His brow stayed knit over narrowed eyes. “You’re sittin’ in a biker bar writing poetry?”
That was so ridiculous, my mouth remembered how to form a smile.
This it did and it continued to do so, except frozen, when those hazel eyes dropped to it.
I had to force my lips to move with, “It’s just, I learned, when the spirit moves me, to get it out.”
He looked back into my eyes. “Even in a biker bar at one in the morning?”
“Even in a biker bar at one in the morning,” I confirmed.
“Good you’re pretty, babe,” he stated, leaning toward the table, putting his strapping forearms to it, making the breathing I’d managed to begin doing again start to be difficult. “’Cause that shit’s whacked.”
This was insulting.
It was kind of true, in a way, for someone who didn’t get it. For someone who didn’t have the curse.
But saying it out loud was not cool.
I was totally unoffended.
“I’m not your average girl,” I shared the god’s honest truth.
His eyes roamed my face and hair as his mouth muttered, “Already got that.”
My insides melted.
Oh God.
“Um…” That came out, but even if I’d had no qualms flirting with any player, rocker, club rat, cowboy, jock, biker or businessman that intrigued me who threw out a line, with this guy I couldn’t think what else to say.
He didn’t lift away from the table even as he brought his beer to his lips, tipped his head and threw back a pull.
I watched and had another reason why no thoughts were coming into my head.
When he righted, I latched on to what to say.
“Thanks for the drink.”
“I’d say you’re welcome if you were drinkin’ it.”
I closed my pencil into my notebook and reached for my drink.
But even as I curled my fingers around it, I didn’t lift it, but instead looked to him.
“What is it?”
“Jack and Coke.”
This surprised me.
“How did you know what I drink?”
“Told the bartender I wanted to buy a drink for the girl with all the hair, all the leg and all the ass. He started makin’ it before I got to the part about you bein’ the only girl in this joint not into the scene. So, that’s sayin’ your hair, those legs and that ass made an impression and not just on me.”
There it was again. Not an insult this time. But if he was trying to pick me up (and a man did not buy a woman a drink if he wasn’t trying that), his pick-up conversation was unusual.
He was him. Take him as he came. He wasn’t putting on airs for anybody.
Not even a girl with lots of hair, leg and ass.
A thought occurred to me and that thought made me even more melty.
“Just…you know, asking. I’m sitting in a corner. How’d you see my—?”
“Caught you walkin’ to that table. Vision a’ that might just be burned into my brain.”
He hadn’t looked at me when I was looking at him, that I knew for certain.
But he’d caught me on the short trek from deep freeze at the sight of him to hitting the table.
And it moved him to go buy me a drink.
Lord, I was in danger of a Spinal Tap drummer incident of spontaneous combustion where there’d be nothing left of me but a puddle of goo on my seat.
“Well…thanks,” I said haltingly, shaking my cup a little to indicate that’s what I meant even if it wasn’t all I meant.
“Again, I’d say you’re welcome but you’re still not drinking.”
I lifted the cup an inch off the table but common sense made me stop.
“Babe.”
My gaze shot to his.
He was leaning deeper into his forearms and I noted at that moment that he’d never looked anything but serious. Like he was discussing something important, not picking up some chick at a bar.
Now he looked more serious.
“Motherfuckers do that kinda shit to women, they’re motherfuckers,” he stated, and I stared, not only not following where he was going but also a little surprised at his coarse language, regardless of the biker bar. “I’m no motherfucker. Wouldn’t slip you shit. Not only because I’m not a motherfucker and it’d never fuckin’ cross my mind to do that to a woman, but because I get a woman, not interested in her bein’ under me passed out. Interested in her bein’ under me and bein’ seriously fuckin’ interested in bein’ under me. You with me?”
“I’m with you,” I said, all breathy because in all I’d seen and all I’d done and all I’d met, there wasn’t a single experience like him.
Not one.
Not to mention the fact that I was so totally interested in being under him.
“Name,” he grunted, edging away a couple of inches.
I recognized this as a demand to provide my name so I said, “Justice.”
That heavy brow knitted again. “Say what?”
“Justice,” I repeated and shook my head. “My dad is a little…” How to explain all that was my dad? “Out there. He convinced my mom to be out there too. But just to say, it’s arguable but she might be more out there than he is. She just loves Linda Ronstadt with a love that’s more than a love so she wanted to call me Linda.”
This was true. My mom Joss loved Linda. But, according to the story, the minute Dad suggested Justice, she’d jumped right on that train.