21. Greta
GRETA
Oh, no.
As Jack’s fish falls into the centerpiece, I can’t stop giggling. Snorts come out of my mouth. I cover my face with a napkin.
Jack starts laughing, too. We dissolve into full-on belly shakes, making the table jiggle. The fish head slides deeper into the flowers like it’s supposed to be part of the arrangement.
I’m dying. Totally.
The server looms over us, hands on his tuxedo hips like an angry nun at Catholic school.
This makes me laugh all the harder.
“Come on,” Jack says. “Before they kick us out.” He throws a big wad of bills on the table and pulls me out of my chair.
Everyone watches us as we race through the dining room, but nobody stops us. When we get to the exit, I remember my jacket and come to a halt.
The girl who took my coat is nowhere to be seen, so Jack leaps over the small desk and whips my black jacket off the hanger.
Then we’re out into the night, the valet glancing over at us with a bored expression.
Jack takes my hand, and we race down the streets to the train station.
Only when we’re on our way home do we start to sober up, but as soon as we look at each other, we dissolve into laughter all over again.
“I…will…never…order fish…again,” I gasp out. “I can’t get that poor salmon’s gaping eyes and mouth out of my head.”
“I wonder who got to eat the rest of him,” Jack says.
When we swing out of the train car and into the station, Jack’s bike is waiting. It was only a short ride from my house to the train, so we went his way.
We race along the road. I’m not ready to go home, though. I tap Jack on the shoulder, and he pulls over, throttling the engine down so he can hear me.
“Let’s go to a bar. There’s a good one two blocks up and one block over. Sullivan’s.”
He nods, and we take off again.
Parking is notoriously hard on this back-end street of Irish pubs, seedy holes in the wall, and tiny venues for starter bands mostly playing for tips and tabs. I dated a guy like that one summer when I was home for college, and this strip was our weekend stomping ground.
I never come here these days. I’m not in the market for three-dollar beers in small plastic cups and watered-down rum and cokes. Not usually.
But it feels right for balancing out the dinner. What was I thinking? Of course something was bound to go wrong, taking Jack to a place like that.
As expected, there are no open spots. He parks the bike in a side alley between the brick buildings, and we walk around to the front to enter the pub. It’s the best balance between something like the Leaky Skull and where I’m willing to go without my brothers behind the counter.
It’s crowded, and all the tables are taken, but we find two stools near the back of the wrap-around bar. A slender young woman in a T-shirt with the sleeves and collar cut out and the bottom tied halfway up her ribs nods at us. “Just a sec.”
I turn to see if Iron Jack is taking her in, but he’s watching me. “She your type?” he asks, and I punch his arm.
“You asking if we can go for three?” I say.
He drags me close to him, his lips inches from mine. “I’m not sharing you with anyone, not even a lass. Besides, she’s barely old enough to sling drinks.”
Good answer, I think, as he kisses me. I get lost in him, the warmth of his mouth, the sturdy press of his hand keeping me close. I should have felt strange last night, sleeping with him in the same bedroom I used to share with Jude.
But I liked it, like I was banishing an evil ghost with heady, dark magic.
Besides, the bed was mainly for sleeping. In addition to the stairs, we broke in the chaise on the back porch, the garden tub, and the kitchen table, all virgin locations as far as sex acts go.
He is so into me. I’ve never felt anything like it. Attention like this can make a girl lose her head.
Good thing I’m not a girl. I’m a grown-ass woman who knows better than to conflate lust with anything serious.
A voice cuts through the noise of the bar. “I’m sure I don’t have a damn thing that tastes sweeter than your woman, but I’m here to get you a drink.” It’s the bartender.
I pull away to look at her. I remember being her age. I showed my midriff too. “Two Guinness,” I tell her.
She turns away.
Jack takes my chin and turns me to him again. “The lady knows my order.”
“We’ve done a fair amount of drinking together,” I tell him.
“Mmm.” His hand slides down my thigh to grip my knee. “I like a woman who can keep up with me.”
“Drinking?” I tease.
“And everything else.” His mouth lands on mine.
I can’t remember the last time I committed this much PDA. I feel a slosh on my fingers and pull from Jack to see the beers next to my hand. The suds are flowing over the edge.
The bartender is long gone, talking to a man on the other side.
“Amateur,” I say, lifting my sticky hand and looking for a napkin.
“I got it,” Jack says, and draws my fingers into his mouth.
His gaze meets mine, and everything in me glows. God, this man is such a rush.
I don’t want to pull away, but I sense some of the other people in the bar watching. I reach for my beer.
