She Drives Me Crazy

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If he’d realized what she’d been thinking about—and the way her body had reacted—she’d just have to die. Right here and now. Dammit, what kind of woman got turned-on remembering her first sexual experience which, considering many females first had sex with teenage boys, usually sucked?

Hers hadn’t. She had to admit it, if only to herself…it had been the best of her whole entire life. Not necessarily the intercourse part, which had been slightly uncomfortable at first. But the emotion. The tenderness. And, oh, yeah, the orgasms.

Nineteen years old or not, Johnny had known exactly what he was doing. With his hands. With his mouth. With every bit of his big, firm body.

“You’re sure you don’t need the doctor?” he said, obviously not believing her and taking her silence for discomfort.

Well, she was uncomfortable, but not in the ankle area. No, the throbbing sensation was now much higher. As in, right between her thighs. And no doctor could make her feel better.

“Quite sure,” she mumbled, drawing in a few deep breaths to try to focus. “My, it’s already awfully hot for early June.”

He shrugged, either not impressed with her conversational skills, or realizing she wanted to leave the subject of prom night behind. She was saved from having to make any further effort by his nod. “Here we are.”

She hadn’t even noticed how quickly the ride had flown by, since she’d been a little…er…distracted. Now, however, she froze as she stared out the windshield of his SUV at the gently familiar tree-lined street onto which they’d turned.

“Miss Ellen’s house,” she murmured, spying the huge elm tree in front of what had once been a white bungalow. “Her piano students used to wake me up every Saturday with their scales.”

The house was green now. A tricycle and a scooter in the driveway, plus a bat and ball lying in the grass, gave evidence that old Miss Ellen had moved on, in one way or another.

Next came the white picket fence surrounding the immaculate lawn maintained by Mr. and Mrs. Willoughby, her grandmother’s next-door neighbors. And then…

“There it is,” she whispered. The lemon-yellow, two-story house that she pictured whenever she closed her eyes and thought of home. Of happy times and warmth. Of sweet hugs and the papery smoothness of her grandmother’s strong hands. Of endless summer days being allowed to climb trees and get dirty.

She’d expected tears to fill her eyes when she saw it again. But somehow, after everything she’d been through, she didn’t feel sad at all. As a matter of fact, staring at the house—so warm and bright, and best of all, entirely hers—she began to smile.

This was Emmajean’s house, Emmajean’s world, Emmajean’s town. Her grandmother wouldn’t be here to welcome her, but all the warmth and hospitality she’d epitomized lived on right here in Joyful. She could lose herself in that warmth and hospitality, let it salve her wounds and heal her spirit while she figured out what she was going to do with the rest of her life.

In spite of the dull pain in her foot, the fatigue in her shoulders and her pitifully empty wallet, she truly felt good. For the first time in a long time, Emma Frasier began to believe everything really would be okay.

Because she was home.

JOHNNY DIDN’T stick around once they got to Emma’s grandmother’s house. He helped her inside, then made sure the electricity was on and the place secure. Though he wanted nothing more than to get out, to put a mile of physical distance between them—immediately if not sooner—he also made sure to find her an Ace bandage in her grandmother’s medicine kit.

By the time he left, she was soaking her foot in an old washtub in the kitchen. She was also nibbling on a piece of fruit from a Welcome Home basket Jimbo Boyd had left on the counter. Good old Jimbo. Never one to pass up an opportunity to kiss the ass of a voter—or a campaign contributor.

She’d thanked Johnny sincerely, accepted his offer to have someone bring her car over to the house and agreed he should let himself out. She might as well have been a fare he’d picked up in a taxi for all the intimacy between them.

It wasn’t too surprising that Emma had tried to put up walls. Just the faint beginnings of a discussion about what had happened between them had made her go silent and distracted.

“The little coward.”

If Deputy Fred Willis had been around, Johnny would have earned himself a hundred dollar fine as he blasted out of her driveway. Even if he’d seen the dusty old patrol car, he didn’t know if he could have lifted his foot off the gas pedal.

He needed space. Distance. Needed to get away from those golden-brown eyes of hers and her soft voice. The longer he spent in Emma’s company, the more likely he’d have been to shake the hell out of her and ask her why she’d done what she did.

First, why she’d used him as a physical substitute for his brother when it came to something as important as sex. Then, why she’d run away the very next day…when that sex had been so damn good! And finally, how in the name of God she could have gone on to have sex for money in the name of movie-making.

