If Wishes Were Horses. W. Kinsella P.
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Название: If Wishes Were Horses
Автор: W. Kinsella P.
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Зарубежные детективы
isbn: 9780007497560
isbn:
‘Kiss me, Sugar. Make us so close.’ I did.
‘“Well …” What kind of an answer is that? Am I better than fucking your second baseman?’
‘Much better than my second baseman,’ I said, watching the arrow of sunlight. ‘You were wonderful. He shaves and chews snuff.’
‘All right,’ said Maureen, ‘that’s better.’
I swallowed hard. Everything about me was so incredibly awkward. I have no idea what Maureen saw in me. It was easy to be rowdy and raucous with my friends, my teammates, but put me alone with a girl and I might as well have had a garrote around my neck.
‘I wish you’d look at me, Joe. You never look at me, never make eye contact.’
She shifted out from under me, pulled herself to a sitting position. ‘When we kiss you close your eyes, otherwise you look at some spot in the distance over my left shoulder.’
‘I like to look at you,’ I said lamely.
Maureen had thrown her plaid shirt over her shoulders so she could lean against the outer wall of the barn without scratching her back. She was peeking through thick strands of plum-colored hair, almost as if peering between her fingers.
‘You don’t believe this was my first time,’ she said, fishing in her shirt pocket for a pack of cigarettes and a book of matches. The shirt hung just to the outside of each nipple. Her large, freckled breasts rose and fell rhythmically with her breathing.
‘I never thought about it,’ I said. But I had. She talked so freely and openly of sex, I’d just assumed she’d had other lovers, though I couldn’t think of who they might have been.
‘I want you to know you’re the first outside the family, McCoy.’ She glanced at me, that same wry, enigmatic smile on her face.
I couldn’t keep a surprised expression off my face.
‘Shit, that’s what you expect me to say, isn’t it? A brother has his sister in bed and says to her, “You’re better’n Ma.” And the girl answers back, “That’s what Pa says.”’
Maureen drew deeply on her cigarette, let the smoke out slowly between her teeth.
She had read my mind. The Renns were, as my father often said, a wild and woolly bunch. ‘Disreputable,’ would be the consensus of the community. Her father was a prodigious drinker. One of her brothers was in jail; the other two were terrors, roaming the countryside in souped-up cars. They drank, fought, fucked, stole anything that wasn’t nailed to the earth. Only the wildest white girls or Indian women from the reservation near Tama were ever seen with Harley or Magnus Renn.
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