Pumpkin Farmer by Michael Hughes

Author:Michael Hughes [Hughes, Michael]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Black Rose Writing
Published: 2016-03-10T00:00:00+00:00

15

The Spitfire began its descent down Highway 92. John was going to get back on the Interstate and go home. Angry and dissatisfied he was, but there was little else to do at this point. To hell with Ellie, he thought. He had had enough of betrayal recently. But something began to itch at him. It was guilt. He hated himself for feeling guilty, but he couldn’t help it. What sort of man left a girl alone out in the middle of nowhere?

A man who had been cheated on by his ex-girlfriend and had been taken advantage of and led on. But still, that was no excuse. John thought of Ellie beginning to unbutton her blouse. He was repulsed by it. What if he had taken advantage of her? He grimaced, not wanting to acknowledge that is was possible that he had felt temptation. And he felt so uneasy having someone beg of something from him. It made him nauseous. Frankly, he would have been perfectly happy to do nothing and have Ellie pat his shoulder the whole way to the East Bay, even if she didn’t invite him inside. But no, even that couldn’t come to fruition. So here he was, on Interstate 280, so out of sorts that he got onto it heading north so as to pass under the wizened grin of none other than Father Serra.

John got off the freeway and re-entered it headed southbound. He knew what he would have to do. Yes, he was gonna suck up his pride and offer Ellie a ride back home. He wasn’t going to go for anything, even if she offered. He was going to do the decent thing, and suck it up, because as much as he liked to think he was Mr. Tough Guy, he really couldn’t bear the thought of being that callous.

He hoped that Ellie wouldn’t give him the cold shoulder and stay out in the dark, but given the desperation in her voice when he ditched her, he figured she’d be glad to get a ride.

John snaked his way back up 92 a couple of miles before he hit a particularly dense patch of fog. He put on his high beams but still had to keep it to about twenty.

Up the road a couple of bends was a California Highway Patrol officer. He was sitting in his patrol car reading Hustler. He’d recently gotten into an argument with his wife, and he had thus been relegated to sleeping on the couch. His right hand and Larry Flynt would have to suffice, and they would have to suffice right now in the driver’s seat of that new and clean Dodge St. Regis that the department had bought. This patrol was really boring, and quota time was fast approaching.

But what was this here? This blinding light. Well, that had to be somebody’s brights that were not dimmed. That was an infraction, all right. The Chip pulled up and followed what he made out to be a little sports car.

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