His Very Own Girl

by Carrie Lofty

  The handsome RAF captain pushed hard on Joe’s chest. “The lady said no, Yank. I suggest you pay attention.”

  Joe looked to Lulu once more, but she wouldn’t meet his eyes. She kept herself hidden behind her flygirl posturing, like a glass box he wanted to bust so as to snatch the treasure hidden inside. Only he couldn’t, because then something strange and beautiful would be broken.

  His movements stiff, he turned away from the couple. He’d leave her to it. She was out for a good time, and who could blame her? He had been, too, on that night when they’d officially met. It wasn’t her fault that she had him thinking beyond dances and drinks.

  Maybe that was it. He wasn’t one to kid himself about what he wanted. One day, once he was done with fighting, he wanted to own a garage where he could repair cars—beauties like Studebakers and Oldsmobiles. He’d already completed a year as a mechanic’s apprentice before signing up with the army. After another year or two he could begin again in a city where no one knew his past. He’d find a good woman to keep him fed and happy, to help raise their kids, to kiss him first thing every morning and last thing every night.

  Joe had cultivated that private future during his years of incarceration, and then throughout his long months of training for the paratroops. His imaginings would probably become even more elaborate once he hit the front lines.

  Thinking of the dark clouds to come put his problems in perspective. Heart beating hard in his chest, he pushed back through the crowd toward Lulu and her smug date.

  Even knowing he’d hate himself when she shot him down again, Joe couldn’t leave it alone. He wanted a dance. That was it. After all, Lulu and her daring didn’t fit into his perfect future. She never would.

  The RAF captain looked about ready to deck him. “Yank, I said—”

  “Look, this isn’t anything,” he said to Lulu, ignoring her scowling partner. “It isn’t even one night. It’s just a dance. Lulu, I know how much you want to dance.” He hooked a thumb toward the captain. “This Limey’s just going to jabber your ear off.”

  Her lips quirked toward a smile. “Very well. The last dance.”

  “The last dance?” Joe blinked, sure he’d misheard. Then he pressed on. “I can do that.”

  “And what will you do in the meantime?”

  Maybe it was the way she kept her gaze pinned on his while she sipped her drink, seemingly so in control. The Devil took control of Joe’s tongue. “I’m gonna dance with as many pretty girls as will have me.”

  Lulu wordlessly handed the empty glass to the captain. He scowled first at Lulu, then at Joe, and walked away. She hadn’t stopped studying Joe’s face. “You’re bluffing. You’ll be sitting here at the bar, biding your time, watching me. Brooding.”

  “I do not brood.”

  “I’d wager a month’s salary that you do. And probably quite handsomely.”

  “Nope, I’ll be dancing,” Joe said, crossing his arms. “By the time the last song starts, I’ll have danced with more partners than you.”

  “Don’t talk rubbish.”

  “Care to make it a bet?”

  She licked her bottom lip. “For what stakes?”

  “If you win, you get to weasel out of our last dance and I won’t bother you again. If I win, I get to walk you home.”

  “That’s a mile out of your way!”

  “Two, actually. Two miles.”

  The pulse at her neck fluttered. Maybe she was thinking about waiting to catch the train into Sileby and how long the walk to Mersley would take. Maybe she was thinking about holding hands and talking quietly, just sharing each other’s company. And maybe she was thinking of the good-night kiss he’d most certainly claim.

  Joe was.

  “You are a prize fool, you know that?”

  He laughed. God, it felt good to have her panicky and unsure for a change. “I’ve known too many clever people for that to be an insult.”

  “This is ridiculous. How would we even keep track? How would either of us know that we’re not inflating our totals?”

  Joe placed his hands on her hips and pushed Lulu back. When her bottom bumped the bar, she uttered a little squeak. He leaned closer and whispered into the shell of her ear.

  “I’ll know because you’ve got one thing right: I will be watching. I’ll be counting your partners. I’ll catalog their faults. I’ll remember which ones made you laugh and which ones tried more than dancing. And I’ll convince myself you’re only in their arms to spite me.” Feeling daring and electric, he brushed a kiss along the side of her neck and smiled when goose bumps sprinkled over her flesh. “And you’ll be doing the same.”

  “Idiot,” she said, pushing him away. She slid a hand over the spot he’d kissed. Her dark brown eyes were fiery, snapping with vigor. But then she beamed, a smile to set him alight. “Are you ready?”

  “Sure.”

  “Go.”

  chapter eight

  Lulu’s annoyance lasted all of ten seconds, but the tingle of Joe’s lips against her neck lingered even as she grabbed the nearest soldier and hauled him onto the dance floor.

  Propelled by music, she soon found herself dancing with abandon and smiling like an out-and-out madwoman. The chap she’d stolen away from boredom was as graceful as a rhinoceros, but he smiled the whole time, game for it all. Blaring out “Sun Valley Jump,” the orchestra controlled Lulu’s body and gave her feet a will of their own. Her mind cleared of everything but the blaring, brassy beat. Every last cell hopped in time. Strands of hair flew loose and stuck to the sweat along the line of her jaw.

  Flying and dancing. Nothing else mattered. Nothing else turned her thoughts to mush and allowed her to breathe, revel, live.

  Except maybe Joe’s hands on her hips.

  Bloody hell.

