Stranger by Megan Hart Page A

faded jeans low on his hips and held in place with a black leather belt.
    “Jack?” I held out my hand.
    He shook it firmly and didn’t squeeze too tight or hold it for too long. “Yes.”
    “I’m Miss Underfire. But you can call me Grace.”
    Jack smiled. “Pretty name.”
    If my name were Esther or Hepzibah he’d have said the same thing. As if a name matters.
    And again, I was thinking of Sam.
    “Thanks. So’s Jack.”
    Jack smiled, and I stared, dumbfounded at the transformation in his face. Without a smile he was gorgeous. With one…incandescent.
    Either he didn’t understand this or he’d long ago learned to deal with gape-mouthed women, because he didn’t look taken aback. “Sure, if you don’t mind the nicknames.”
    I burbled something incoherent, unable to manage much more than that, at least until the superpower of his smile released me.
    “Nicknames?”
    He hung back a little, letting me lead. I turned left out of the parking garage’s small driveway. The street was crowded and would only get more so as the night went on. Listening to Jack laugh was like sipping premium hot chocolate. Warm and decadent. Delicious.
    “Jackrabbit,” he said. “Jackhammer. Jack of all trades. Jack Sprat. Jackass.”
    I joined his laughter. We headed toward the Pharmacy. Someone had bought the original drugstore on the ground floor and turned it into a hot spot for up-and-coming bands. There was dancing upstairs, where the walls were painted silver and cages were set onto the dance floor.
    “I won’t call you Jackass. I promise.”
    Jack turned a half-wattage grin on me, for which I was grateful. I didn’t want to be struck dumb again. “Thanks. I’ll try not to act like one.”
    This early we didn’t have to wait in much of a line. I thought of sneaking a peek at Jack’s driver’s license when he pulled it out to show the bouncer at the door, but I could only catch a glimpse of his photo. He was old enough to get into the club, at least.
    “Jacko,” said the bouncer, barely looking at the license as he slid it into the nifty little machine that scanned it for legality. “You still over at the Lamb?”
    Jack took back his license and slipped it into the plain black wallet he’d pulled from a back pocket. “Yeah. Part-time.”
    “Yeah?” The bouncer took my card without even looking at me. He slid it through the scanner perfunctorily. I guess I didn’t look underage. “What else you doing?”
    Jack didn’t even give me a glance. “Going to school.”
    “No shit?” The bouncer goggled. “What for?”

    “Graphic design.” Jack shrugged a little. He neatly nipped the conversation short with a grin and one of those specifically male gestures that probably originated as caveman sign language. Kind of a trigger-finger, club-swinging motion.
    I let him lead the way inside. Jack was good at picking up my cues, but he wasn’t quite good enough to make it seamless. He got an A for effort, though, when he asked me what I wanted to drink and got it for me, along with a beer for himself.
    Downstairs, an odd mix of current hip-hop and old-school rock blared from the speakers as people mingled in front of the small stage where the night’s band would perform. It was cooler and less crowded here than it would be upstairs, and for the moment I was content to sip my beer and watch the crowd.
    “So,” I said by way of conversation. “Graphic design? That’s interesting.”
    He grinned around his beer and gave the same sort of shrug he’d given the bouncer.
    “Yeah. I guess so.”
    “You must think so,” I said. “Or else you wouldn’t be studying it.”
    Jack nodded after a second. “Yeah. It is. I think I’ll be good at it. I like it, anyway. And it beats bartending.”
    It might beat fucking for money, too, but I didn’t say that. “You’re a bartender?”
    “Yeah. At the Slaughtered Lamb. Just down the street.”
    “I haven’t been there.”
    “You should come by,” he said, but