Alex Bledsoe - The Hum and the Shiver

He twirled one strand of her hair around his finger. “We’re the Tufa, honey. Our songs go on, just like they did in the Green Country, just like they have since we got here. You’ll learn your mama’s song.” After a moment he added, “And you need to get well enough to come to the dance. You need to stretch your wings.”

“I know it, Daddy,” she agreed.

Dwayne popped open a fresh beer and took a long swallow. He closed his eyes to savor it, then heard the rippling buzz that meant he’d drifted onto the warning ridges at the shoulder of the highway. He overcompensated and swerved into the other lane. Luckily there was no traffic, and he managed to get back on his side of the road. The yellow and white lines in his headlights grew hazy and split into multiples the farther they were from his truck.

He had an erection that ached. All he could think about were the times he’d had Bronwyn Hyatt. In the two years she’d been gone, no other girl had come close to turning him on the way the Bronwynator did. He needed to fuck her again, to muscle and slam that wiry, strong little body until he found release as deep within her as he could manage. He needed to hear her scream and moan, to feel her retaliatory blows as he hurt her.

Seeing her had been awful. He shouldn’t have gotten stoned first, he realized as he inhaled the smoke from the joint. That was his mistake. It always dulled the edge of his charm. He should’ve watched patiently until her family departed, then maybe taken a few tokes for luck. He definitely shouldn’t have smoked a joint and a half, as well as shotgunned three beers, as he waited for the Hyatts to leave.

Yes, if he’d been straight, she would’ve dropped to her knees and sucked him off before even saying hello. He was certain of that. He recalled the many times he’d looked down at the top of her head, her wide bare shoulders visible below her tangled black hair as she willingly serviced him, and the ache only intensified. God, he had to fuck her again, and soon. His balls would explode if he didn’t.

He almost missed the curve where the road turned toward Needsville. Low branches slapped his windshield as he came close to the ditch.

He took another drink and tried to form a plan. If he could get Bronwyn alone, he could have her; there was no way she could physically overpower him, and he wasn’t above tying her down if she gave him any trouble. In fact, he remembered times when she’d enjoyed that. But the opportunity to do that was twenty minutes ago, when he’d stood outside her door. Just a simple yank to open the screen, then a few slaps to show her how much he needed it. He’d make it up to her later, after his urges had been sated. Her cast might be a problem, since it meant she couldn’t wrap those thighs around him. He could always turn her facedown, he supposed, and take her that way. He was sure Chloe Hyatt kept some Crisco in the kitchen that would do in a pinch to ease things along.

But she’s a First Daughter, the seldom-heard voice of his conscience managed to say. Just like her mom.

He was so lost in the sudden fantasy of a threesome with Bronwyn and her mother that he didn’t notice the blue lights pull out of the roadside darkness and onto the blacktop behind him. By the time he spotted them, the state trooper was almost on his bumper.

“Fuck!” he yelled, tossed the roach into the open beer, and threw the can out the window. He slammed the gas pedal to the floor.

Bob Pafford didn’t need to run the license plate of the truck in his headlights, especially when he saw the beer can fly out the window and bounce into the dark. He knew it at once, and he smiled grimly at the thought of who was inside. Would he be lucky enough to catch Bronwyn Hyatt as well as Dwayne Gitterman? Or would it just be the redneck thug alone? Perhaps some other girl was with him, one willing to do anything to keep from getting a police record….

He thanked whatever urge sent him off the interstate and onto the Cloud County secondary roads. Normally there would be so little traffic on a Sunday night that he might not see another car at all, let alone one he could pull over and ticket. But on this night, the Cop God had smiled on him.

Suddenly Gitterman’s truck leaped away like a spooked frog. Pafford floored it, and the big Crown Victoria’s rumble rose to a solid, intimidating whine. The hash marks between the lanes blurred into a single line.

At the last second, Dwayne saw the road that led past the fire station. His truck skidded wide as he tried to turn, and both tires on the passenger side left the pavement. He cut ruts into the grass bank and felt the rear bumper slam into the side of the ditch before the tires got traction and shot the truck up, its front end now off the ground. It slammed down onto the blacktop, and Dwayne winced as he bounced up into the cab’s roof. But he was back on the road, and he both floored it and switched off his lights.

The cloud of dust where Dwayne’s truck skidded off the road was momentarily lit red by the truck’s brake lights. Then it vanished. The Interceptor shot through the dust and for a moment Pafford saw no sign of the truck. Then he spotted the reflection from a distant license plate.

It took Pafford a moment to realize what had happened; the drunken fool was running blind on a moonless night. This could only end one way.

That made Pafford smile.

Dwayne leaned so far forward, his forehead touched the windshield. He knew the road ran straight for about three miles before it began to weave with the rising terrain. He had to put as much distance as possible between him and the asshole cop before the curves started, because there was no way he could navigate them without headlights.

“Come on, cocksucker,” he whispered. “Come on ….” Thoughts of fucking Bronwyn had been replaced by the chest-wrenching memories of the time he’d spent in jail. He’d rather end up wrapped around a tree than endure that again.

Pafford gritted his teeth in rage. The truck was slowly pulling away, the license plate now a dim glow at the far end of his headlights. “You’re not getting away from me, Gitterman,” he said aloud. “It’s not happening.”

Then the truck was gone. Ahead he saw only empty road.

His roar of rage made his own ears ring.

As if in response, the license plate reappeared. Now it rushed toward him, and he realized the vehicle ahead was traveling much more slowly than his car. He stood on the brakes, his shoulders straining back against the seat, hands fighting to hold the wheel steady. He stopped barely a car’s length behind the other vehicle.

The old tan Chevrolet station wagon put on its right turn signal and pulled off the road. It sat there with its emergency flashers blinking in the night.

Pafford gasped for air. He smelled the skid-scorched tires and the fresh sweat from his own body. He waited until the blood no longer thundered in his ears before he took his foot off the brake pedal. The cruiser crept forward, and he eased it to a stop, almost touching the station wagon’s bumper. He got out, adjusted his hat and belt, then strode with practiced arrogance to the driver’s window. His legs felt wobbly; he hoped it didn’t show. He shone the flashlight inside the vehicle.

Rockhouse Hicks squinted into the light. “Problem there, Officer Pafford? I got out of your way quick as I could, but you come up on me awful fast. Surely I wasn’t speeding, this ol’ heap barely cracks fifty going downhill.”

Pafford clenched his teeth again. He knew Hicks carried some weight among the Cloud County Tufa population, but there was something indefinable about this old man that always gave him the creeps and, although he’d never admit it, scared him. “Mr. Hicks,” he said, “I was in pursuit of a pickup truck running with its lights out. Did you see it?”