Chapter 3 – GLENNA #4
Cash will throw a punch. He seems like the sort who’s all mouth, but I’ve actually seen him fight before.
I saw him scrap with a guy who was talking shit about his brother Kellum.
Another time, I saw him beat the tar out of Andrew Ryman in the parking lot after a football game.
Andrew had at least a half foot and fifty pounds on him, but Cash had him on the ground. It took three guys to pull him off.
Cash is the whole stereotype.
He doesn’t go after Bernard, but he’s breathing quick, and he’s got his finger up and pointing.
“Stay the hell away from her. I hear you back there, talking shit about getting her to sign something. You can sue me, fine, I deserve it for taking any of you anywhere with a loaded rifle, but if she wants to take your asses to court or press charges or whatever, she can.”
He spits.
“You don’t talk to her. Don’t even look at her. You don’t stress her out anymore. You hear me?” His voice raises toward the end and goes real country. His brown eyes have gone black.
A little thrill zips up my spine.
Cash closes his eyes for a moment, tight, and he breathes in deep. Is he trying to get a grip on himself? Hot-headed, arrogant Cash Wall?
Well, I’ve seen everything now.
He gives himself a shake and slaps his thighs like he’s ready to run a play.
“You need to take a piss?” he asks me and plows ahead without waiting for an answer. “I found a downed log about a hundred yards ahead. You can take a piss and sit for a spell.”
How does he know I have to pee?
And how am I going to manage it with one arm and a long skirt? I don’t have the best balance on a good day. I have, on two occasions, sat straight down in the puddle made by my own wee when going to stand after a squat. I was a kid then, but now I live in fear.
But I really have to go.
I’ll manage. I’ll take it slow, and it’ll be fine, and not at all undignified.
Cash leads the way, and I follow him to a moss-covered oak that looks like it was split by a lightning strike a long time ago. Most of it is still growing tall, but the downed part is entirely green. I wish I had my camera.
“You three stay on the trail,” he barks.
There’s grumbling.
“You’re free to keep going on your own,” Cash adds as he guides me to the log by my elbow. It’s weird, and obviously, I can walk fine on my own, but I don’t say anything.
It’s too much, and when everything’s too much, I “turtle shell,” as Dad puts it.
Cash dumps his backpack and takes my walking stick and leans it against the log.
“Come on.” He grabs my hand and takes me around the felled log, behind the tree. “Okay. How do you want to do this? I hold your skirt and you squat?”
I blink. He’s squinting at my bottom half like I’m a math problem.
“I, uh, no . I’ve got this.”
“Come on. It’s no big deal. I got a sister.”
“I can manage by myself.”
“No offense, but like, how?” He stares pointedly at my sling.
I glare up into the canopy as my face burns.
“It’s obvious you’ve been holding it. It’s seriously no big deal. I won’t look.”
Tears spring into my eyes which is absolutely ridiculous, but my arm really, really hurts, and I’m tired and hot and my bladder is going to burst. And I can do it all one-handed, but it’ll take forever, and this back-and-forth has already taken forever.
I hate this day.
“Don’t look,” I say, miserable.
“I won’t.”
I find a nice incline and face uphill. “Just hold my skirt. And don’t look.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He’s starting to grin, and I can see the smart remark forming on the tip of his tongue, but when he sees my expression, he fixes his face.
He bends and gathers the fabric. I start to squat, and I have to grab his leg to steady myself.
I find my center and crouch. I’m holding myself upright with my good arm, and I don’t know what to do with my panties.
Usually, I yank them all the way to the side, but if I do that, I’m gonna topple over.
“Shy?” Cash says. He’s staring straight ahead into the distance. “Want me to whistle?”
I grab a handful of his jeans and hoist myself back to my feet.
“What’s wrong?”
A tear dribbles down my cheek. The ibuprofen is doing nothing, and I’m so tired.
Cash frowns. “Come on, what’s wrong, baby?”
I blink the tears away, and I mumble, “My underwear.”
I’m not saying “panties” to Cash Wall, and if he smirks, so help me god, I’m gonna punch him in the face.
He clears his throat. “Right. Uh. Okay.” He gathers my skirt to one side. “Let’s try this. Can you hold this?”
I grab the bunched fabric. Then, without breaking eye contact, Cash slips his thumbs into the elastic of the pale pink cotton panties I bought in a multi-pack from General Goods and slides them down my legs.
I want to look away so bad, but I know if I maintain eye contact, he can’t look down and see my bush. Toby liked natural, and I like easy, so I don’t wax. I only trim a little to keep it within reason.
I swallow. For some reason, my mouth is watering.
“Lift your foot,” Cash says. I do. “Other foot.”
