Jack and Djinn

by Amber Sweetapple

  “I’ve told you a hundred times, I don’t want to. I’m not ready for that. Just…let it go, please. I’ll stay when I’m ready.”

  Ben lit a cigarette, “So you can fuck me, but you can’t sleep with me? That’s messed up.” His fingers tightened on the mug.

  Miriam refilled her mug, standing with her back to the counter. “Maybe it is, Ben, but that’s my decision. If you care about me, you’ll respect it.”

  “Respect it? How about you respect me for once, and do what I ask.”

  “If you’re gonna be like this, then leave.” Miriam pointed to the door. “I don’t want to argue.”

  “I’m not trying to argue. I’m just trying to figure your crazy ass out,” Ben said.

  That touched a nerve, and Miriam felt anger welling up inside her. “Get out, Ben. Get out now.”

  He narrowed his eyes, set down his coffee mug, stood up. His brown eyes were focused on her, angry and dangerous. He loomed over her, his muscular, six-foot two-inch frame blocking her in. A vein in his forehead throbbed beneath his close-cropped black hair. Miriam clutched the coffee in her hands, ready to throw it at him if he lifted his fist.

  “Fuck you, then.” he muttered, and turned on a heel, stomping out and slamming the door so hard it rattled the windows. Tires squealed and his engine roared, horns honked as he peeled out in front of traffic. Miriam breathed a sigh of relief and locked the front door. He’d come back after he cooled off and want to make up. At least he was sober this time.

  * * *

  The double shift dragged by slowly, and by the time her shift ended at 11pm Miriam was thoroughly exhausted. It was a good thing Ben was off tonight. She simply didn’t have the energy to fend him off—all she wanted was to collapse in bed. She hurried through her sidework, waved to the manager on duty and left through the back, grateful for the cool night air after the heat of the bar.

  Ben was sitting on the stairs to her apartment, smoking, his new phone in his hand. “Hey baby, I just wanted to say thanks for the phone. That was nice gesture,” he said.

  Miriam gave him a quizzical look. “I didn’t give it to you. I thought you’d bought it yourself.”

  Ben glanced at the phone and then to Miriam. “Hmm. That’s odd,” he said. “I didn’t buy it. These are brand new, just came out last month. I had my old one when we left work the other night. I know I did. I thought you’d left it before you went home.” He shrugged, dismissing the subject. “Anyway, I thought you might wanna come over for a bit,” he said.

  Miriam cursed under her breath. “Look Ben,” she began, “I really don’t. I’m sorry, I’m really tired. I’ve been on my feet since eleven this morning. I just want to go to bed.”

  “I’ve been waiting here for you for almost an hour, Miriam. Just come over for a little bit. Please? Just watch a movie with me.”

  “Have you been drinking?”

  “What the hell does that have to with anything?” He stood up, staggering slightly, slipped his phone in his pocket and tossed the butt of his cigarette to the ground.

  “Have you?”

  “A little. Coupla beers.”

  “Then I don’t want to come over. You’re mean when you’ve been drinking.”

  “I’ll be nice, I promise.” He stepped towards her, and she backed away. He grabbed her arm and pulled her to the car. She wanted to pull free, but there was a couple getting out of their car nearby, and if she resisted he would pitch a fit, cause a scene.

  She got in his truck, trying to hide against the door. Rap buzzed from the speakers, the bass cranked loud enough to rumble in her gut. His hand wandered over and clutched her leg, wandered up to her crotch and fumbled there. She took his hand in hers and moved it lower down. He turned to glance at her, swerving on the road in the process. Shit, Miriam thought, he’s been drinking more than I thought. It was so hard to tell with him.

  They pulled into the apartment and Ben swung his truck into his designated spot, threw the door open and lurched out. Miriam sat in the cab, not wanting to get out.

  “Less go,” Ben slurred, wavering on his feet. Shit, shit, shit, Miriam thought. This is going to be bad. He was hammered. When she didn’t immediately get out, he lumbered over to her door and wrenched it open, yanked her out. She fell to the ground, scraped her hand on the grit of the asphalt.

  She straightened and snatched her arm free, shoving Ben away. “Leave me alone, Ben,” she warned, backing away from him. He took another step towards her. “Ben! Stop!” She was yelling now.