Sex, sex and sex again. That’s what it all came down to. If he’d stayed in that house another minute, the subject would have come up. And sex was one thing he could not talk about with Emma Jean Frasier. At least not without being sorely tempted to find the nearest flat surface and fully explore the meaning of the word with her in every position known to man. Plus a dozen yet to be invented.

He shook his head in disgust. He obviously needed to get laid. Preferably by someone who didn’t list her proficiency with various coital positions on her résumé.

Then he snorted. “It’s bullshit. If she’s a porn star, I’ll prance up Market Street in those spike-heeled shoes of hers.”

No, there had to be another explanation for the stories flying around town. Had to be. And once he got a firm grip on his libido again, he’d find out what it was.

In the meantime, there was her car to deal with. Grabbing his cell phone, he hit one of the speed dial buttons. “Virg, can you meet me down in the parking lot of the grocery store?” he asked when a familiar voice answered.

“Sure,” his cousin said. “Can I finish my hot dog first?”

“Hot dog. Minnie working tonight?”

“Uh-huh. Third weekend in a row.” Virg tsked in disgust. “That skunk boss of hers tells her if she wants to be head cook on Sundays, when the regular guy’s off, she has to bounce at the door every Friday and Saturday night.”

Minnie had recently moved up from bouncer to cook’s assistant at the Junctionville Tavern. After she and Virg got married, she’d put her foot down saying it wasn’t seemly for a bride to be physically tossin’ drunks out of bars. Her boss had apparently found a way to finagle her back where he wanted her.

“If she didn’t have her heart set on getting a job as head cook somewhere, I’d make her quit,” Virgil continued.

He’d make her quit. Yeah. Right. Virgil Walker would be able to make his two hundred and fifty-pound wife, Minnie, do something on the same day Johnny made snow fall in July. Still, he might be able to sweet-talk her into it. They were disgustingly cooey with each other.

“Okay, meet me by the red convertible parked right in front of the store in about a half hour,” Johnny said.

Virg audibly chewed a mouthful of his dinner. Johnny knew without asking that the hot dog was smothered with onions and mayonnaise. A disgusting combination if ever there was one, but that’d been Virgil’s favorite meal since childhood.

“Red convertible,” Virg finally said. “You mean the porn star’s car?”

Johnny winced. “She’s not…just meet me there, Virg.”

He cut the connection before his cousin could answer, then headed back downtown. When he arrived at the store, he pulled into the parking lot next to Emma’s car. Before cutting the engine, he opened the window. Johnny sat back, watching the last of the evening shoppers pushing their carts inside. It’d be closing soon, right around the time the town of Joyful rolled up its sidewalks for the night.

“Hey, Johnny,” he heard from outside. Glancing up, he saw Claire Deveaux, the harried woman whose little girl’s spill had caused such a fuss earlier. Claire was walking toward the store, a frown on her pretty brow.

“Hiya, Claire. Didn’t finish your shopping earlier, huh?”

She grimaced. “I tried to clean Eve up in the bathroom, but she was a mess. I had to leave an entire cart full of groceries behind and take her home. I bet those twits didn’t even have the sense to put the ice cream back in the freezer case.”

He snorted. “Better hope they did. Otherwise they’ll want you to pay for it. Where’s the baby?”

“Home with her daddy. Probably telling him for the tenth time about how mama wasn’t paying close enough attention so she spilled her juice on her fave-o-rite top.” She sighed, sounding amused, yet weary. “Daddies and their little girls.”

He wasn’t much of an expert on either one, not being a daddy, and ever having had one to speak of. At least not one he wanted to acknowledge.

“So, I hear you scooped up the porn star and carried her out after she fell.” Claire nibbled the corner of her lip. Johnny couldn’t tell whether she was embarrassed, amused or disappointed because she’d missed the spectacle.

“She’s not a…look, Claire, it was Emma Jean who fell.”

Claire’s mouth fell open far enough for him to count the fillings in her teeth. “Emma Jean Frasier? Good lord, why didn’t she call me and tell me she was coming?” She peeked into the car as if expecting to find Emma inside. “Where is she?”

Johnny now remembered that Claire and Emma had been close friends in high school. “I dropped her off at her grandmother’s house. She twisted her ankle, but she’ll be okay.”