“I like this place,” Jack says. “Did your brothers come to joints like this growing up? Maybe it gave them the idea to open a bar.”
“I have no idea,” I tell him between sips. “Diesel and Merrick took off the minute they were both eighteen, joining the Army.”
“How did your family take it?”
“Badly. Mom was apoplectic. Dad moped around the house for a month. Sunny, she’s the baby of the family, she cried about as long.”
“And Uncle Sherman?”
“Pissed as hell. He was going to go retrieve them. Figured he could get the contract nulled, say the boys were out of their minds. Dad actually stood up for them, then. Said most likely they had gone to escape the family business.”
“Had they?”
“I think so. Sherman’s intentions are good. He wants to make sure every member of the Pickle family, no matter how far-flung, has somewhere to go, a place to work, to live, a ladder to climb. But my brothers were not having it.”
“But you work for him.”
“Yeah, sure. When I graduated, he said, ‘Greta, figure out what it is you want to do, and come see me. We’ll create a way for you to do it.’”
“And you did? What is it you do for him?”
“I went to school in business finance. So I help make sure all the Pickle enterprises are solvent. I have a team that does audits. Another for restructuring. One for expansion.”
“Have any of Sherman’s enterprises failed?”
I laugh. “No. He doesn’t allow it. But some of them are more profitable than others.”
“What’s the worst one?”
“Technically, it would be Nadia’s animal rescue, not that any rescue is ever profitable.
The money goes to the animals, by design.
But if you add in her charity arm, which helps fund the rescue, then it’s fine.
Plus, her husband is a doctor, and him paying the mortgage means she doesn’t have nearly as much overhead on her property or utilities. ”
“What makes the most money?”
“Oh, the Miami branch, by far. There’s an office in Manhattan, too, but its overhead is high. Miami pulls a hefty profit.”
“What do they do?”
“A little of everything. Straight finance. Real estate. Marketing. I fall under that umbrella myself.”
I realize my glass is empty. That was fast. Jack signals to the woman for another round.
The bartender slides the fresh beers toward us and takes the empties. These are perfectly formed with a half-inch of foam.
“Wait. Did she do a shitty job when I ordered but a perfect pour when you did?” I stand up on the metal rod that runs along the bottom of the bar to serve as a foot rest and glare at her with angry suspicion.
She pays me no mind.
“You could take her in a fight,” Iron Jack says. “I’d give that wisp of a girl three minutes tops before you had her on the floor and begging for help.”
I sit back down on the stool. “I’d never do that.”
He leans in. “I saw you chopping vines with a blade in nothing but what God gave you. You’re a fierce little thing with the body of a warrior princess.” He closes his eyes like he’s picturing it.
Picturing me.
A thrill zips through me. What is it about this man? I should be mortified, but I’m ready to do it again. Do anything he wants.
That’s terrifying. Have I never known what I am capable of? I sip my beer and take in the patrons of the place to avoid that line of thought.
It’s not too rough. This is Jersey. But it’s full of the type of people I don’t see often. Retail workers. Fry cooks. Oil changers. Boys trying to put a band together and girls hoping to be their groupies.
There’s no Lululemon or Nordstrom Rack outfits here. Heavy black boots, ripped jeans, tight T-shirts, vintage leather. Gazes rake over the room, looking for opportunity, recognition, a new thrill.
Jack has definitely gotten attention from men and women alike. He fits in. He’s counterculture. Stick it to the man.
I’m an obvious society mom. I don’t belong. I don’t know how to make myself fit in here. But they glance at me and dismiss me immediately. Not even my red hair gets me cool points.
One man is staring, though, and when my gaze lands on him a second then a third time, he perks up.
Uh, oh. I’ve accidentally encouraged him. I instantly turn to Jack.
But he’s already seen the man. His eyes narrow. “You know him?” he asks.
“I don’t know anybody here,” I tell him. Shit. Of course Jack is the jealous type. I imagine club members use righteous indignation as fuel.
I glance back at the man, mainly out of fear should Jack target him, and that was a mistake. He takes it as an invitation and starts walking our way.
What does he think is happening? That Jack is my brother or something? We were making out like mad when we got here. He must have missed that.
Or he has a death wish.
The stranger stands next to me. “Society girl stepping out, I see,” he says. “You really want to go that low?” He aims a thumb at Jack.
Oh, no.
Jack grabs him by the jacket and lifts him straight off the ground. “You touch her and I will make paste from your balls and feed it to rats in front of your mother.”
Oh, God. “Jack, let him go.”