Test Chapter 12 Whitfield's Boots

Work in progress...

Working Title 1: The Book of the Preacher's Boots?

Working Title 2: Whitfield’s Boots?
Chapter 12

Draft 3

By: Chase L. Currie

Yeah, yeah, it's not every damn day you pick up a blonde goddess from the crossroads. It might've not been the wisest of moves, but truth being uttered, and why the Hell not, have been so far, I just wanted to chat with a knockout dame from the big city.

                Is it wrong? Hell, if I know.

                Was it needed? Yes, sir, it was.

 

Whitfield grabbed three peaches the size of his hands, placed them in a bucket, and smiled at the non-English speaking folks behind the wooden stand not too far from their house. There were no greatest peaches in the world than those on the backroads hidden from most people and only there for those souls lost trying to hide from being founded. He left them a twenty, more than they were asking for, and strolled back to his car where the Rock n' Roll Queen sat on the trunk smoking her throat raw. 

                She had tied up her sunray hair off her neck and taken off the leather jacket placing it behind her like a sleeping cat. She was still burning from the heat, no way around it, but she was trying her best to cool off. Short from stripping down to nothing, there was no real way to cool off. She or anyone else could only remove so much with the heat never changing. Whitfield could almost feel it in his bones; there was a watering hole not too far from here. One where the youth of these backroads are cold off in the heavy summer days. If she had asked the Queen, she would have begged him to take her there so that they could take off their clothes, enjoying the chill waters of a hidden pool.

The heat of the south laughed at her black style and kicked at the heaviness of the jacket itself. She sat there sweating like everything else on this hellish road.

                Whitfield remarked to himself the thin layer of sweat only added to her seductive body. If he had been a younger man with an unbroken heart, the idea of sex with her would also run his blood into a bittersweet taste. He might have tried his unholy best to get into her pants and lick the sweat off of her, but he was a bit wiser in his age. The wisdom of time but most of all the wisdom of suffering.

                The sex would be a thrill even now. But there would be a cost to the actions, there was always a cost, and Whitfield was unsure he was ready to pay it.

                He did think this goddess was a killer dame wrapped up in leather, but age �"

                Maybe, it was grief. Maybe not.

                Had caused him to come to a haul in the urgency of lust with this lovely gal.

                "Taylor," Whitfield said, placing the bucket beside her and jumping up on the trunk.

She glanced down at the peaches, smiled, but did not take one yet. She kept smoking her death stick. Her lips rolled around the end of the smoke pushing some of her noses down a little making Whitfield think of something else between those lips. He kicked himself for the thought, looking away from her.

"Are you really a Holy Man?" Taylor asked.

Whitfield had taken out a peach, biting into it. The juice ran down his rough face and gave all the sweetness the tree could give. A drop of sweet honey hung on the cross from his wrist before falling to his leg. The drop gasped at the sight of the Lord but jumped into the pool, forming on Whitfield's knee.

"Yes, ma' �" I am," he said swallowing, "or was."

"Was?" She asked with another cloud of death.

Whitfield shrugged and said, "God and I are having a bit of a tussle."

"Over?"

"The death of my wife," he said, taking another bite." She died, oh, about a week or so ago."

"Oh, f**k, sorry," Taylor said, glancing at him.

Whitfield smiled and held up a peach. "It sucks, but, uh, I get a peach with ya, so maybe, all things being as they are, it's not so bad. Things considerin’ could be worse."

"I guess so," Taylor said, flicking the smoke away and picking up a peach. She dug in her jacket pocket, pulling free a knife. She popped it open and started to cut into the peach.

Whitfield sat there in pure horror at the act, unsure what he saw with his own lying eyes.

"What?"

"You ain't from around here, are ya?"

"No, not at all." She asked, "Why?"

"No born Southern would dare eat a peach with a knife," he said, shaking his head. "My mommy would have backed handed me for somethin’ so damn foolish. You ate an apple with a knife, but not a peach.”

“Sorry, didn’t know it was against the law.”

“It’s not, but should be,” he said, smiling at her. “You a Yankee?”

“Born in New York City,” she said, cutting some more of the peach away.

“Never let another Southern see you do that,” he said, nodding at the knife, “and for the love of everything, Holy never let anyone know you ain’t from around here.”

She pulled the peach off her blade, and Whitfield studied the moans coming from her closed eyes behind the sunglasses. He wondered, as he guessed most men did when they watched the enjoyment of eating something so sweet wash over a fine woman, if this what Eve looked like in the Garden? Maybe, the true nature of sin wasn’t knowledge but the endless longing for a man to touch a goddess of lust like the one sitting next to him.

Whitfield never liked the idea of an apple being what Eve ate in the Garden, but it was peach to him. Then again, I am a Southern boy; peaches are far more important in our lives than a bloody ol’ apple.

The water of Good and Evil flowed down Taylor's long fingers, swallowing her sweetness like a lover in a shower, and it licked her tight, making the peach smile. She cut off a bit more of the peach, eating it.

She closed her eyes with another moan, making Whitfield's heart do a jigger.

"F**k, that's good," Taylor said.

"Sure is," Whitfield agreed.

"Does it bother you?" Taylor asked. "My language?"

"Nope nor your clothes," he said. "I could care less about silly things as such."

"Yeah?"

"Yup."

