Paul Kavanagh - Not Comin' Home to You

“You sure think a lot of yourself.”

“Now why should I go against the tide of public opinion?”

They giggled again. It was not his favorite sound in all the world.

“Hop in,” he said. “We’ll go for a ride.”

“Both of us?”

“Just you. This here car doesn’t seat but two people.”

“I can’t just leave Diane like that.”

“Sure you could. Diane here’s a big girl.”

“You could drop me at my place,” Diane offered.

The brunette thought about it, then shook her head. He had the feeling he could talk her into it without a great deal of trouble, but he also had the feeling that she wasn’t worth the bother. Girls always disappointed him, and he expected as much, but she had disappointed him already without even getting in the car.

“Suit yourself,” he said, “but you’ll purely never know what you’re missing.”

He raised the window before she could answer, drove slowly on down the street. He paused from time to time to check out what was available. A lot of the boys and girls he passed took a lot of notice of the car.

He didn’t lower the window again until the car was alongside a slender blonde with an armful of books. She didn’t look at him, but when he stopped the car she stopped walking, and when he leaned across the seat toward her she turned to face him.

He said, “I wonder if you could give me some directions.”

“Where to?”

“Well, what I’m looking for is a pretty blond girl who wants to go for a ride.”

She grinned and turned even prettier. Blue eyes, and good clear skin, and what looked like a good body. He could tell her legs and ass were nice — she was wearing rust-colored dress jeans and filled them perfectly. Her white blouse was cut too generously to give him much information about her breasts.

“I don’t guess you’ll have much trouble finding what you’re looking for,” she said. “Not with that car and that line.”

“Could be I already found what I’m looking for.”

“Could be I got a boyfriend.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me in the least. Girl like you ought to have a lot of them.”

“Just one. A steady boyfriend.”

“I got an old hound dog back home. I guess he’s as loyal as your boyfriend, but that doesn’t mean I let him tell me where to go and who with.”

“Just a ride.”

“That’s all I offered, seems to me.”

“Well—”

He opened the door. She got in and closed it, and the seat belt signal buzzed at them. She had a little trouble hooking the belt but he let her work it out for herself.

She said, “He’ll kill me if he finds out. Well, he can use a little shaking up.” She lit a cigarette with the dashboard lighter. “Where do you keep your hound dog, anyway?”

“Sleeps at the foot of my bed.”

“I mean where do you live, silly.”

“Texas. Just a little town called Houston.”

“Oh, one of those rich Texans.”

“Not me.”

“Oh, sure. Lots of poor boys have cars like this.”

“They would if they had rich daddies.”

“Is your father rich? I bet he’s got six oil wells in his backyard.”

“Not in our backyard, but a few more than six. I don’t suppose you ever heard of the Westfield Oil Company?”

She was so obviously impressed that he wondered if maybe she had heard of the Westfield Oil Company. He never had himself, but that didn’t necessarily mean there wasn’t one.

“And he... owns it? It’s his company?”

“Preston Ferris, President. That’s what it says on his office door.”

“And your name is—”

“Walker P. Ferris.”

“What’s the P for?”

“To keep the Walker from bumping into the Ferris. No, it stands for Preston. My daddy’s name is actually George Preston Ferris but he doesn’t use the George. It’s an old family name, Preston.”

“My name’s Emily. Emily Morgan.”

“That’s a pretty name.”

“It’s so ordinary, though.” She laughed suddenly, and he asked her what was so funny. “Oh, I was thinking. My steady’s name is Stuhldreier. Don Stuhldreier. If, oh, if we were to get married, my name would be Emily Stuhldreier.”

“Wouldn’t be so ordinary that way.”

“The thing is, I don’t know if I want to be named Emily Stuhldreier. Emily Morgan Stuhldreier. But to expect a man to go and change his name on your account—”

They went on talking, but although he kept up his end of the conversation he stopped paying much attention to it. She was already starting to muse on how Emily went with Ferris, he knew. But not aloud. Instead she was telling him what her father did for a living — there were no oil wells in Mr. Morgan’s backyard, sad to say — and what funny thing one of her teachers had said that morning, and other bits and pieces of information he had no deep and abiding interest in. No doubt she was popular, and her friends thought of her as a good conversationalist. He’d have liked her conversation more if there had been less of it.

She said, “Where are we going, anyhow?”

“I don’t know. Just driving around, having a look at the scenery.”

“You make a left just past that next house and then a right about two miles down and there’s a real pretty road. It’s quiet there, and, you know, private.”

After they made the right turn she asked him what had brought him to Nebraska.

“My daddy wanted me to look at some property in Oklahoma,” he said. “Then I was going to head back home, and I decided I wanted to get off by myself and do some thinking.”

“About anything in particular?”

“Oh, about getting settled down.”

“You’re young for that, aren’t you? How old are you?”

“Twenty-four.”

“I’d have said twenty-two at the most. That’s still young.”

“Well, my daddy’s been sick. I guess he’d like to see me settled before he goes. Wouldn’t mind seeing a grandson born, far as that goes.”

“Oh, I’m sorry he’s ill.”

“He’s a wonderful man.”

“I can imagine. Is there a... girl back home in Houston?”

“Not for me there isn’t.”

She fell miraculously silent. They passed a white farmhouse set close to the road on a slight rise of land. A black and white cow was tethered to an oak tree in the front yard. There were half a dozen chickens scratching in the gravel driveway. He drove for another quarter of a mile and cut the engine. She showed just a trace of a smile as the car coasted to a stop.

She said, “Well, Mr. Walker Preston Ferris.”

He couldn’t think of her name. “Well,” he said.

He unhooked his seat belt. “I’m having trouble with this,” she said, and he leaned over and unfastened her belt. He felt her warm breath in his ear. He started to straighten up, and their eyes met, and he kissed her.

He could taste the cigarette in her mouth, but he went on kissing her. She began to breathe a little faster. He put a hand on her breast and felt her. Her breast was larger than he had thought it would be. It filled his hand nicely. She responded to his touches, then drew a breath and sat back.

She said, “Oh, my.”

He reached for her. She hesitated for a second, then let him draw her into his embrace.

She was foolish and talked too much, and he didn’t like her cigarette breath, but she would do. He kissed her and felt himself responding to her and knew that she would do. He put his hand between her thighs and stroked the crotch of her jeans. “You’re awful fast,” she said, but that was all she said and she offered no resistance.

When he started to unbutton her blouse, she drew quickly away and rebuttoned the top two buttons. “Someone might see us. It’s broad daylight. It would be different at night.”