“Emma Jean,” Claire murmured again, and a soft smile crossed her lips. “I haven’t seen her in…oh…ten years.”

Johnny nodded and murmured, “Prom night.”

A soft flush rose in Claire’s cheeks, and her eyes widened. She stared at Johnny, obviously remembering. “Oh, my goodness, that’s right.” Then she began to smile. “And just think, you were here to save her this afternoon. Again. You do always seem to be in the right place at the right time to take care of Emma Jean, don’t you, Johnny?”

Yeah, but, she’d better not get used to it. He was done taking care of Emma Jean. He had enough people to take care of in his life. The last thing he wanted was to be needed by a woman he’d once wanted with every ounce of his body.

From now on, she was on her own.

“Well, I’d better run,” Claire said as she glanced toward her watch. “Store closes soon, and I’ve got to get home and feed my family. I don’t guess you or Emma Jean got to finish your shopping either?” She looked down, sheepishly. “I still feel awful about that. If you see Em, tell her I’ll come by soon to apologize and catch up on old times, okay?”

He wouldn’t be seeing her. No doubt about it. But he merely shrugged, then bid Claire goodbye.

True to his word, Virgil came strolling up Market Street right on time. Virgil, two years younger than Johnny, was one of the Bransom-Walkers. Meaning, his mother, a rather well-liked member of the Bransom family, had married a no-account Walker thirty-odd years ago. Their offspring were marginally more respectable than the plain old Smith-Walkers, such as Johnny and Nick. Their own mother hadn’t been much higher on the socioeconomic scale than their father, though Johnny was the first to admit she was pretty much a saint in their eyes.

Virgil didn’t mind the Walker prejudice. He’d never aspired to do much more than tinker with his junkyard-bound hot rod, work as a handyman doing odd jobs and have a happy marriage with his wife, Minnie. Since he came from another side of the Walker family—one that seemed to have escaped the bad-marriage curse that had affected Johnny’s—he might actually have a shot at achieving his dreams.

Virg didn’t much look like a Walker, except for his dark blue eyes. He stood a good six inches shorter than Johnny and weighed forty pounds more. Still, Johnny had always considered Virgil as much of a brother as Nick.

“This the porn star’s car?” Virgil asked.

Getting out of his car, Johnny shot Virg the kind of quelling look that had been known to make even Sheriff Brady watch his mouth. “She’s not a porn star. The car belongs to Emma Frasier. I told her I’d get somebody to bring it over to her grandma’s house because she hurt herself and couldn’t drive.”

Virgil whistled. “So, Emma Jean Frasier’s the porn star? The woman in the thong underwear who slipped in All-Tempa-Cheer and fell in the store today is Miss Emmajean’s granddaughter?”

“Thong underwear?” Johnny bit out.

Virg nodded. “Black and tan. Jungle pattern. Leopard spots.”

Johnny rolled his eyes even as he gulped at the sudden visual of Emma Jean’s underclothes. “Nobody saw her underwear, Virg. Spots, jungle or anything else.”

“Tom Terry said…”

“Tom Terry is a nasty old reprobate who plays pocket hockey looking at the mannequins in the window of the dress shop. You gonna believe him? Or me, your flesh-and-blood relative, who was standin’ closer to her than anyone when she fell?”

Virgil looked disappointed.

“And she’s not a porn star.”

Virgil’s disappointed expression grew more sad. “You sure?”

He nodded. “You remember her, Virg. Do you seriously think she could have left Joyful and gone off to make adult movies?”

Virgil glanced into the distance, smiling like a man reminiscing over a particularly fine meal or a good cigar. “Oh, yeah, she coulda.”

Virgil was saved Johnny’s fist in his gut by virtue of their blood kinship. “I don’t mean physically,” Johnny snapped. “Do you think the hoity-toity daughter of some rich people who live overseas would star in stag films?”

“They’re not all stag films,” Virgil argued. “Some are really art. Sleepless With A Paddle shoulda won an Oscar.”

Johnny didn’t even ask.

“Virg, will you just drive the damn car over to the Frasier house? I’ll follow you and give you a ride home.”

Virgil looked like he wanted to argue about it, but shrugged and got into the convertible instead. “She’s got long legs,” he said as he bent down to adjust the driver’s seat forward. “Porn stars always have long legs.”