Jack and Djinn

by Jasinda Wilder

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

  “Miriam,” she told him, shaking his hand in hers. “Thank you for helping me, Jack.”

  “Of course.” Jack eyed her curiously. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  She shrugged, holding back a wince as the motion sent a ripple of pain through her. “I’ll be fine.”

  Jack looked skeptical, but nodded. “Okay, then.” He gave her his helmet to put on, swung a leg over his bike, and held his hand out to her. Getting onto the bike behind him hurt but, strangely, not as badly as she thought it should, considering how hard Ben had hit her, and how many times.

  National was crowded, even at twelve-thirty in the morning. But they were able to get a booth near the back, and they each ordered coffee and food. As she sugared her coffee, Jack tilted his head and leaned forward, looking at her curiously.

  “What?” Miriam asked.

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

  “I don’t?” She prodded her cheek where Ben had hit her, expecting to feel a twinge of pain where the bruise should have been.

  “Nope. Nothing at all.”

  Miriam pulled a compact out of her purse and examined her face in the mirror. He was right—she didn’t have a mark on her. Nothing. She stretched her torso and felt only residual pain as she twisted to test the ribs she’d known from experience were at least bruised, if not cracked. She’d felt them break; she distinctly remembered feeling the bones snap. She remembered very vividly the piercing pain, the breathlessness of agony.

  “It’s odd, but I feel fine.”

  Jack shook his head, confusion written on his handsome features. “He was beating the hell out of you, Miriam. I saw it. I watched him hit you at least three times before I could get to you. You shouldn’t be fine. I mean, I’m glad you are, but it’s just…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.

  She could only shrug. “I don’t know how to explain it. Maybe he didn’t hit me as hard as I’d thought?”

  Jack shook his head decisively. “No. I saw him punch you. I saw you fall. He wasn’t holding back. And even as wasted as he was, a guy his size can hit hard.”

  Miriam didn’t need Jack to tell her that; she’d felt the truth of it before now.

  “I don’t know what to tell you,” she said finally.

  Jack didn’t respond right away, clearly suspecting more than he was saying. “Well, whatever the case,” he eventually said, “I’m glad you’re not hurt.”

  Conversation was stunted after that, thick with the knowledge that something unusual had happened, but neither of them was willing to conjecture any further. Eventually they finished their food, and Jack took Miriam back to her apartment. They lingered on the steps, the black of night tinged with gray.

  “Thanks again for…you know, saving me and all,” she said. She was standing a step up so she was level with Jack’s intense blue eyes. She found herself unable to look away.

  “Anyone would have done the same,” he said, running a hand through his messy brown hair.

  “Not in my experience,” Miriam said, watching the wind toss a thick tendril of his hair back across his face and wanting, absurdly, to brush it away.

  “I know it’s none of my business,” Jack said, his eyes flicking to hers and then away again, “but…why do you put up with an asshole like that?”

  “It’s complicated.” The stock answer was meant to push him away. It was impossible to describe her situation to anyone who hadn’t lived through something similar himself.

  “Complicated.” His flat tone told her he knew a brush-off when he heard it. “Right. Well, you deserve better.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “No one deserves that. Getting beat up in a bar fight or something, that’s one thing.” Jack seemed to struggle for words, for calm. “Letting your boyfriend just beat the shit out of you? That’s not okay.” He shook his head, a lock of brown hair slipping down to brush his temple.

  “It’s not like I just let him. It’s not that easy, Jack. I can’t just—” She shook her head, cutting herself off. “You know what? Never mind. You wouldn’t understand.”

  “Maybe not.” Jack took a step forward, hands on the railing on either side of her. Not touching, but close. Too close. She should want him to back away. She should turn away, go inside. But she didn’t. She couldn’t. He was inches away, far too close, but she stayed where she was. He smelled of engine oil and deodorant and male sweat, a masculine combination of scents that had her heart hammering, had her wanting to bury her face against his T-shirt. “I might not understand why you stick around a cocksucker like that, but what I do understand is that you shouldn’t. You’re beautiful, Miriam. You deserve better. You may not believe it, but you do.”

  Miriam’s breath caught. She didn’t believe it, and Jack somehow knew it. Every guy she’d ever been with had treated her the same as Ben. It was how men were.

  But Jack was different. She knew it, deep down.

