CHAPTER 13 GRETA
GRETA
When Iron Jack told me about this wedding, I conjured a definite picture in my head of what it would be like.
I got some of it right. Kegs. Punch. An over-decorated wedding cake with sugar flowers and swoops of thick frosting beads, all topped with a couple holding a ball and chain.
The guests aren’t a surprise, either. Men in leather cuts. Women in, ah, well, attire you won’t find in Jersey other than maybe on seedy street corners. There is currently more tan-and-black leopard print than should be allowed in one room.
But I got other things wrong, particularly about the ceremony itself.
There’s lots more emotion. Men and women swaying in their seats while two roughneck, bearded Rebels sing a startlingly sweet rendition of “I Cross My Heart.”
Iron Jack’s arm around my middle tightens, and his thumb runs along the outer seam of my jeans. The music wraps around us, and we’re no different from all the couples in the room. It’s magic. If you’ve got that kind of love, you revel in it.
If you don’t, you yearn.
For a moment, I remember my wedding to Jude. It was beautiful and well appointed. A country club. Three tasteful bridesmaids in silvery green gowns. Grammy Alma was the flower granny, since there were no small Pickles in the family at that time.
Prime rib and grilled salmon. A well-known chef. The most prominent floral artist in our area and a baker with a year-long waiting list, someone to secure as quickly as your venue.
Black tie. A four-piece band.
Was I happy?
I watch this bride gaze at her husband. He pulls her close as the song concludes.
Not that happy. Certainly not at the level of truly “forsaking all others.” Artemis is walking away from everything to be with a member of Rebel Death.
Iron Jack might sense I’ve gone a tough direction in my thoughts because he adjusts me on his lap, his chin on my shoulder.
I relax into him, his rock-hard chest and broad shoulders. The ends of his hair tickle my cheek.
He still smells of leather and the outdoors. He got shot tonight, shot by a gun! And yet here he is, holding me against him.
I’ve never met anyone like him.
The song ends, and the officiant returns to the arch. “Ladies and gentlemen, let me present to you Rebel Death’s newest couple, Jarrod and Artemis. You may kiss your ol’ lady.”
Jarrod scoops Artemis up into his arms. She locks her hands around his neck.
He leans in to kiss her, and it goes on and on. The emotional tone of everything shifts as the DJ blasts an electric guitar version of “Here Comes the Bride” that slides right into “We Will Rock You.”
Jarrod spins Artemis in a circle and sets her down. They don’t go back down the aisle but get mobbed by the Rebels, who have abandoned their seats to shake Jarrod’s hand and kiss Artemis on the cheek.
The women watching by the kitchen door rush into action, bringing out trays of food and replenishing the punch bowl from pitchers, which is probably what they should have done the first time.
Iron Jack keeps hold of me. The chairs move to the side, tables are set up, and someone throws sawdust down in front of the DJ booth for dancing.
My phone buzzes. Who is that? I wonder if Uncle Sherman got wind of the altercation and is checking on me. But when I pull it out of my pocket, it’s Bailey. Right. I haven’t checked in with her in a while.
Bailey: You haven’t requested an evacuation yet. You ok?
How much to say? That I watched a near gunfight and treated Iron Jack for a gunshot wound?
Me: Totally fine.
Bailey: And with the president?
I glance back over my shoulder. Iron Jack’s foot is tapping now, like he’s in a good mood. It jiggles my whole body.
Me: We’re at a wedding of some other club. It’s been interesting.
Bailey: I bet!
I tuck the phone away. What would the Pickles think of me sitting on this man’s lap? Of everything that went down?
Sherman would yank me immediately.
But right now, I don’t want to go.
The woman who suggested the medical glue brings us a plate of sandwiches and cheese cubes, plus two cups of punch.
I realize I’m starving and bite into bread before taking any sips of the punch, which is bound to be deadly on an empty stomach.
The noise levels reach a fever pitch as everyone shouts over the music. It’s loud and punishing, a mishmash of rock anthems.
Iron Jack and I clear the plate and drink our punch, which tastes like something I had at a college frat party once and is likely twice as strong. We watch as a few couples brave the dance floor, kicking out their elbows and spinning around.
Then the lights go down and a spotlight shines on an empty piece of floor. Jarrod and Artemis step into the brightness for their first dance.
I lean back against Iron Jack. I wonder what they’ll pick.
It’s not a traditional choice, but as I listen to the lyrics of “Never Gonna Be Alone,” I realize it’s perfect for the situation, where the bride has walked away from everything for her man.
