his hands on my hips and ass and keeping us connected in all the important places. And every now and again he’d give me that grin. He was having fun. So was I.
The best part of all of it was knowing that no matter what happened on the dance floor, it would go no further if I didn’t want it to. Of course, it would go no further if he didn’t want it to, also. Legally, I was paying Jack for his time and company, not for sex. Any monkeyshines we got up to later would be between two consenting adults, only. I’d never had a date turn me down, though, and I didn’t expect Jack to.
If I wanted him, I’d have him, but even though he was lovely and a good dancer, I wasn’t entirely sure I wanted to take him to bed. Sam’s face still lingered on the edges of my mind, and though I figured Jack wouldn’t give a damn if I fucked him while I thought of another man, I would.
For now it was enough to dance a lot, drink a little. Feel his hands on me and watch that smile. Sweat slicked us both and kept his hair back when he pushed it off his face. When I pressed my cheek to his, I resisted seeing if he tasted like salt.
I’d half expected to get paged, but the night spun on without so much as a beep from my phone. I did, however, have a limit to my budget. When I gestured toward the stairs, Jack nodded. To my amusement, he didn’t wait for me to lead this time. He took my hand and wove us through the crowd with the same confidence he’d discovered on the dance floor.
My ears still rang from the music as we reached the street. Jack hadn’t let go of my hand. All hell didn’t quite break loose, but it sure as shit rattled the bars of its cage.
“You asshole!” The tall girl from earlier had quite a bit more liquor in her now. She stumbled out of the doorway, her eyeliner and lipstick smeared.
Jack turned away, face pained again. His fingers tightened in mine, but I let go of his hand. He shot me an apologetic look, which I returned with a half shrug as we started walking.
“Hey, Jack! Jackass! Don’t you walk away from me!”
“C’mon, Kira, don’t.” This came from the marginally less drunk friend. “He’s not worth it!”
Scenes like this were probably commonplace at 1:00 a.m. but I wasn’t usually the one involved in them. In fact, part of what I paid for was the privilege to not be swept up in interpersonal dramas from drunk barsluts showing off their thongs.
“Fuck you, Jack!” Kira couldn’t let it go, apparently.
Jack grimaced and pulled his cap from his back pocket. He put it on, but didn’t look at her. We hadn’t gone more than another few steps down the sidewalk when Kira launched herself at his back.
Jack stumbled forward as she pummeled him, her legs and arms whaling akimbo. She didn’t actually manage to hit him more than once or twice, but the spectators leaped out of the way of her whirling-dervish performance. She was shrieking insults, mostly stupid and incoherent ones.
Jack pushed her off him firmly and grabbed her arm at the same time so she wouldn’t fall on her drunk ass right there on the dirty pavement. She kept trying to hit him and missing, and though it shouldn’t have been funny I had to cover my mouth over a laugh.
“Stop it,” Jack told her and gave her arm a little shake before letting her go. When she flew at him again she managed to knock his cap off. Anger crossed his face and he held her off with one arm while she struggled to get at his face with her nails.
“I hope your Prince Albert fucking rips out and you have to piss through three holes!” she screamed.
“Kira, c’mon,” her friend pleaded, reaching for her.
Kira allowed herself to be led away, still shouting insults. Jack picked up his hat and brushed it off, but didn’t put it on his head. He won more points for that bit of common sense, even if he’d lost a few for dating an idiot like Kira.
“Fuck,” he said after a minute. “I’m sorry.”
His chest rose and fell rapidly, and his hands clenched at his sides. He was shaking, just a little. He reached to his pocket like a reflex, but then pulled it away.
“It’s okay.” It wasn’t, quite, but I wasn’t going to make him feel worse than he obviously already did.
He walked me back to the parking garage in increasingly uncomfortable silence. By the time we got to my car he wasn’t visibly angry any longer, but that didn’t really help. I unlocked Betty’s door and turned to him.
“Well, Jack, it’s been interesting.”
He ran his hand through his hair. “I hope…you had fun.”
Three hundred bucks’ worth? Not so much. “Sure,” I said anyway, because there was no point in being a bitch.
Jack straightened a little at that. “You didn’t have fun.”
“No, no—”
“Grace,” he said. “I know you didn’t. I’m really sorry. Shit. I’m oh-for-two, huh?”
I leaned against my car to watch him. Again his hand drifted to his pocket and pulled away. I thought of the huff-breath-hold. “If you need to smoke, you can go ahead. I don’t care.”
Not now, when I knew there was no way I’d have to taste smoke on his tongue.
His look of relief was so vast I laughed. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit one with a lighter emblazoned with a picture of the biohazard symbol. He offered me one, which I declined.
We stood a few feet apart, me still leaning against my car and him leaning against the one parked next to it. He blew the smoke away from my face and visibly stopped twitching. We didn’t say anything until he’d puffed a few times. Then he looked at me.
“Sweet car.” His eyes roamed over Betty’s lines, seeing her as she should be, maybe, instead of how she was.
“It’s my bitchin’ Camaro,” I told him with a grin.
Guys dig cars almost as much as they dig pussy.
“Nice.”
It wasn’t, really—it had rust spots and dings and dents and was saved from being a junker solely because of its “cool” factor rather than any extra-special care I’d given it.
“It runs.” I opened the door. “That’s the best thing that I can say about it.”
Jack drew in more smoke and let it out. “She wasn’t my girlfriend. We hooked up once or twice.”
“You don’t have to explain things to me.”
He shook his head. “Yeah, I know. But I am, okay?”
In the parking garage’s harsh lighting he shouldn’t have looked so pretty, his face all smooth lines and curves. With a cigarette in his mouth and smoke squinting his eyes, he should’ve looked harder. Or at least older.
“Look,” he said when I didn’t answer. “I’ll give you your money back.”
“Mrs. Smith doesn’t offer refunds.”