  He grabbed for her, nostrils flaring like a bull’s, eyes rage-blurred and booze-hazed. “Don’ tell me what to fuckin’ do, bitch.” He lunged at her, hard fist cracking against her cheekbone. Stars exploded in her head and she fell backwards, slammed into the ground, bruising her tailbone and smacking her head against the ground. Ben was standing over her, one hand bunched up in her shirtfront, beer–breath sour and overwhelming, fist cocked to strike again.

  A lance of heat washed through her gut and set her blood alight. NO, not again. She was standing up somehow, pushing Ben away despite his greater strength; she was burning up, her mind was an inferno of rage, her skin was on fire. She struck Ben in the chest with a flattened palm and he stumbled backwards. A handprint was seared into his skin through his shirt, a blackened palm-shaped brand burned several layers deep. He was cursing, pulling at the shirt tatters to keep it away from the open wound, glancing up at Miriam in shock and fear. Before she could register what had just happened, Ben was across the intervening space and his fists were pummeling her face and ribs. She struck back, ducked and blocked as best she could, but he was unstoppable and she was sobbing, begging, the fire gone, replaced by agony.

  The beating stopped abruptly and she heard a voice, distant and muffled, “Hey! Leave her alone, asshole!” Miriam looked up, saw a man wearing a motorcycle helmet pulling Ben away and punching him in the gut, shoving him to the ground and kicking him. Ben curled up and covered his head, and the stranger rushed over to Miriam, helped her to her feet.

  “Come on!” the stranger said, his voice kind and deep and musical. Gentle hands guided her to a motorcycle, helped her on, pulled her arms around his waist. His abs were rock hard through his thin T-shirt; she laid her head against his back, breathing through the throbbing pain. Ribs were broken, she was sure, and at least one eye was going to be black within minutes. Her savior twisted the throttle and the back tire squealed. He guided the motorcycle out of the parking lot and onto the main road, zipping around slower-moving cars and trucks. Miriam closed her eyes and focused on pushing down the tears of pain and anger.

  He pulled into an empty parking lot and skidded to a stop, helping Miriam off the bike. “I didn’t know where to take you, so I figured here would do.”

  “It’s fine,” Miriam breathed, the broken ribs making it hard to talk. “Am I bleeding?”

  He shook his head, put one hand on her shoulder; a gentle touch, strangely comforting. “Are you hurt?” He laughed out loud. “I guess that’s a stupid question. What I mean is, should I take you to a hospital?”

  Miriam shook her head. “I’ll be fine.”

  “Do you want me to take you home, then?” Miriam shook her head again, not wanting be alone in an empty apartment. She realized she had worked through her lunch break and was starving. She looked at the man who had rescued her, really seeing him for the first time. He was six feet tall, with attractive, angular features, messy light brown hair and liquid, vivid blue eyes. He wasn’t brawny or muscular like Ben, but rather toned and wiry. He exuded confidence and kindness, which made him all the more attractive to her: there wasn’t a hint of arrogance about him, no sense of violence or selfishness. He was unlike anyone she’d ever met before, not physically imposing or scary, not tough-looking or intimidating, but there was still something about him that was intensely masculine, setting her heart to thudding. She felt herself wanting to be near him, to sit on the bike behind him with her arms around his hard stomach again, feeling
his body tense and shift as they rode the motorcycle.

  “How about food?” Miriam asked. “I’m hungry, and I don’t want to go home. He’ll look for me there.”

  He nodded. “There’s a National Coney Island not far away.” He thrust his hand at her, saying, “I’m Jack, by the way. Jack Byrne.”

  She shook his hand. He didn’t crush her hand like Ben had the first time she met him. His grip was firm but gentle. “Miriam,” she told him. “Thanks for stopping Ben.”

  “I couldn’t let him keep hitting you. I have two little sisters. He was really beating the shit outta you. Are you sure you’re okay?”

  She wasn’t, but she didn’t want to let on. “Wasn’t the first time, won’t be the last.”

  “Why don’t you leave him?” Jack asked.

  “It’s complicated.” She had just met this guy, and she wasn’t about to explain her whole life to him. He’d bolt in a split second if he knew the half of it.