I glance back at Iron Jack, who has drawn me against him again now that we’re done eating reception food. There’s an expression on his face that’s wholly unexpected for a man who bluffed his way out of a forty-person shootout in the parking lot.
It’s tender. Sweet.
He likes this display of sentimentality.
His face turns to mine. “You doing okay?” He’s still worried a wedding is too much for me right now.
“I’m good. I didn’t know you were a softy.”
He squeezes my waist. “Just feeling it tonight.”
“The near-death experience?”
He shrugs. “Not likely.”
“You have those often?”
His eyes crinkle at the corners. “Occasionally.”
I turn to him more fully. “Is this beast of a president of a motorcycle club actually a romantic?” My grin feels enormous. When was the last time I smiled this big?
“I don’t know, maybe it’s you.”
That stops me. So many people have said this in the last two days, that Iron Jack was acting out of character with me. But now he’s saying it, too.
“It can’t possibly be.” I face the dance floor again.
“Why not?”
“Because I’ve known you two days.”
“Not true. You came here three months ago.”
“We barely talked.”
“Didn’t need to. I saw everything I needed to see.”
I turn to him again. “And what was that?”
“Gorgeous. Tough. Curious. Smart.”
“You got all that from five minutes of conversation?” I’m not buying it.
“I did.”
“Are you a mind reader?”
“Maybe.” His gaze holds mine prisoner, like he isn’t going to let me go until I acknowledge how he feels.
It’s impossible. I force myself to turn back to the dance floor.
The first dance transitions into the Bruno Mars song “Marry You,” and everyone gets up to dance in happy circles. A conga line winds through the hall. The joy is infectious.
“You want to join?” he asks. “You seem like a dancer.”
Another assumption he’s making, but it’s true. “I used to be.”
All the way through college, I loved going to clubs with girlfriends, spilling drinks on the floor, screaming when a favorite song came on.
What changed?
Jude.
Getting serious about my future. Being society proper. I gave up the short skirts and all-nighters. Traded it for business slacks and scarves.
I’d done what I was told for over a decade, acted impeccably, been a model member of the family in our business.
And what had it gotten me?
Divorced at thirty. Single motherhood.
No dancing.
Iron Jack leans close to my ear. “I want to see you move your body, maybe without this.”
I feel a release of pressure, and realize this muscled sex machine just removed my bra! He folds the pink lace in his hand. “I want you loose and free. There’s nobody here to judge. It’s your big chance to go wild.”
I stare at the bra. I ought to be mad. He stole a piece of my clothing.
But somehow, I’m not. There’s no malice in Iron Jack. No misogyny or lack of respect. If I insisted on the bra back, he’d give it to me.
He’s pushing me to be something he sees in me, not who I have been pigeonholed to be.
The shirt is silky and cool against my tight nipples. I do feel different without the bra, like it was holding me back. I glance down to see, yes, it is wildly apparent in the silky shirt that I’m not wearing one. You can’t see through it, but the shimmery fabric clings and outlines every detail.
I can’t remember the last time I was out in public without a bra.
Am I going to dance like this? Things are definitely going to jiggle.
I did that back in the day, going to clubs in tiny shirts that were little more than scraps of satin tied at the neck and around the back. I was reckless and sexy then.
That feeling is back. Maybe it’s the punch. Maybe it’s the man.
Iron Jack stands, taking me with him. He carefully tucks my bra into a pants pocket. “Come with me.”
He leads me out onto the dance floor.
For a moment, I feel self-conscious, my chest bouncing more than I’m used to as we walk across the hall.
But nobody’s looking at me but him. The colored lights flash over the space, and everyone else is a broken-up kaleidoscope of bright and dark, a confetti rainbow of strobes sparkling over them.
Nobody cares.
Iron Jack takes my hand and spins me beneath his uplifted arm. My hair flies out, and the cool fabric slides over my nipples. A buzz builds inside me, thrumming with the possibility that I am going to give myself over to this man, at least for a dance, if not more.
We twirl and spin around the edges of the dancers, coming apart and crashing together, each time a little closer to something wilder, more intense. Our collision feels more inevitable with each movement away and back again.
His eyes never stray from my face, my body, taking me in from mouth to breasts to hips.
Then the song glides straight into a love song, slow and jazzy. Iron Jack draws me close, his hands on my hips.
The ground swoops out from under me as we move together. It’s the spinning lights, the pulse of the music, the way my tender breasts keep brushing against the edges of his leather vest.
It’s heady, the proximity, his sharp attention. I haven’t felt this desired in forever. Probably not ever.