said Maggie, when Cynthia seemed disinclined to speak. "I wondered why an outfit as famous as the Lucky Devils would condescend to race here in our small country fair."

"It's a 'tune-up' for the more important stuff in Florida a little later, when the winter season opens. Their share of the gate here will just about pay their expenses, I imagine."

They were at the top of the stairs now, and Maggie, panting a little from the climb, fitted her key into the lock, swung the door and said cheerfully, "Oh, well, you're not planning to be married tomorrow, are you?"

"Of course not, Maggie," Cynthia gasped. "We're not even sure we're going to be married at all."

"Oh, come now. If you're in love-" Maggie scolded.

"But, Maggie, how could such a marraige work out? All the cards are stacked against it. It just wouldn't-it couldn't!"

Maggie said levelly, "That will depend on you and Hank, you know."

"What does that mean?" Cynthia demanded.

"It means that you'll both have to give in a little, adjust yourselves and your plans."

"It's hopeless, Maggie, and you know it," Cynthia said harshly, and went on into her own office.

Maggie uncovered her typewriter, carefully watered the pots of African violets that blanketed the sunny windowsill, and settled down to the morning's mail.

Shortly before noon there were footsteps on the stairs, and Cynthia's heart turned over in her breast and her eyes flew to the door. And then as she saw Clint Kirby, she tried hard to hide the disappointment.

"Hello, Duchess." Clint greeted Maggie with a bow, and turned his eyes to Cynthia. "Howdy, ma'am. I brung you some business."

Maggie snorted disdainfully.

"Why? Is it crooked?" she demanded. "On second thought, it couldn't be or you'd handle it yourself."

Clint looked mildly hurt.

"Now, Duchess!" he chided her, and turned back to Cynthia. "Come on, honey. I'll buy your lunch and tell you all about it in a more friendly atmosphere."

"Oh, Clint, I'm afraid-" Cynthia hesitated, and the glint in Clint's eye deepened to hostility.

"If you're waiting for Dowler to ask you to lunch, you may have quite a long wait," he said coldly. "He left for Jacksonville a couple of hours ago. Told the desk clerk he wouldn't be back until Thursday when his carnival crowd gets here."

Cynthia caught her breath and her eyes widened.

"Hank's gone?" She couldn't quite keep her voice steady.

Clint drawled, "You mean he didn't phone you? How very rude of him!"

"Clint Kirby, now don't you-" Maggie began, but Clint turned a cold eye on her.

"You keep out of this, Duchess." His tone was like the flick of a whip as he turned back to Cynthia. "Come on; I want to talk to you."

Cynthia stood up, her mouth a thin line, her eyes cool.

"You know where I'll be, Maggie, if I'm needed," she said, and walked with Clint out of the office and down the stairs.

In the hotel, when Clint had seated her and they had given their order, he leaned toward her across the table, his strong-looking, tanned hands locked together on the white-clad table.

"Now see here, Cynthia," his voice was low-pitched, but that did not conceal the fact that he was angry, "I've had about all of this I'm going to take. It's way past time that you woke up and realized what an utter fool you're making of yourself about this Dowler guy."

Cynthia stiffened, her eyes hot.

"I can't see that it's any business of yours what I do, Clint Kirby!"

"Oh, stop horsing around, Cynthia! You know you're my girl; that we're going to be married just as soon as I can get myself set so that I can take proper care of you."

"I don't know anything of the sort!"

"Then you're the only person in town who doesn't!" Clint told her. "It's been understood ever since we were kids. My folks knew it, your folks new it. And I won't let you go on getting yourself talked about by spending so much time with a here-today-gone-tomorrow circus mountebank like Hank Dowler!"

Cynthia said thickly, "You are being perfectly ridiculous!"

"I'm behaving like any normal man who wants his wife to be above the merest breath of scandal or idle chatter."

"I've lived in Reidsville all my life, and if I can't see a male client now and then without creating a scandal-"

Clint's eyes were shrewd, scrutinizing her sharply.

"If that's all he is to you-"

"What else could he be?" asked Cynthia.

"That's what I want you to tell me," Clint said grimly. "Do you always go dancing with your male clients in places like the Green Lantern?"

Cynthia caught her breath, and color touched her cheeks, and Clint nodded as though she had answered him.

"Sure, I know about that," he told her grimly. "I know every time you've seen him. His visits to your office, to your home, the long ride you took together out to the Big Swamp to collect Bud's wife and kid. And now I'm telling you that it's got to stop."

"Are you indeed?" Cynthia's eyes were blazing now, and her voice shook with the fury of her resentment. "And just where do you get off telling me anything, Clinton Kirby? You have no strings on me. You've always been very careful not to have."

"Oh, so that's it, is it? Just because I haven't put a ring on your finger and announced to the world at large that we are engaged and set a date for the wedding, you're trying to whip me in line by flirting with Dowler?"

"Why, you insufferable-" Cynthia choked on the epithet, her voice shaking so with fury that she had to see her teeth against the angry tears that threatened.

"It's a cute little trick, and old as the history of mankind, and the pitiful thing about it is that it usually works, " Clint told her grimly. "I don't say it wouldn't have worked this time, except that you chose Dowler, and I know that you'd never have any serious interest in a man like that."

"Oh, do you now?" she flashed at him so hotly that his voice stumbled and fell to silence as he stared at her, wide-eyed, shocked.

