Free Cycles by Deborah Boyer Page B

shy," Lindsay grouses. "I've tried to talk to him at least a dozen times and he keeps staring at the floor."
     
          With a total population of three-hundred-and-seventy in Lancer, Pennsylvania, fresh blood always gives everybody something to talk about, and folks are still watching his every move, poor kid—although most of them for different reasons than my two friends, mind you, but he's green enough for our stares to be unremarkable. A definite plus. The tavern's pretty crowded even for Saturday and there's nothing like a busy night at Bill's for generating rumors of unseemly behavior.
     
          "Maybe he's the silent type," I say.
     
          We watch him bend over to talk with Joshua Strickler.
     
          "Who cares what type he is when he's got an ass like that," Carol observes.
     
          "Mmm-hmm," I mutter thickly at the tight behind, "I'll take two scoops, please."
     
          "Darla!" Lindsey giggles. "Hands off. Single women need only apply. Besides, he might be a two-scooper, but Cole's definitely a banana split—and don't even try to tell me his butt's not just as scrumptious."
     
          "Anyway! You don't really think we come over to your house all the time just to see your sour puss, do you?" Carol asks with a huff.
     
          "That's just it," I drawl in self-pity, "you're not seeing any more of Cole than I am most of the time."
     
          "So stop doing his laundry." Carol shakes her head. "Cole is all that and twelve bags of chips, and always has been, you silly cow. Look at him," she points with her chin, "he's watching you watch the newbie—somebody's in trouble!"
     
          I catch Cole's watchful blue stare and he gives me a melting, lopsided smile. He may have a six-pack in him but he's not stupid—and despite the girls' teasing, I'm not in trouble. Any more than he is when I catch him looking at Rachael in the post office. I shrug—the girls are right, he is a gorgeous treat for the eyes—and grin back. He shakes his head and returns to his conversation with the sheriff.
     
          "Just because we're on a diet —" I start.
     
          "Doesn't mean you can't look at the menu," Lindsey and Carol finish with a groan.
     
          "Oh, puh-leze," I mutter, "at least you two can still order take out."
     
          Lindsey snorts. "But we sure don't get the free delivery."
     
          We've been friends since grade school—the three of us and Cindy. When we graduated, Cindy packed her bags and moved to California. Carol's been married and divorced—twice. Lindsey says she's got a smorgasbord here, since the town's predominantly male, and she's not about to settle for one. I'm lucky to have friends like them. In a place as small as Lancer, who you can and can't confide in can be dicey. At least I have two women I can tell anything and be sure it will go no further.
     
          "Free maybe, but then it's not hot out of the oven, is it?" I sigh again. "As dull as things are, I have to get my jollies somewhere."
     
          Carol wrinkles her nose. "Quit complaining. He'll come around, they always do. And if he doesn't, I volunteer to take him for a night." She raises her hand. "I'll slather him with toppings and send him home a new sundae."
     
          I laugh. "I bet you would—probably pineapple because you know I hate it." I pull a sour face. "Nope, no deal. I'm not ready to share, I'm just frustrated."
     
          "Stop feeling sorry for you," Lindsey scolds. "You simply need a chance of pace. Maybe you should drag him into the bathroom right now and give him a blow-job—that will perk things up. And then," she adds slyly, "Carol and I can sit out here and fantasize about what you're doing. We need our vicarious jollies, too."
     
          "He's way too happy," I say, watching Cole fire down another mug, "which means it would take too long and I don't have an ounce of patience today."