  She stared at him, unable to fathom her own reaction to him. Normally, when someone started in on how she should just leave whoever was giving her the black eyes and sore ribs, she would clam up and shut down. If you’ve never been caught up in the cycle of violence, you can’t understand it. Even if you know you deserve better, even if you know you should just leave, it just isn’t that easy. Guys like Ben, they don’t let you leave. And if you tried, there would be hell to pay.

  As Miriam got to really know Ben, she had felt herself closing up, emotionally, mentally, physically. She pulled in, put walls up, hardened herself. She went into survival mode, thinking of nothing but getting through whatever new hell came next but unable to free herself from him, from his hold on her.

  But Jack, standing on the stair one below hers…he inspired a different reaction in her. He made her wonder if, maybe, there could be someone out there better than Ben. Was there a way to break the cycle? To get away from Ben and find someone who would treat her better? Jack made her want to open up, to allow someone in who would care for her heart, for her body.

  He made her wonder what would happen if she kissed him right then. It was a crazy thought. Totally insane. She couldn’t. She wouldn’t. Ben would know. He’d smell it on her. And she just couldn’t. She couldn’t kiss a man she’d known for less than three hours. But she wondered, nonetheless, what it would be like if she did.

  The crazy desire to find out pestered her, nagged at her, dug at her. He was right there, inches away, his messy, sweaty hair hanging around his face and in his stunning blue eyes, his strong hands on the railing just below her own hands, his body angled forward, his eyes searching her. His lips were right there; all she had to do was lean down and touch hers to his.

  Scant inches narrowed to scarcely a hair’s-breadth, their faces so close she could feel his breath, feel the heat from his body mingling with her own.

  Before the impulse took over, Miriam backed away, up a step, two, three. “Thanks again, Jack.” She turned around and went up the rest of the way, feeling his gaze on her. She turned back around as she opened the door. “It was nice meeting you.”

  Jack nodded. “No problem. Nice to meet you, too, Miriam.”

  He was watching her, 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 suddenness and 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 wanted to feel things with him that she’d never had before. Not with anyone.

  She shook herself. It was impossible. But god…she wanted it.

  Pulling open the tautly sprung scr
een door, then pushing open the interior door, Miriam heard a boot on the steps. “Miriam, wait.”

  Jack lunged up the steps, reached into his jacket pocket, and pulled out a business card for an auto repair garage in downtown Royal Oak. He pulled a pen from the same inside pocket and scribbled his first name and a phone number on the card. “If you ever need anything, call me. Okay? Anything, anytime.”

  Handing her the card, he didn’t wait for a response before turning and tripping quickly down the steps, stuffing his helmet on his head.

  Miriam let the door slam shut, then 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 mid-shift, which she hated. Opening was fine, closing was fine, even doubles were okay, but mids were the worst. Showing up at one in the afternoon meant there wasn’t enough time to really do anything before work, and by the time she got off at eight or nine, the day was mostly gone. She’d rather just close and be done with it. Closing meant she could avoid Ben, who tended to work primarily day shifts. He’d been texting her and calling her nonstop since first thing in the morning, 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 don’t remember much of last night, and what I do remember…it doesn’t make any sense. I don’t know. Just…call me when you get off work, okay? All right, ’bye.” Miriam felt a rush of hope when she heard that. He thought he’d blacked out, so he might not remember seeing Jack at all, which would make things a lot easier. She’d spent the entire morning trying to come up with an explanation he might believe; maybe now she wouldn’t have to.

  Miriam dragged herself through the day, her thoughts returning to Jack more than they should have. She found herself waiting for orders at the service bar, staring at the liquor bottles, and wondering how she could arrange to see him “accidentally.” She had the card he’d given her in her server book, tucked behind the order pad.

  Larry, the general manager, was cutting her a few minutes before six, since the bar was dead. Miriam sat on the stainless steel counter in the kitchen, counting her cash, staring at Jack’s scrawled name and phone number. She told herself to go home and catch up on The Bachelor. But…her car did need brake work.

  It couldn’t hurt anything to just see him, could it?

  Yes, it could, the logical side of her brain answered. You won’t just go see him. You’ll end up going somewhere with him, and he’ll be charming and perfect, and you’ll think he’ll be different. But he’s not. All guys are the same. Don’t go down that road. Just don’t. Go home. Watch The Bachelor.

