Chapter 12 Shyanne #2
“I figured you’d want some pretty specific info. No reason to do this if it’s not detailed.” He glanced up and froze, his eyes locking on my body, sliding from my feet up my legs and across my torso until he met my eyes.
“Is anything wrong?” I asked, suddenly self-conscious. I had to fight not to adjust or fiddle with my clothes out of nervousness.
“You look amazing,” he said.
I sighed with relief and smiled. “Really? I sort of threw it all on without thinking,” I lied.
“Let’s go have that drink,” he said, rising from the chair.
He crossed the garage, his muscled thighs visible through the well-fitting jeans he wore, his T-shirt the perfect combination of tight and loose. Tight around the arms, shoulders and chest, but loose around the midsection, though he didn’t need the room. I’d already noticed his flat, toned stomach.
“That sounds great,” I said.
He took my hand when he was close enough. His skin was warm. Strong fingers wrapped around mine, and the heat of his touch traveled up my arm. Such a small gesture. Holding hands. Totally platonic and without any sexual innuendo, yet I felt a steady warm pulse between my legs.
“I guess you’re driving,” he said. “I, uh, well, I flew.”
“I know the perfect place,” I said. “Hop in and let’s go.”
Jackson climbed into the passenger seat, and when I got behind the wheel, I again had the feeling that this was an actual date. Rather than trying to undercut that thought, or think of ways that it wasn’t what it was, I decided to go with it.
We drove to an area that wasn’t on the typical frat-boy scene, and I pulled into a taqueria-style place that was one step above a dive bar, but still nice enough to be a cool place to chill out.
They had the best tacos this side of the border and an amazing selection of tequila. I hoped he’d like it.
Jackson leaned forward, reading the neon sign as we pulled into the parking lot. “Juan-John’s Place?” He frowned and looked at me. “That’s a weird name, right?”
I grinned at him. “The guy who owns it is named Juan Torres. When he opened the place twenty years ago, it was nothing but a food truck called Juan’s Place in a parking lot.
The first customer who walked up was a drunk guy, who apparently couldn’t read.
He said ‘is this John’s place?’ It became a joke that stuck, and when he opened this a couple years later, he changed the name,” I said with a shrug.
“Fair enough,” Jackson said with a chuckle, and climbed out of the truck.
It was Friday night, and the place was already hopping. Music drifted out the doors. The cover band was currently playing what sounded like a classic rock version of Taylor Swift’s “Blank Space”.
“The place is popular,” Jackson said, and from the smile on his face, I could tell he liked it.
I took his hand and led him toward the door. “It’s an institution around here. Great food, great atmosphere, great drinks—it’s got it all. Come on.”
The outdoor seating on the wraparound porch was already full of folks either eating, or sitting and having conversations.
When we opened the door, the music poured out, loud enough to be fun, but low enough to allow conversation everywhere but right on the dance floor.
The floor itself was already filled with people gyrating and bouncing around.
“Over there,” I said, pointing to a small table for two in the corner.
Jackson followed me over, and before we’d even sat, I picked up the menu from the cradle at the far side of the table.
“What do you want to eat?” I said, offering the menu.
Jackson held a hand up and winked at me. “This is your place. You choose. I trust your taste.
“Oh! Adventurous, are we?”
“Sometimes,” he said.
“Howdy, folks,” the server said as she approached our table. “What can I get for you?”
“I’m gonna have a tequila sunrise, with Patron Silver,” I said, then pointed at Jackson. “He looks like someone who would like a ranch water, the same brand of tequila as mine.”
“Gotcha,” she said as she wrote our order. “Any food?”
“Let’s get a street taco platter. Five carne asada, two birria, two barbacoa, two lengua, four carnitas, and five campechano,” I said, reading the selection from the menu. “All the accompaniments.”
“Done,” she said. “I’ll have your cocktails and some waters out in a sec.”
“Thank you.”
Jackson was giving me a strange look, an introspective smile on his face.
“What’s that look for?” I said.
“I like the way you take charge. No hesitation.” He shrugged. “It’s kinda hot.”
Anticipatory flutters swirled in my stomach. Maybe tonight would go the way I wanted it to.
Twenty minutes later, I’d already finished my drink, and Jackson and I had made a decent dent in the tacos. The cocktail had relaxed me, but Jackson looked as aloof as always.
“You can really hold your liquor,” I said, through a bite of birria taco.
