Page 235 of Devil’s Disciples

Her eyes went wide. “She can’t eat an entire pecan pie. That’s impossible.”

“According to her, she can eat it,” Porter assured her. “We’ve got a bet.”

She was a middle-aged woman that looked like she belonged in a nineteen sixties television sitcom. Her short graying hair was fixed in a series of close curls, and she wore an apron that was dusted with flour. Halfway up the bridge of her nose, a pair of glasses rested.

She peered over the tops of the lenses and fixed her eyes on me. “Sweetheart, you’re going to get sick if you eat an entire pie.”

“I’ll be okay,” I said.

“Have you done this before?” she asked.

“I ate seven hotdogs once,” I admitted. “Not on a bet. Just because.”

“That’s a far cry from eating one of our pecan pies. I wish you the best of luck.” She offered a reassuring smile. “Anything to drink?”

I stepped to Porter’s side. “Milk, please.”

He draped his arm over my back and squeezed my shoulder, pulling me into him as he did so. It was a simple gesture and I doubted he meant anything by it. My heart – and my slowly recovering lady bits – seemed to think otherwise.

I looked at him with the intention of asking – playfully – what the hell he was doing. Instead, a face-splitting smile formed. He squeezed my shoulder with his massive hand and grinned in return.

Lost in blissful thoughts of the moment we shared, I walked at Porter’s side as he carried the pies, admiring him along the way. Once outside, he gestured toward an empty table with a nod. “How’s that one?”

Patrons of various ages were scattered about the seating area. I was going to become a spectacle while I ate the pie, and there was nothing I could do about it. Even so, I agreed to sit in the seat he recommended.

“It’s fine,” I said.

Porter seemed, at least during our pie-eating adventure, to be kind, playful, and extremely polite. Those qualities, when combined with his intimidating looks and massive size, garnered my interest. All of it.

I wanted to get back on the orgasm machine. Or go order another pie and have him put his arm around me. We could ride around the countryside, stopping every fifteen miles or so for him to lick the seat free of my juices.

I could simply bring up the topic of sex and see if it aroused him as much as it did in the sushi restaurant, stealing glances under the table at his crotch as we talked. I had no interest, however, in the pie that sat between us.

“I’m pretty full.” I pushed myself away from the table and looked at the pie with disgust. “That sushi is swelling in my belly.”

Acting disinterested in the comment I’d made, Porter cut the tip from his pie. He lifted it to his mouth and paused.

“You said you wanted to get to know me.” He nodded toward the pecan pie. “While we’re eating we can get started on getting to know one another. What do you detest? What aggravates you?”

“Surprises,” I responded without much thought. “I hate surprises.”

He seemed surprised. “Really?”

“Yep. Can’t stand them,” I said through gritted teeth. “They make me itch. I’m itching right now just talking about it. What about you? What do you detest?”

“Liars,” he responded. “Just tell me the truth, no matter what you think I want to hear. If someone out and out lies to me, it’s over.”

“I can’t stand them, either,” I admitted. “Liars suck.”

He studied me for a moment, cut off a piece of pie, and then paused. “I want to know three things. One, what’s your all-time favorite song, and why. Two, I want to know if you were required to put one saying on your headstone what it would be. And, three, what’s the item on your little list that likely going to be the last one you achieve.”

I loved question-answer games. By asking those three simple questions, Ghost Porter-Porter inched a little closer to my heart. Two of the questions were going to be easy to answer. The third, not so much.

“My favorite song is from a movie,” I said. “At least that’s where I heard it first. Solsbury Hill, by Peter Gabriel. I like it because it’s perfect. It’s written in imperfect time – a seven-four beat – which makes it feel like it’s missing a beat in every measure. It sounds like the song is struggling to continue. It was his first song as a solo artist, and I wonder if he was struggling to continue at that time as well. I find it to be a spiritual song, but it doesn’t feel like he’s shoving spirituality down your throat when you listen to it. I love it. It’s uplifting.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard that song.” He sliced the tine of his fork through the ice cream-pie mixture. “I’m not a spiritual person, maybe that’s why.”

“The song has spiritual meaning, but it’s not a spiritual song. I’ll play it for you sometime,” I said. “It’s awesome.”