  She expected him to push the issue, but he just nodded and said, “Okay. Your business, not mine. I would just like to go on record as saying that there are guys out there that won’t treat you like shit.”

  “I know. Like I said, it’s complicated.” Inwardly, Miriam wondered what it would be like to date a guy who actually took care of her, treated her nicely, didn’t pound on her when he was drunk or yell at her and call her horrible names. It would be nice. But it wasn’t as simple as just leaving Ben. “You’d better be careful,” she said. “He was wasted tonight, which was good for you, but next time it won’t be that easy.”

  Jack laughed. “Oh, I have no intention of tangling with him sober. I’m not that stupid. He looks like he’s a beast.”

  “You have no idea.”

  “Well, do you wanna go?” He gave her his helmet to put on, swung a leg over his bike and held his hand out for Miriam. She took his hand in hers, felt a thrill run through her at his touch, making her all but forget her injuries. Her heart pounded crazily when she wrapped her arms around him, tightening for balance as they peeled out of the parking lot, her stomach in her throat. Even when she first started dating Ben, she’d never felt this way. She’d always heard about getting butterflies in your stomach when you met a guy, but she’d never experienced it. It was strange, and thrilling, and nerve-wracking.

  National was crowded, even at twelve-thirty in the morning. They got a table in a corner, ordered coffee and chili-cheese fries. As she sugared her coffee, Jack tilted his head and leaned forward, looking at her curiously.

  “What?” She asked.

  “Well, it’s just that I saw your boyfriend hit you in the face, like, a couple times. You should have a black eye by now.”

  “I don’t?”

  “Nope. Nothin’ at all. Not even a mark.” Miriam pulled a compact out of her purse. He was right, she didn’t have a mark on her. She prodded her face, expecting to feel the twinge of bruised tissue. Nothing. She stretched her torso, and felt no pain there either.

  “Odd. I feel fine.”

  “He walloped the hell out of you, Miriam. You shouldn’t be fine. I mean, I’m glad you are, but it’s…weird.” Miriam thought about the handprint on Ben’s chest, the rush of heat she’d felt. Had Jack seen that? She didn’t think so, but she didn’t want to ask.

  They chatted idly over chili cheese fries and coffee, Miriam careful to keep the conversation neutral. Jack took Miriam back to her apartment, and they lingered on the steps, the black of night tinged with gray.

  “Thanks for…you know, saving me and all,” she said. She was standing a step up so she was level with Jack’s eyes. She wanted to kiss him, which was crazy. The last thing she needed was complications, and kissing Jack would definitely complicate things. Before she could second-guess herself, she waved and ascended the steps, not looking back until she was at her door. Jack was watching her wistfully, one foot on the first step as if he was about to follow her up. She half-hoped he would. She felt an attraction to him that was dangerous in its intensity. She’d known him for a matter of hours, and she wanted to feel his strong, gentle hands on her body, kiss his lips and tangle her fingers in his hair. She shook herself. No way. That was the last thing she needed. But god…did she want it.

  She let the door slam shut, threw herself on her couch and listened to the roar of his motorcycle recede, thinking of his eyes on hers, dreaming of impossible things.

  * * *

  The next day came all too early. Miriam worked a midshift, which she hated. Opening was fine, closing was fine, even doubles were okay, but mids were the worst. Showing up at 1pm meant there wasn’t enough time to really get a lot done before work, and by the time she got off at 8 or 9, the day was mostly gone and she was tired. She’d rather just close and be done with it. Closing meant she could avoid Ben, who tended to work dayshifts. He’d been texting her and calling her nonstop, but she couldn’t make herself answer. She did listen to one of the voicemails, though:

  “Miriam, it’s me,” Ben’s voice said. “I’m sorry if things…got out of hand. I must’ve had too much to drink and blacked out or something, I’m not entirely sure. I hope I didn’t do anything…bad. Call me when you get off work. Bye.” Miriam felt a rush of hope when heard that. He thought he’d blacked out, so he might not remember Jack at all, which would make things a lot easier. She’d spent the entire morning trying to come up with an explanation. Maybe now she didn’t have to.

