Page 11 of Ghost

“Slide your hand along the stick until you get to the snake,” he explained. “Grab it right where I’ve got it pinned down. Hold it firmly, but not like you’re trying to strangle it.”

The snake’s head was pressed hard against the densely-packed sand beneath it. Furious for being torn away from a day of basking in the sun, its body was coiled tightly around the stick, attempting to constrict it to death.

My heart pounded against my ribs. What little moisture was in my mouth evaporated, leaving a big ball of unswallowable cotton-like yack in its place. Fearful of what the immediate future might hold, I took a step toward the snake, reached under the tree, and paused.

I looked at Porter. Not for direction or reassurance – I simply wanted to see him one last time before things went awry.

He was strangely calm. The half-assed smirk he wore told me he was at least mildly entertained. I snapped a mental picture of his strikingly masculine jawline, turned to face the snake, and did just as he’d instructed.

I expected slimy and slippery. Instead, I got rough and warm to the touch. I gripped the two-inch diameter piece of muscle between my thumb and forefinger and then gave Porter a blind nod.

“I think I’ve got him,” I exclaimed.

“You better know,” he said with a laugh.

I increased pressure on the deadly reptile’s neck. “I’ve got him.”

He lifted the stick. In turn, I lifted the snake.

Its body began coiling upward toward my hand.

“Shake it up and down,” he said.

Fearing that it was going to wrap around my arm and constrict me into submission before it sank its fangs into my sunscreen slathered flesh, I promptly filled with regret for having picked it up in the first place.

“Shake it up and down?” I asked, frantic that his only instruction made zero sense. “What does that even mean?”

“Like you’re jacking off your boyfriend,” he said, moving his fist up and down like he was stroking a two-foot-long dick.

Just before the snake wrapped around my wrist, I did what he said. Miraculously, the snake’s body straightened. A second or two later, he began to coil upward. I shook him again, and down he went. The third time he coiled, he seemed less interested in completing the task. I shook him lightly, and he straightened.

Now dangling loosely from my grasp, the snake simply hung there.

“Holy Moses!” I shouted. “I tamed a live rattlesnake.”

“How’s it feel?” he asked.

“Empowering,” I responded.

My eyes scanned the ground for my purse. Upon seeing it, I nodded my head toward the ground where it laid.

“Will you grab my phone? Please?” I asked. “I want to take a picture of this.”

He did as I asked. Standing ten feet in front of me with my phone in one hand and the stick in the other, he looked at me. The pain in his eyes was gone. “Do you want me to take a picture?” he asked, pointing the phone at me.

“Yes, silly,” I responded, alternating glances between my outstretched arm and the badass biker who took me rattlesnake hunting. “But I want you to be in it. Come over here.”

He stepped to my side and swept his thumb across the screen of my phone. “It’s locked.”

“Zero-nine-two-seven,” I said.

He pressed the buttons with his thumb, fumbled to find the icon, and eventually got the camera rotated to take a selfie.

“Take off that jacket,” I said. “Who wears a leather jacket in this heat, anyway?”

He chuckled a dry laugh as he peeled off the coat. “Someone who doesn’t want to be bitten by a snake.”

After tossing the coat on the ground beside my purse, he pressed the side of his chest against my shoulder and extended his arm. With the snake dangling from my shaking hand, I tilted my head toward his, looked at the screen, and grinned.