21. Greta #2
He ignores me. “Do you fucking understand?”
The man nods. “Yeah. I get it.”
Jack lets him down and shoves him away. He quickly moves to the door and exits to the street.
My breath is fast. I glance around the bar to see how everyone is taking this.
The bartender nods in approval. A few of the men are smiling and shaking their heads, as if they knew this would happen.
I’m in over my head. I don’t know men like this. I’m not sure I want a man like this. I’m all about equality and kindness and—
Jack pulls on my arm. “Come with me.”
We head past the dart boards where a modern style juke box flashes colors, blaring out a rock tune I vaguely recognize.
He slides his hands under my jacket and draws me close to him.
I see. We’re dancing.
I want to fight this. To stay indignant, both at the man who approached me and what Jack said. I don’t run in circles where people behave like this.
But Jack has me wrapped up against him, his gaze sharp and penetrating, like there’s nobody else in the room but me. By the time we’ve gotten to the chorus and I recognize “Dangerous Woman,” I’m already underwater.
We move together, his body flush against mine. The fire is already licking through me. I can’t analyze this. I can’t compare it to ordinary life.
This is the most unimaginable thing. There is no explaining why I’m a different person with him.
I surrender to it. Jack wraps a hand around the back of my neck, and I fall into him. He kisses my face, my nose, my mouth.
His arm snakes under my jacket, then my sweater, sliding up my naked spine. I shiver. I’m about to do something wild. I can feel it. I need it. I want all these new things with him.
Then we’re walking, his arm still inside my shirt, toward the door. We clear the corner near his bike, where the street lamps don’t reach, shadowy and dark, like the first time by the water wheel at the wedding.
He presses me against the brick wall, my hair sticking to the rough texture. And his hands move up the front of my sweater, under the bra, cupping me, squeezing, tweaking the nipples.
My legs are like water. I don’t see what we can do here, so close to people walking by, me in pants, but then his hand is down the front of my panties, making space, slipping inside me.
His mouth is hot, his kiss fervent and matching mine in the taste of beer and butter and bread. In laughter and in threats. Every emotion flashes through me like a movie preview, angst, fear, adrenaline, need.
He curls a finger to find that spot he already knows so well, and I groan against his mouth, our tongues entangled.
The clenching begins, slow and sweet then building in intensity. My knees buckle, but Jack holds me in place.
I must be burning bright. Everyone from the street will see me glowing in this alley, reckless and on fire. Jack’s mouth absorbs my cries. Who does this here? Who makes something like this happen?
Jack does. I do. We do it together.
When I finally clasp his shoulders and find my footing again, I want to do more. I want to be on my knees, his cock in my mouth. I want to be one of those counterculture girls, looking for a thrill, doing whatever they want, wherever they feel the urge.
I reach for his buckle, but he stops me, looking toward the street.
Jack’s voice is low and menacing at whatever he sees. “What do you want?”
I go still. Someone’s there? I pull my jacket tightly around me even though I’m not exposed in any way.
An engine roars. It’s another motorcycle blocking the way out. I peer at the man, backed by light.
It’s the one from inside. The one Jack threatened.
My belly quivers.
“What are you going to do now?” the man asks.
Jack casually takes my helmet off his handlebar and passes it to me. “I’m going home to keep fucking this woman who is too goddamn good for you to even look at.”
“She’s a hot one, that’s for sure.” The man laughs. “Maybe I’ll take her off your hands.”
Jack takes his time, throwing a leg over his bike and waiting for me to get on behind him.
I don’t know how we’re going to leave. The man is blocking the narrow alley with his bike sideways at the way in. The back side is blocked by a chain link fence.
I slide my arm through the strap of Jack’s helmet and hold on. I sense he doesn’t want to wear it now. He wants to see. To be seen by this man. To be a menace. A threat.
Jack stomps the starter, and the motorcycle roars to life, echoing off the brick walls.
I can’t see over his broad back. I press my cheek between his shoulder blades.
I refuse to be afraid.
“What is that you think you’ve got there?” Jack asks, slowly walking the bike forward, closer to the man.
“What are you talking about?” the man says. “It’s a fucking motorcycle, you fucking idiot. Anyone can see that.”
Jack’s voice is low and gravelly, so rough edged that I can feel the rumble in my cheek. “That’s not a motorcycle. This is a fucking motorcycle.” And he revs the engine, and we take off like a shot.
Oh, God.
I hear a screech of metal and a shout of surprise. Then we’re out in the street, racing away.
I turn back to look. The man is on his butt, his bike on its side. He’s pissed as hell, but he’s tangled in everything and can’t get up.
I believe it now.
Iron Jack can handle anything.