Quiver by Peter Leonard Page A

it?”
    “Want it to be easy, get yourself somebody has no imagination, does what they’re told.” She reached over, slid her hand slowly, gently, along his inner thigh, fingertips gliding over his jeans. She reached between his legs, felt the bulge of his manhood, fondling him, teasing him, holding him and tightening her grip, Teddy squirming, looking down at her hand with red nails painted a color called Passion Punch.
    Teddy saying, “Easy.”
    A look of concern on his face now, not sure what she was going to do, but wanting more.
    Celeste said, “Ou okay?” in her baby-talk voice. “I’m not hurting widdo Ted, am I? Should we get him out, have some fun? Or should I count the money? Decisions, decisions.”
       
    In spite of their differences—and there were a couple thousand of them—they’d been together three years. Teddy had a few hang-ups, which wasn’t surprising for a guy who grew up an only child on a farm in Perks, a little town in southern Illinois.
    Celeste said, “Where exactly is Perks at?”
    Teddy said, “South of Carbondale, east of Cape Girardo.” He laughed, Jesus, bent over like it was the funniest thing he’d ever heard in his life.
    Celeste said, “Okay, I give up.”
    “Cape Girardo’s on the other side.”
    Celeste said, “Other side of what?”
    “Mississippi, dummy. What do you think?”
    Celeste got it now: you’d have to cross the river to get there, and you’d probably get wet. She guessed that’s what he was saying. She gave him a fake laugh. In his hick farm-boy way, Teddy was being funny. She wanted to say, “Don’t quit your day job to be a comedian just yet,” his day job involving smoking weed, drinking Jack, and robbing liquor stores.
    Celeste asked him what they grew on the farm.
    Teddy said, “Corn and soybeans. We also raised sheep—Hampshires and Suffolks.”
    Celeste said, “You know what you call a guy with two thousand girlfriends?”
    Teddy looked at her and said, “Huh?”
    Celeste said, “A shepherd.”
    Teddy grinned.
    “Ever have your way with one?”
    Teddy grinned bigger. “Matter of fact, I lost my virginity to a 120-pound Hampshire ewe named Winky.”
    Celeste was surprised he was so open about it. She’d’ve thought he’d want to sweep that one under the rug. “What was it like? You know, making it with an animal?”
    “Winky was better than some of the farm girls I’ve done. And I didn’t have to take her out or sweet-talk her.”
    “What do you need me for?”
    Teddy got a big grin on his face and said, “I can’t tell you.” Then he started laughing and couldn’t stop.
    Celeste searched her mind now, trying to remember what she saw in this hick clown to stay with him for going on three years. He was nice-looking. He thought he looked like Billy Ray Cyrus. They didhave a mullet in common. Teddy’s looked like it had 10W-30 motor oil on it half the time, Teddy not being a guy who liked to shower. He didn’t mind being clean; it was the process he didn’t care for—getting wet and cold and shaving and getting soap in his eyes. Not showering much wasn’t a deal breaker, ’cause Celeste liked the gamey smell of unwashed man. It turned her on.
    She met Teddy at a Hank Williams, Junior, concert at Pine Knob. Started talking in the beer line; Teddy behind her, checking out her behind. It sounded like the title of a country-western love song.
    He said, “Hey there, good-looking, got an extra dube you could part with?”
    Celeste had rolled a couple of bad boys and this nice-looking guy—with an honest-to-god mullet—sounded like he could really use one. She said, “Buy me a beer, I’ll fix you up.”
    Teddy handed her a twenty-ounce Miller High Life and they sat on the grass together, smoked weed and listened to Hank Jr. do “I Really Like Girls.”
    Teddy said, “What’s your name?”
    “Celeste.”
    “Celeste what?”
    “Celeste Byrnes.”
    “Nice to meet you. I’m Teddy. I’d like to get out ofhere, take you