He rises back to his full height and gives me a small, almost bashful smile. I can’t return it. I am living my worst nightmare. “Don’t ever tell anyone about this.”
“Okay.”
He takes my skirt off my hands, and I use his body to lower myself down again. On my way, I see the bulge in his jeans.
There is an enormous pole raising a tent in his pants. The zipper’s fully exposed. It’s comically large. I’m ignoring it with all my might, but there’s no way to not see it. It’s eye level.
“Just ignore it.” Cash’s voice is husky.
I squeeze my eyes shut, and for a second, I’m afraid that my bladder is going to be bashful and this moment is going to stretch into eternity, but I really have to go, and I do.
“Don’t look,” I say, and I have to trust him because I can’t check, I’d poke myself in the eye.
Cash starts whistling. The tune is very familiar.
“Is that the ‘1812 Overture’?”
“I dunno. Is it? I think I heard it in a video game.”
“You hear it every year at the fireworks on the square.”
“You saw me at the fireworks?”
“I see everyone at the fireworks.”
“You done?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
“Need time to drip dry or anything?”
“Jesus.” I sigh.
He laughs. “Nah. Just Cash Wall.”
He reaches down, offering me his free hand. I take it, and he helps me up and leads me a few steps to the side. He lets my skirts fall. I’m about to tell him I can manage the panties on my own when he squats and says, “Foot up.”
I lift my boot, resting a hand on his shoulder for balance.
“Other foot.”
I follow directions. He stretches the leg holes so they don’t touch my dirty boots as he slides them to my ankles. I expect him to pull them up and be done.
But he doesn’t.
He takes his time, his fingers skimming the outsides of my calves, then the dents at the sides of my knees, then my outer thighs, up to my waist. Every inch he touches trembles. Shivers.
I should say something. Stop. Knock it off.
My belly ripples.
I’m in pain, yes, but there’s also a rising excitement inside me, pushing the hurt to the background, setting my heart to thumping.
My panties are up to my waist, but his hands are still under my skirts, lingering on my hips, his thumbs stroking small circles over the cotton.
He’s on his knees in the dirt. My hand is resting gently on his broad shoulder. I don’t feel like I can touch him.
And I can’t believe he’s touching me.
What are we doing?
We ?
I’m not doing anything.
Just standing here. Not saying anything while he presses his cheek to my belly, closing his eyes, breathing deep.
His grip grows firmer, and he tilts his head to look at me, brown eyes smoldering and sparkling, a soft smile playing at his beautiful, sensuous lips.
It’s a question.
Do I wanna?
Would I?
How about maybe later we—?
I bet he looks exactly this way at all the girls he’s always with. I bet it works every damn time.
I lurch backward.
He drops his hands.
What the hell am I doing? This is Cash Wall.
I hustle my way back around the fallen log, and I don’t want to, but I can’t help sneaking a peek from the corner of my eye.
He stays on his knees for a few seconds longer.
His shoulders deflate. Then he takes off his ball cap to drag his fingers through his sweaty hair, putting it back on with the brim reversed.
He puffs out a long breath as if he’s the world’s most put upon man, and then jumps to his feet in one fluid motion.
I sit and tug the sling to check the makeshift bandage. It doesn’t look any bloodier. Cash comes back around the log and rummages in his pack. The pain comes back to the forefront, worse now.
“Here.” He gives me an energy gel pouch. I’ve never had one before, but I take it. My stomach’s growling. I polish it off in seconds. He hands me another.
“I don’t want to take all your stuff.”
“Take all my stuff, Glenna.” It’s weird the way he says it. Serious. Kind of rueful?
He’s actually being weird, and I am low-key freaking out. He came onto me back there. Right?
Or was it more like he saw an opportunity, and he took it, totally in keeping with being a “fuck boy” as Pandy Bullard calls him.
Is this how a fuck boy acts after you turn him down. Sad?
He’s not playing it up or anything. He’s making himself busy, passing me his canteen, combing through his pack, rearranging things.
He still has a stiffy.
I’m not looking , but it’s not subtle.
“Do you need more ibuprofen?” he asks, standing.
“Yeah. And can you get my bag?” This gel is okay, but I’ve got a few handfuls of GORPM left.
“Yeah.” He turns to go, and then he stops. He scrubs his neck. “Glenna—”
I’m listening.
There’s a long pause as he seems to search for words. Finally, he blows out a breath and says, “Glenna, I’m an idiot.” Then he stalks off with a semi.
I sit on a log, at a loss for words, cradling my shot arm to my chest.
He’s right. He is.
And my panties are damp, and it’s not from squatting in the woods.
* * *