"So, this tussle?" She said. "You going to come to the other side now?"

"Ah, what's mean?" He asked, leaning in and keeping her in his gaze. "To the Devil? Or to believin’ in good ol' nothin'?

"Either."

"Nope, no, don' know," Whitfield said. "Not sure it matters, darlin’." He looked on down the road. "But I'm sure I'll find Him out there."

"I’m sure He’s out there,” Taylor said.

“Ah, yeah?”

“I mean, why not,” she said. “If I met the Devil, I’ll know there is a God, right?”

“That’s one way of lookin’ at,” he said. “Why are you tryin’ to meet ol’ horn, might I ask?”

Taylor grin cutting a part of the peach again before eating it.

“To sell my soul, Preacher Man,” she said. “So, I can become a Rock Star.”

“Oh, ah,” Whitfield nodded, “I guess you wouldn’ be the first.”

“Guess not.”

Whitfield nodded in agreement taking another bite of his peach.

“Not going to try to stop me?” Taylor asked.

“You want me too?” Whitfield asked, making himself very still sitting next to her.

“Aren’t you supposed to?” She asked.

Whitfield tipped his black hat back and said, “Yeah, you might be right, but the way I see it, a gal like yourself already knows that it is a bad idea.”

Taylor smiled, not saying a word eating some more of the peach.

“Foolishness,” he said, “but you know this. You’re testin’ the dark to what’s behind it.”

“Maybe.”

“And yet,” he said, glancing to the feverish sky,” you could always go back to His house. God wouldn’t shut the door to ya. Ya could ask forgiveness, give your soul back to Him, and see a whole new light.”

Whitfield dropped his eyes back to her. “See Hell first, if you wish, see how far that pit goes, and then come runnin’ back to the light, yea?” He nodded as if he had merely asked himself. “Yea.”

“You think God will take me back after selling my soul?” Taylor asked, raising an eyebrow over her sunglasses.

“Tell ya, what,” Whitfield said, “you find where He says no to you, just you, in the Good Book, then we’ll talk about it, fair enough?”

Taylor smirked and said,” Fair enough, Preacher Man.”

Whitfield smiled big at her, rocking back a little putting his hands between his legs.

“You like the blues?” He asked. “I am a bit of blues hound, myself.”

“Hell yeah,” I do,” she said. “You can’t have Rock n’ Roll with the blues.”

“I hope you bring back some good southern blues,” he said. “I think the world could use those devilish tunes.”

“I will,” she said, “Rock is almost dead. Have you heard the s**t on the radio this day?”

“Garbage,” Whitfield exclaim,” it’s all hogwash. What the Hell happened to the music?” He tossed his arms skywards. “It is a great damn shame.”

“S**t, if I know,” Taylor said, giggling.

“It is unholy crap,” Whitfield roared.

“Yes, sir, it is,” she said.

“Is it wrong that I pray for all the bad music to become mute?” he asked.

“Not in my book,” she said.

“Change things, will ya?”

“I will,” she said, and they said nothing for a passing car moment. They sat there, letting the rushing wind take their words away. “What if I don’t make it out?”

“Of?”

“Hell,” she said. “What if I can’t make it out?”

Whitfield smiled, looking over at her while pulling his hat down to shield them from the bright sun. “I’m sure the Good Lord will send someone like me to ya.”

“And if I’m dead?”

He winked, “I’ll come lookin’ for ya than in the pits.”

She cut another part of the peach free, staring ahead and eating it off the knife.

“Pacher Man,” Taylor asked, “would you come to my funeral to say some words?”

“Sure thing, darlin’.”

“I mean it,” she said. “You’ll come for my soul.”

“I will.”

“Promise me?” She asked, never looking over at him.

“I promise,” he said, “I’ll be there, no matter what. Even if I have to come diggin’ out of my own grave.”

They both heard the steps of someone behind them and turned to see the older women from the roadside stand in front of the house rushing up to them. She was carrying a pie and a mighty smile on her weary face. She stopped in front of them, looking over them both and unsure of Taylor but said nothing outwardly about her.

“For you,” she said, giving the peach cobbler to Whitfield,” Father.”

Taylor chuckled, and he took it with a wink of the eye.

“Thank you, ma’am.”

She strolled away just as quickly, thrilled with herself.

“You’re not Catholic,” Taylor said.

“Little details,” Whitfield said, smiling like a dumb child at the cobbler in his hands.

“Going to share?” Taylor asked.

“No, ma’am,” Whitfield hissed, moving the cobbler away from her. “This is holy food. You don’t get any for sellin’ your soul, missy.”

Taylor roared with laughter. They sat there until close to dusk, chatting about music and everything else. They talked as if they were long-lost friends, and then right on the edge of night, Whitfield took her back to the crossroads.

She gave him a peck on the cheek and said, “See you are my grave, Father.” She got out, shutting the door letting him drive a little down the road.

He glanced up to see a midnight car from the 20s with a tall man of unknown race standing in front of Taylor. He wore a black and purple suit and a cowboy hat and boots. He puffed on his golden pip, smiling at the soon-to-be Rock n’ Roll Queen.

There were black hounds almost deeper than a well of ink at his back, except for their Hellish red eyes and snarling teeth. They looked at Whitfield, and the man in the hat winked at the Preacher while shaking Taylor’s hand.