  Miriam dragged herself through the day, her thoughts returning to Jack more than they should have. She found herself waiting for drinks at the service bar, staring at the liquor bottles and wondering where he was, and how she could arrange to see him, ‘accidentally.’ He’d given her a business card for the auto garage where he worked. She had the card in her server book, behind the order pad. Larry, her manager, was cutting her a few minutes before six, since the bar was dead. Miriam sat on the stainless steel counter in the kitchen, cashing out, staring at Jack’s scrawled name and phone number, telling herself to go home and catch up on Grey’s Anatomy. She was trying to convince herself, and she was losing the argument. Her car did need brake work, after all, she reasoned. It couldn’t hurt anything to just see him, could it?

  Yes, it could, the logical side of herself answered. You won’t just see him. You’ll end up going somewhere with him, and he’ll be charming and perfect and you’ll be screwed. Don’t go down that road. Just don’t. Go watch Grey’s, girl.

  Logic lost the argument when she thought of Jack, remembering the warm pierce of his eyes on her, his hands rough and strong in hers; the feel of his hard abs through his thin T-shirt, his strong back against her face as she held on to him for balance. She thought of how close she had come to kissing him, and how much she wanted to, even now. It was crazy, and she knew it. She’d just met him, she’d gone out with him once and here she was pining over him. She should just go home. She pocketed her tips and went upstairs to change, still telling herself to be sensible and stay home.

  There was no reason for her to wear a low-cut top, or to redo her hair, or to put on makeup, but she did. She Googled the address of Jack’s garage on her phone as she pulled away in her rattling old Volvo, finally having given up the pretense. She was going to see Jack. Sure, her car did need work, but she didn’t really have the money for it. It was just an excuse, and she knew it.

  She found the garage without problem, a fifteen minute drive away. The front office smelled like oil and old coffee. There was a pile of tires in one corner, a few cracked plastic chairs around a cheap coffee pot and a couple of Auto Trader magazines on a coffee table. A thickset, balding man in blue mechanics coveralls sat behind the counter, wiping his hands on a rag and staring at a computer monitor. He looked up when the little bell attached to the door tinkled.

  “Can I help you, darlin’?” He had a slight Irish accent and brown eyes. A patch on his coveralls read Doyle.

  “Well, I need my brakes looked at,” Miriam said, trying to peer past him into the garage, hoping for a glimps
e of Jack.

  “Okay, well, what’s wrong with ‘em?” Doyle tossed the rag onto the counter, digging in his ear with a pudgy forefinger.

  “They’re squealing when I stop, and shuddering when I get off the freeway.” She didn’t really care about the brakes, but now that she was here, she was finding it hard to come out and ask for Jack. She shifted to one side, seeing a flash of blond hair from underneath a car.

  Doyle glanced behind himself and back to Miriam. “Are you lookin’ for someone, then?”

  Miriam blushed, nodded. “Is Jack here?”

  Doyle laughed, an uproarious belly laugh, as if she had said something hysterical. Miriam just stared at him, unsure how to respond.

  “Why sure he is! Why didn’t you ask in the first place? I ain’t gonna bite you, you know. Hang on a tick, I’ll get him.” He leaned backward in the chair, tipping over so far Miriam was sure he’d fall over.

  “Jackie!” He bellowed, loud enough that Miriam flinched. “Hey, Jackie-boy! There’s a girl here to see you.”

  She heard Jack’s voice call out, “A girl? Who is it?”

  “Well I don’t know, do I? A girl! A pretty one!”

  Jack entered the office, wiping his hands on his pants leg. “Miriam! I wasn’t expecting to see you…I mean, I’m glad you’re here, but–” he cut himself off, grabbed the rag and wiped his face with it, smearing grease across his forehead and eliciting a laugh from Miriam.

  “Well, I needed brake work….” Miriam gave the excuse, hoping he’d see through it.

  “Yeah, sure,” Jack said, coming around the counter and walking her out into the early evening sunlight. “You know you just came to see me,” he teased. If only he knew how true that was. Now that she was here with him, she wasn’t sure what to do next.

  “No,” she protested, “I really do need my brakes fixed.”

  “There’s only like a hundred garages closer to you than this one.” Jack was rubbing his hands on his coveralls, but they never seemed to get any cleaner. She wouldn’t have minded a little grease, if she could feel his hands on her.