Jackson gave me a piercing look. “Alcohol doesn’t affect us like it does humans. Our metabolism is too high. We don’t really get drunk or buzzed.”
“You’re shitting me,” I said. “For real?”
He nodded as he took another bite.
Pointing at his stomach, I lifted an eyebrow, and said, “Is that why you’ve got a fucking six-pack, even though you seem to eat whatever you want?”
“Like I said, high metabolism.”
“Ugh. Lucky fucker,” I said as I squeezed a lime over my next taco. I waved to my server. “Another sunrise, please?” Then, voice lowered so only Jackson could hear, I added, “Might as well enjoy myself if I’m the only one who’s gonna be feeling it.”
“Don’t get too wasted.” The way he said it piqued my interest.
“And why is that?” I asked, leaning across the table to be closer to him.
He stared at me, the tension rising the longer he stayed silent. Then he shrugged. “I want to make sure that you’re fully in control later on.”
My mouth went dry. Heart fluttering, I said, “And why would I need to be?”
Jackson moved in closer, his face so close to mine that I could have moved forward another couple of inches and kissed him.
“Because when you say yes, I want you to mean it. I don’t want to worry that it’s the alcohol talking.”
Unbidden, warmth pulsed between my legs, as though warm honey had suddenly poured across my pussy. There would be no mistaking it. If this happened, then every time I said yes there’d be no misinterpretation.
“Here’s your drink.”
The spell between Jackson and I burst with the arrival of the server.
“Huh? Oh, yeah, thanks,” I said, grabbing the cocktail, and taking a drink to steady myself. “Let’s dance.”
“Why not?” Jackson rose and took my hand.
We moved onto the dance floor just as the band began playing a sexy and more upbeat version of a song I recognized from one of Dad’s classic rock mixes—“Strange Way” by Firefall.
Jackson and I inched out into an open spot on the floor.
With my arms around his neck, his hands on my hips, we moved to the music.
I could smell the faint hint of his cologne—a masculine scent I liked.
Pressing close, I thought I noticed a rigid hardness against my thigh as our bodies grinded together.
Even that vague sensation of his cock against me sent my already skyrocketing arousal into overdrive.
As the band switched to another song, my panties grew wet as I imagined what it would be like to have Jackson peel my pants off and slide—
“Well, now, ain’t this cute?”
The pleasant haze of building sexual tension shattered at the sound of Dusty’s voice. The sheer surprise of hearing him made me yelp and clutch at Jackson.
“Dusty?” I said dumbly.
“Damn right,” he growled. “You and I have some talking to do.”
He completely ignored Jackson, which seemed rather impressive since the man stood a solid six inches taller and outweighed him by at least thirty pounds and all of that muscle. Dusty reached out, trying to grab my hand.
“What do you know about my place getting broken into?” he said.
Before he could touch me, Jackson’s hand shot out, grabbing Dusty’s wrist lightning fast, his hand slapping against Dusty’s skin. Dusty blinked in surprise and yanked his arm back.
“And who the fuck is this?” Dusty said, eyeing Jackson with contempt. “And why the fuck does he think he gets to touch me?”
“Dusty, I don’t know shit about your place being broken into,” I lied. “Can you please leave us alone? I think I told you what would happen the next time I saw you, didn’t I?”
“That was before I found out someone broke into my place. Did you hire someone to do that? Lost a few hundred bucks in upholstery, and my security camera hard drive. Pretty damned interesting that it all happened while you were trying to get into my pants.”
I nearly spat in his face. While I was trying to get into his pants? I seemed to remember things going the other way.
“I wouldn’t do anything with your fucking pants even if you paid me for it. How is it my fault somebody broke into your place? I thought you had a security guy anyway.”
“He’s been fired,” Dusty said. “Listen, we can forget all this. Let’s go to my place. We can talk it out, have some wine, then I’ll spread those pretty brown legs and show you how good I can be. Make it all up to me. Do that, and I won’t get the cops involved.”
“Enough,” Jackson said and shoved Dusty back.
The other man stumbled away, but remained standing.
The rest of the patrons had noticed the standoff and moved back, giving Jackson and Dusty a circle.
The band’s playing tapered off into a discordant melody before totally dying.
Everyone in the building eyed the two men with wary anticipation.
They could all see where this was going.
Dusty, who seemed to be completely oblivious as to how outclassed he was in size and strength, glared at Jackson with murderous eyes. The guy had an ego so big he must have been wholly incapable of seeing anyone as a threat. It wasn’t a good way to live life.