Read Online Cream of the Crop by Alice Clayton - Free Book Online

knew it would be big.”
    I laughed. “Atta boy, Leo! Its always nice when beautiful boys are not only economically blessed, but blessed down below as well. I can’t wait to meet him and congratulate him on his big dick.”
    She cackled, clapping her hand on the side of her thigh. “Yes, please say exactly that.”
    â€œDone.” She knew I totally would. “Not that I don’t enjoy all the junk talk here, but what I actually meant was Poughkeepsie is bigger than I thought.” We’d pulled out of the station a few minutes ago, and I’d expected to be in the country almost immediately.
    â€œPoughkeepsie is decent sized, Bailey Falls is positively minuscule. You sure you’re up to this?”
    â€œI’m not that citified, am I?”
    â€œSweetie. There’s no Starbucks. No blow-dry bars. We have one cab, driven by a man named Earl, who wears glasses as thick as Coke bottles. I’m not entirely sure they’re not actual Coke bottles.”
    â€œI’ll be fine,” I answered, settling back against the seat. “I see you’re still driving this beast.”
    â€œIt’s not a beast, it’s a Jeep Wagoneer, a classic. They literally don’t make them like this anymore.”
    â€œThat’s true, you don’t see much wood paneling these days, at least not on the outside of the car,” I replied, smoothing my hand across the side panel. My hand was resting on the window ledge, the air blowing in off the river, and with it a strange scent. “What am I smelling?”
    â€œCountry.” She grinned and turned off onto a wooded two-lane highway.
    â€œPerfect.” I smiled back. “When’s the barn dance?”
    â€œThe what?”
    â€œBarn dance. Councilman Bowman said there’d be a barn dance. I bought a petticoat.” I was confused when she burst out laughing.
    â€œOh sweetie,” she said, slapping her hand on the steering wheel. “He must have been teasing you, there’s no barn dance.”
    â€œIt’s not a real thing?” I asked, disappointed.
    â€œOh, it’s a thing; just not this weekend. But I’ll look at the calendar and see when the next one is.”
    â€œBut my petticoat,” I said, sniffing.
    She just patted my hand and snickered once more.
    As we drove, she began to point out landmarks, some designated as actual landmarks, and some Roxie landmarks.
    â€œHere’s the spot where my Jeep broke down when I was in high school, and I had to walk two miles to the nearest house.Aaaand there’s the Lightning Tree, gets struck by lightning at least once every summer, but the damn thing just never gives up and falls over. And here’s the turnoff to The Tube, best swimming hole for miles.”
    â€œA swimming hole? Explain please,” I said, not understanding. Sure, I’d watched old TV shows where people were swimming in, well, swimming holes, but that couldn’t be what she actually meant. Wait, right?
    â€œA swimming hole. You’ve never gone to a swimming hole?”
    â€œI once went swimming at a YMCA in the Bronx, does that count?” I asked.
    â€œOh honey, you’re so pretty,” she said, shaking her head at me.
    â€œI know,” I answered promptly. “Continue.”
    â€œWell, it’s like a pond but it’s spring-fed, and it’s always moving, not stagnant.”
    â€œCan you see the bottom?”
    â€œMostly.”
    â€œIt’s not squishy and muddy?”
    â€œA little bit, but it’s mostly just rocky.”
    â€œThat’d freak me out. Who knows what the hell might be lurking in there.” I shuddered.
    â€œYou swim in the ocean,” she said.
    â€œSure, but it’s the ocean. It’s not a hole in the ground.”
    â€œYou come back next summer, and I’ll take you to a swimming hole.”
    â€œI feel like I should say thank you.”
    She gave me the side-eye.