car.
Shit. Why do I even care?
I reprimanded myself for even contemplating apologizing to the ego-inflated bastard, and the moment I had talked myself out of caring, the passenger door to his car flung open. Seconds later, the girl got out, and she looked pissed.
I slipped out the door and stood on the sidewalk. She came tromping up, a sour frown drawn on her face as she muttered, “Unbelievable.” She halted, her eyes meeting mine. “Can you believe Jag Steele wouldn’t touch me? What the hell is wrong with him?” she gasped before trotting off.
Whoa! I thought he screwed anything that had even the slightest remnants of a pulse?
His car sat on the side of the street, headlights on. I swallowed, and checking that no traffic was coming, I crossed the street.
I had no idea what I would say to him, and even had I planned out an inaugural speech, every word would have vanished due to what happened next.
I exhaled and tapped on his window. Without waiting, I leaned over, cupping my hands to the tinted window to peer inside.
Every last ounce of air inside my lungs came flying out in one large gasp. My mouth literally dropped and I was in such shock, all I could do was stare.
Jag had his seat leaned back, his pants around his knees, and he was jerking one off, on the side of Ventura! While I was trying to process that this was actually happening, he glanced through the window, smiled, and then winked at me just before he tossed his head back.
My heart was drumming up into my throat, actually, at that point it may have been somewhere closer to my mouth. I felt like an intruder and a total pervert for standing there watching him, but what the hell else was I supposed to do? I almost couldn’t believe that he was actually doing that in his car that was parked on a busy LA street. Oh, my God! Did he just have an orgasm? Holy Shit!
Finally, I convinced my feet to move. Spinning around, I started back toward the club. I’d just hopped onto the curb when I heard him yell, “Did you enjoy that show, princess? Did that get you all wet between those killer thighs of yours?”
I hurried to the door of The Club, sweat pricking its way over my face. I couldn’t deal with him. I just couldn’t even take him.
*****
Two days later, and I had been unable to get Jag out of my head. I dreaded having another run-in with him, because what would I say? I’m sorry, thanks for standing up for me? Leave me alone? Hope everything came out all right the other night?
My emotions where confused and I had no idea how to handle them. I kept glancing around the bar, looking for his tall frame, his unruly hair to come stalking through the crowd, but he never did.
The night had been absolute shit. We were crowded as always and I’d been called a bitch, a whore, a dumbass, and five hundred other obscene names when I couldn’t get the drunks their drinks quickly enough. I’d thought about calling in that night because I felt like shit. I was depressed and bitter. It was just a week until the anniversary of Sean’s death, and I hated being around people even more than usual that time of year.
The crowd had thinned out sooner than usual, so Carlos cut me early. I couldn’t have been happier.
Heading home, I pulled off the exit before my apartment to go to the Pour House, the bar Sean had always frequented. The name was fitting, as was the atmosphere.
Some might say that I was one for self-torture, but for me—I just liked going any place that made me feel him. And I felt him there for some reason; I could still feel him there. I would sit in the seat he had always sat in, and I could feel him all around me, swathing me, protecting me.
I pulled into the tiny parking lot. The only car there was Phil’s powder blue 1989 Cadillac Deville. Now that Sean was dead, Phil was the one regular at the place.
I pulled in a deep breath to clear my mind, and I walked toward the barred entrance. The tiny bell jingled as I crept in, and the
Shit. Why do I even care?
I reprimanded myself for even contemplating apologizing to the ego-inflated bastard, and the moment I had talked myself out of caring, the passenger door to his car flung open. Seconds later, the girl got out, and she looked pissed.
I slipped out the door and stood on the sidewalk. She came tromping up, a sour frown drawn on her face as she muttered, “Unbelievable.” She halted, her eyes meeting mine. “Can you believe Jag Steele wouldn’t touch me? What the hell is wrong with him?” she gasped before trotting off.
Whoa! I thought he screwed anything that had even the slightest remnants of a pulse?
His car sat on the side of the street, headlights on. I swallowed, and checking that no traffic was coming, I crossed the street.
I had no idea what I would say to him, and even had I planned out an inaugural speech, every word would have vanished due to what happened next.
I exhaled and tapped on his window. Without waiting, I leaned over, cupping my hands to the tinted window to peer inside.
Every last ounce of air inside my lungs came flying out in one large gasp. My mouth literally dropped and I was in such shock, all I could do was stare.
Jag had his seat leaned back, his pants around his knees, and he was jerking one off, on the side of Ventura! While I was trying to process that this was actually happening, he glanced through the window, smiled, and then winked at me just before he tossed his head back.
My heart was drumming up into my throat, actually, at that point it may have been somewhere closer to my mouth. I felt like an intruder and a total pervert for standing there watching him, but what the hell else was I supposed to do? I almost couldn’t believe that he was actually doing that in his car that was parked on a busy LA street. Oh, my God! Did he just have an orgasm? Holy Shit!
Finally, I convinced my feet to move. Spinning around, I started back toward the club. I’d just hopped onto the curb when I heard him yell, “Did you enjoy that show, princess? Did that get you all wet between those killer thighs of yours?”
I hurried to the door of The Club, sweat pricking its way over my face. I couldn’t deal with him. I just couldn’t even take him.
*****
Two days later, and I had been unable to get Jag out of my head. I dreaded having another run-in with him, because what would I say? I’m sorry, thanks for standing up for me? Leave me alone? Hope everything came out all right the other night?
My emotions where confused and I had no idea how to handle them. I kept glancing around the bar, looking for his tall frame, his unruly hair to come stalking through the crowd, but he never did.
The night had been absolute shit. We were crowded as always and I’d been called a bitch, a whore, a dumbass, and five hundred other obscene names when I couldn’t get the drunks their drinks quickly enough. I’d thought about calling in that night because I felt like shit. I was depressed and bitter. It was just a week until the anniversary of Sean’s death, and I hated being around people even more than usual that time of year.
The crowd had thinned out sooner than usual, so Carlos cut me early. I couldn’t have been happier.
Heading home, I pulled off the exit before my apartment to go to the Pour House, the bar Sean had always frequented. The name was fitting, as was the atmosphere.
Some might say that I was one for self-torture, but for me—I just liked going any place that made me feel him. And I felt him there for some reason; I could still feel him there. I would sit in the seat he had always sat in, and I could feel him all around me, swathing me, protecting me.
I pulled into the tiny parking lot. The only car there was Phil’s powder blue 1989 Cadillac Deville. Now that Sean was dead, Phil was the one regular at the place.
I pulled in a deep breath to clear my mind, and I walked toward the barred entrance. The tiny bell jingled as I crept in, and the
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