When the trunk was open, she set her bow inside. She took the quiver off her back and put it into the trunk, too. Then she took the bag from me, set it down near her quiver and bow, and shut the lid.
Next, she opened the driver’s door and tossed her purse onto the seat. After closing the door, she said, “Over here.”
I followed her to a comer of the garage. We stopped at a collection of cardboard cartons containing empty beer and soda bottles. Slim took our two empties from me, knelt down, studied the situation for a while, then found a carton with four vacant openings. She slipped Dad’s bottles into two of them.
Grinning up at me, she said, “That’s half the trick.”
I felt half-relieved.
We went into the laundry room. The drier was still going, but it stopped when Slim opened its door. Squatting, she reached inside the machine and pulled out my jeans. She felt them here and there. “I think they’re dry. It’s hard to tell when they’re hot like this. They might still be a little damp.”
“It’s okay.”
She handed the jeans up to me. While she reached into the machine to take out her cut-offs and bikini bottoms, I draped my jeans over the top of the washer.
I tugged the half-knot at my hip.
My shirt pulled free.
Slim turned her head and stared up at me.
Even as I felt myself growing and rising, I swung the shirt behind my back, put my arms into its sleeves, pulled it up, drew it together in front and began to fasten its buttons.
A gentle smile spread over Slim’s face.
My heart pounded like crazy.
I’ve lost my mind, I thought.
“Oh, dear,” Slim said. “Look at you.”
“Sorry.” I snatched my jeans off the washer.
“No. Don’t put them on yet.”
“But...”
“Just wait.”
While I waited, Slim stood up. She put her bikini pants and cut-off jeans on top of the drier. Then she leaned over the machine and twisted a knob—to shut it off, I guess.
Coming toward me, she said, “I know a way to get rid of that.”
“Get rid of what?”
“That.” Her eyes went to it.
“You do?”
There was mischief in her smile. “I know many things.” “Jeez.”
She squatted in front of me.
Oh, my God! She’s gonna blow me!
My heart hammered.
“I don’t know, Slim.”
She tilted back her head and smiled up at me. “It’ll be all right. We don’t want you messing up your clean jeans, do we?”
“No, but ...”
She raised her hand toward me.
Okay. Not the same as her mouth, but still ...
Her middle finger curled down. She caught it under her thumb and let fly, thumping the tip of my erection.
“OW!!!” I cried out.
Chapter Thirty-seven
Sitting in the passenger seat of the Pontiac on the way to my house, I gave Slim a dirty look. She grinned at me. In the darkness, she couldn’t have seen much of the look I’d given her, or known what I was thinking. But she said, “It worked, didn’t it?”
She did know what I was thinking. “Yeah, but jeez!”
“You’re fine.”
“Easy for you to say, you’re not the one who got thumped.”
“I’ve had a few thumps.”
Remembering Jimmy Drake, I decided not to pursue the subject.
“The car’s working good,” I said.
“She’s a peach,” Slim said, and patted the steering wheel.
That’s what her grandmother used to say about the car, She’s a peach.
Up to the moment of her grandma’s demise, it had been the old woman’s car and nobody else had been allowed to drive it. Slim’s mother used the hot little M.G. that had belonged to Jimmy. (Apparently, he’d gone on his mysterious trip without it.)
Slim, however, hated everything about Jimmy, including his car. Especially his car. Before going away, he often forced her to take rides with him. He drove her to secluded places and did terrible things to her.
After Jimmy’s departure, Slim refused to go anywhere in the M.G. Her grandmother drove her in the Pontiac when she had to have a ride. Otherwise, she did her traveling by foot. This was fine with Slim. I think, if she’d gotten herself stranded in the middle of Death Valley and her mother came to the rescue in Jimmy’s old M.G., Slim would’ve shaken her head and told her, “Thanks anyway, I’d rather walk.”