Under the Dusty Sky (Holloway Farms)

from.
    If I give her what she wants, she’ll be done with me. Of that, I'm certain.
    We stand and stare at each other for a long time until she regains her composure. She leans down and picks up the bolt before making her way back to the car. Whatever she’s feeling I can’t tell because she’s as good as I am at covering it up.
    “ So what’s wrong with this thing, anyway?” Her hand shakes a little as she sets down the bolt, but her gaze is steady. We are changing the subject now, I guess.
    I wipe my hands on my pants and wish I could take off my T-shirt off, but given the timing and what just transpired, I don’t think it’s a good idea. Leaning over the hood next to her, I replace the bolt she removed and smile as I do so. She looks at me with raised eyebrows.
    “ I didn’t think you could do it,” I say and bump her with my shoulder. I can’t seem to stop touching her, but she doesn’t seem to mind. She bumps me back.
    “ Yeah well, I didn’t think you were a cheater. Cheater.”
    “ I didn’t cheat. I just bent the rules a little. Anyway, I don’t know what’s wrong with this thing yet. Everything under here looks fine. It might be the clutch. Based on what your brothers told me, you might have burnt it out. If that’s the case, we’ll have to go to town and get one.”
    I look at her, and the blank stare flicks between me and the engine.
    “ Or maybe two, for when I teach you to drive it.” I laugh. Her expression doesn’t change, meaning she doesn’t get it.
    “ Are we done now? I need to shower.” She asks.
    I’ve lost her, and the clutch stuff is too much for her now anyway so I nod.
    “ I’m going to stay out here for a bit, but you go. We’ll get parts tomorrow, and we’ll be driving it by Wednesday.”
    Without even thinking about it, I walk to the side of the car and pull my shirt off, tossing it inside. I have to get underneath to see the drive shaft. When I turn around, Gracie is right in front of me. She hooks her fingers in the waist of my pants and presses my back against the hot car. She pushes up onto her toes so her mouth is on my ear, and her whole body is pressed against mine. The searing hot metal is nothing compared to the heat coursing through the rest of me. Her breath is hot, and her loose strands of hair tickle my cheek and neck. My hands settle on her hips like they have minds of their own.
    In the sexiest country accent I’ve ever heard, she breathes, “Bentley Blackmoore McKinna, I reckon I’m gunna love learnin’ to drive stick with you.”
    My fingers dig tighter into her hips with every word until she loosens her grip from my pants and uses her fists against my stomach to push away. She’s wearing the most evil smile, and her eyes dance with life as she throws my own tactic right back in my face. Watching her turn and walk away while trying to relearn how to breathe is all I can do. That girl is going to unravel me, which is not what I need, nor want, at this point.
    But the phrase, “No thanks. I don’t want the sexiest girl I’ve ever met to pin me up against a car and mutter sexual innuendoes in my ear about driving a stick-shift,” has never been uttered by a single straight guy anywhere. I guarantee it.
    When she disappears around the corner, I lean forward and brace my hands on my knees. This is the most sexually charged day I’ve ever had, and I don’t even think it’s noon yet. Gracie and I have started to play a game that no one can win, but I know no matter how many times I say I’m not going to give in, it’ll be the biggest lie I’ve ever told myself.
    ***
    Every day this week is the same. I wake up and go around the farm, doing chores. I’m so glad for the hay harvest because it keeps me busy until almost sundown. This means I am off the hook to work on Gracie’s car and try to keep my distance. The other plus is that all the work makes it easier to fend off my mother and sister’s incessant phone calls and make excuses as to why I can’t go to Lacy’s or the diner or wherever people go to hang out around here. By sundown I have energy for only one thing, and that’s falling face first into bed.
    Harvesting hay keeps me so busy that the week is gone, and I feel nothing but pain. If I had to describe farm work in one word, I’d say lifting. Lifting shovels of shit or hay, lifting bales, lifting water jugs and slop buckets, lifting my sore aching body out of bed at an ungodly hour every morning. But I’m the one who