"Oh, come now, Cynthia!" he protested after a startled moment. "You're not going to try to tell me that a girl like you, with your background, your family, your intelligence and breeding, could think twice about a no-good like Hank Dowler. I refuse to believe it."

Cynthia drew a deep breath and tilted her chin at a defiant angle.

"Then don't bother trying to believe it, Clint," she said coolly. "After all, it's really not your affair."

Clint leaned a little closer to her, his eyes dark and his voice deeply in earnest.

"Cynthia, you've got too much sense to be swept off your feet by a dashing stranger from out of nowhere, who will go right back there as soon as the racing season is over," he insisted. "Even if you were in love with him-" He broke off, and after a moment he asked anxiously, "You're not, of course?"

"And if I were?"

"If you were, Cynthia, you'd be a complete and utter fool," Clint said earnestly, now genuinely worried. "He's not your sort, Cynthia, just as you're not his. Why, you'd be perfectly miserable married to him; dragging around the country to fairs and to race meets. Cynthia, what kind of life would that be for a girl brought up as you have been? No home, no ties of any kind, no children-and I know you love children. You want a family when you are married, don't you?"

"Of course I do. Any woman does."

"Then you don't want their father to be a man who is home only between races; nor do you want to drag them with you as you follow him around. Believe me, Cynthia, this man is no good for you! Surely you can see that?"

And of course she could. All his arguments made such excellent sense that she could find no words with which to answer him. And as the waitress brought their food, she was glad to lean back and relax a trifle. When the waitress had gone, he showed as little interest in his food as she did in hers.

"You and I can have a wonderful life together, Cynthia," he went on earnestly. "We live in the same world. I'd never object to your carrying on your profession; and if my political plans work out, as my advisers feel they will, you'd be a very valuable asset. A beautiful and clever wife-"

"Who'd look well in campaign photographs, and be on hand on the speaker's platform, and would be capable of addressing groups of women voters and PTA's and that sort of thing?" Cynthia broke in, her voice thin.

Clint scowled. "Well, what's wrong with that?"

"Nothing at all, Clint."

"Then why are you looking as if you'd bitten into a persimmon and found it wasn't quite ripe yet?"

"Was I?"

Clint studied her for a moment, and she saw the anger go out of his eyes and warmth touch them.

"Tell you what," he said expressively. "Finish your lunch and we'll go straight over to Marples and select a ring for you. And then we can announce our engagement in time for the weekly paper here on Thursday and make the Sunday editions of the state papers. They'll want a photograph of you, of course."

He had the air of one who, out of kindness, bestows a cherished favor on some deserving individual and for some reason she could not quite put her finger on, Cynthia felt a slow anger crawl through her.

"Haven't you overlooked one small item, Clint?" she asked.

Clint scowled. "Have I?"

"Well, am I just old-fashioned to believe that it's customary, when you ask a girl to marry you, to suggest that you are in love with her?"

Clint relaxed and grinned as he reached across the table and took her hand.

"Oh, that!" he scoffed lightly. "You know that without my telling you."

"How could I? I can't recall that you've ever said, in so many words, 'I love you and I want to marry you.'"

"Oh, for Lord's sake-" Clint exploded.

"So I think we won't choose a ring at Marples or announce our engagement or anything of the sort for the present," Cynthia told him with such unexpected briskness that he was startled. "And now, thanks for the lunch. It was very nice. Now I have to go over and talk to Bud. Sheriff Wayne says he's getting very restless and very ill-tempered. You can't really wonder at that, locked up for so long."

"Cynthia, why don't you get him to plead guilty; throw himself on the mercy of the court? That way he'd have a chance of escaping the electric chair, at least."

"And get ten to twenty years in prison?" Cynthia pointed out. "Do you think, given a choice, Bud wouldn't choose the chair rather than a living death that might stretch out to twenty years?"

"Maybe not," Clint agreed. "But you haven't got a chance, Cynthia, Oh, I know you believe he's innocent; I always insist all my clients are innocent, or else I wouldn't represent them! But this time, baby, all the cards are stacked against you and Bud! He'll be convicted, as sure as we sit here. The smart thing for you to do is face that fact and try to persuade him to cop a guilty plea."

Cynthia shook her head. "That's the last thing I'll ever do, Clint," she said stubbornly, and asked, "Did you ever hear that Mose had a whiskey still hidden in the Swamp?"

"Of course, Cynthia. I believe it, too, though no one was ever able to locate it. But Mose was a pretty shrewd individual, and learned a lot of the tricks about hiding stills from his old man. But what's that got to do with Bud shooting him?"

"Bud didn't," Cynthia insisted stubbornly. "What I'm trying to find out is-who did?"

Clint grinned wryly. "Still tilting at windmills, baby?"

"I suppose so," Cynthia agreed tautly. "You don't know anybody who held a grudge against Mose?"

"Dozens of them," Clint answered as she stood up, and he joined her, reaching for the lunch check as they walked out to the cashier's stand. "But none with a better motive for killing him than Bud had."

Outside, in the bright, hot sunshine, Cynthia felt the heat striking at her through the sheerness of her navy-blue dress with its polka dots of green that matched the narrow green band belted snugly about her waist.

"Sure you won't walk over to Marples?" suggested Clint.

"Quite sure, thanks."

"How about dinner tonight? No, hang it, I can't-a committee meeting. Tomorrow night, maybe?"

Cynthia smiled faintly. "Maybe."

"I'll call you, then," Clint told her, and stood on the hotel steps as she walked down the street beneath the dusty live-oaks toward the courthouse, whose top floor was the jail.