  Logic lost the argument when she thought of Jack, remembering the warmth of his blue eyes, the feel of his hard abs through his thin T-shirt, his strong back against her face as she’d held on to him for balance. She thought of how close she had come to kissing him. It was crazy, and she knew it. She’d just met him, had spent barely three hours with him, and yet she couldn’t stop thinking about him. And about what he’d said. How he thought she was beautiful. She would just go home. She pocketed her tips, changed out of her uniform, and continued to tell herself to be sensible and stay home.

  When she did get home, though, the TV stayed off. She took a short shower, just to wash off the smell of the bar. When she got dressed, she found herself putting on a low-cut top, because it made her feel sexy. A girl needed to feel good about herself, right? She curled her hair so the long dark brown spirals hung at her shoulder blades and framed her face. She wasn’t doing her hair for Jack, she was just…doing her hair. And the makeup she put on, the eyeliner, the lip stain, and the hint of mascara…that was for….

  Oh, hell, she thought. I want to see Jack, and that’s what I’m going to do. No sense in pretending.

  She Googled the address of Jack’s garage on her phone as she pulled away in her rattling old Volvo. Miriam found the place without a problem, a mere fifteen-minute drive away. The front office smelled like oil and old coffee, a pile of tires stacked in one corner, a few cracked plastic chairs lined along one wall on either side of a small table holding a coffee maker and a couple of Auto Trader magazines. A thickset, balding man in blue mechanic’s 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 name 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 glimpse 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 right 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?”

  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 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.

  “Yeah,” Miriam said, “but I was hoping you’d cut me a deal. And the mechanics at those other garages are all ugly. And rude.”

  “And that makes me…what?”

  “Nice. And…not ugly?”

  Jack laughed. “Thanks?”

  Miriam went for broke. “You know what? You’re right—I really did come just to see you. I can’t thank you enough for what you did the other night.”

  Jack’s eyes hardened. “Anyone in their right mind would’ve done the same thing.”

  Miriam shook her head. “Not everyone. It’s happened to me before, just like that. There was a guy walking out to his car, and he started to say something, but Ben just glared at him and the guy left.”

  “Well, he was a fuckin’ coward, then.” Jack shook his head. “Listen, I’m off in, like, twenty minutes. I just have to finish one last thing. Do you wanna grab a burger or something when I’m done?”

  Miriam told herself she shouldn’t. Just go home. “Sure, sounds good,” she said, feeling butterflies in her stomach.

  Jack was as good as his word, emerging a little more than twenty minutes later, the top of his coveralls unzipped and thrown b
ack, revealing a white tank top and hard, toned arms, a Celtic knot tattooed on his left bicep with what she guessed was Gaelic script underneath it. Miriam left her car at the garage and sat behind Jack on his bike, enjoying the ride immensely, trying not to think about how much she was liking the feel of Jack on the bike in front of her, how intoxicating his scent was, the sweat and the engine oil and faint deodorant.

  He took her to his apartment, an aging red brick two-story building in the Ferndale area. “I’ve gotta clean up real quick. Come on up.” Miriam just nodded and followed him to a second-floor apartment, a neat and sparsely furnished one-bedroom. It smelled of oil paint and turpentine. A canvas sat on an easel in a corner of the living room, where a TV might usually go. There were faint pencil sketches on the canvas, but nothing Miriam could identify.

  Jack followed her gaze and shrugged. “I love to paint. The garage pays the bills, but the painting is where my heart really is.” He swept an arm at the apartment. “Make yourself at home. I’ll be out in a minute.”

  He stepped into the bathroom, pulling his shirt off on the way, and her gaze followed the rippling muscles in his back, the shift of his biceps. He closed the door, and Miriam turned to a stack of canvases leaning against the wall near the galley kitchen. She flipped through them carefully. He was talented, she realized, although she was no artist herself. There were landscapes, still lifes, portraits. One painting in particular caught her eye, a depiction of a candle flame seen from close up. It looked completely real, the candle and the wick just barely visible at the bottom of the canvass, the wax caught mid-drip and pooling near the wick. The flame was hypnotic to Miriam, as if she could feel its heat, see it wavering and dancing in the darkness. Staring at the painted flame, Miriam felt some coiled energy deep in her core expand and unleash, sending waves of heat from her in distorting shimmers.