  Another song, another partner—this time a member of an RAF ground staff. He was long and lanky, towering over her, but he moved with surprising grace and speed. Their slicked palms pressed together, fingers intertwined. His nimble steps mirrored hers as they whisked through a lickety-split Charleston. She couldn’t suss how such a big man stayed so light on his feet, but he never slowed. He was grinning, his eyes shining with amusement.

  After four more songs Lulu’s feet ached. Beneath her belted tunic, her shirt clung under her arms and along her ribs. She would’ve kept up the pace until her legs buckled and her lungs stopped working, but the orchestra took pity in the form of a ballad. A young brunette took to the stage. She started in on “I’ll Be Seeing You” with a songbird’s voice.

  Had she been with Joe, she would’ve stepped into his arms and closed her eyes, forgetting sweat and tired feet. But he wasn’t with her. He was holding a curvy redhead wearing a Women’s Auxiliary Air Force uniform. Lulu couldn’t see his face, only the muscled expanse of his back where his tunic stretched taut. The redhead’s features, however, were the very picture of bliss: eyes closed, mouth relaxed, head resting on his shoulder.

  Lulu pinched her own forearm. When she spotted that same RAF captain, the one who’d bought her the gin, she walked over and took his hand. “Ever so sorry about earlier,” she said. “That Yank has been pestering me for weeks. Care to dance?”

  He was an attractive man. His hair was neatly trimmed and combed, as dark as ink. The olive tint to his skin gave him an exotic quality she rarely saw among Englishmen; he could’ve had an Indian grandparent. His looks only improved when he smiled. The tight, hawkish look left his eyes, and he seemed like a boy she could’ve once befriended.

  He still wasn’t Joe. Would she be doomed to make that comparison forever?

  She and the captain moved well together. All the while, she developed a distinct hatred of WAAFs with ginger curls. What could that dame do other than corral barrage balloons and signal incoming flights? Lulu had probably flown more planes than Joe’s redhead had ever seen.

  The song ended. Lulu railed at herself for her ridiculous train of thought. The poor RAF chap might as well have been a coatrack for how litt
le attention she’d paid him. Being in his arms had meant nothing. All the while Joe’s teasing words echoed in her ear, just where he’d whispered them.

  I’ll convince myself you’re only in their arms to spite me. And you’ll be doing the same.

  Another slow song began. Lulu bid her partner a hasty farewell. He merely sighed and turned away, shaking his head. Crazy dame, he was probably thinking. But she couldn’t bring herself to care. If she lost the bet, she’d have to make a choice: go back on her word or risk the temptation that was walking home with Joe. The night was clear and cool. She could oh-so-easily imagine leaning into his body for warmth, talking in the intimacy of the dark, pushing her fingers into the short hair at his nape when they kissed good night.

  She remembered the letter from Quincy Fields that never came. He was probably dead somewhere in Italy. She’d never hear from him again. The idea of waiting and wondering about Joe turned her stomach into a bag of sour milk. She couldn’t do it. As she walked up to the man who would be her next partner, Lulu batted her eyelashes and pasted on a smile.

  Joe wondered how long he could sit by and watch Lulu work her magic among the dozen soldiers and airmen she’d already whisked onto the dance floor. He also wondered when she’d notice that he was no longer taking part.

  He’d lost his cool by daring her that way—the last thing he wanted. She already held too much power over him, and what was worse, she’d seen him fight Harry Dixon. If Joe ever convinced her to give him more than one night at a time, he’d have to tell her about his youth. Probably all of it.

  Shame and that hurtful anger tightened his fingers around the glass beer mug he held. His past was never far from his thoughts, but explaining what he’d done—actually speaking the words aloud—was enough to make him quake. His tongue swelled up. He rubbed the back of his head from collar to crown.

  Someone tapped him on the shoulder. He looked behind him and found the redheaded WAAF he’d danced with. Patricia was her name, from York. He liked how she laughed and how her accent was different from Lulu’s.

  Patricia squeezed between him and a corporal standing to his right. Joe wouldn’t have thought there was enough room, but she made do. The other man didn’t seem to mind. With Patricia’s backside wedged against his thigh, he grinned at Joe over her head. “Thanks, buddy.”

  “Don’t mention it,” Joe said.

  Patricia smiled broadly, a smile that made her kelly-green eyes go almost shut. “Buy a girl a drink?”

  Joe nodded and signaled the bartender. A few moments later and he tapped his mug against her tumbler. “Cheers.”

  “And where were you from again?” she asked.

  He smiled. “Indiana.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “I’m just going to start saying ‘somewhere in the middle’ every time. It would save us all the hassle.”

  “I’ll drink to that.”

  While Patricia sipped her scotch, he turned his back to the bar and found Lulu. She was swaying in time with a beanpole lieutenant. Idiot, Joe called himself. Fool. Glutton for punishment. She made him want to invent new curse words.

  “Who are you looking for?” Patricia asked.

  He didn’t hear any accusation in her voice but felt defensive anyway. “No one, doll.”

  This time she laughed and her eyes squinted shut completely. “Don’t tease,” she said. “Nearly four years among servicemen, I’ve been. You could say I know a thing or two about the lot of you. Blokes who stand by themselves either have a girl at home or their eyes on one who won’t give them the time of day.”

  “And you don’t think I have a girl at home?”

  “You would’ve mentioned her while we were dancing. Maybe that makes it all right somehow, like setting out the rules from the start.”

  He took another drink, both curious and unnerved by the woman’s perceptions. Was Lulu able to read men equally well? Was it a result of the war, or a special talent possessed by English girls?

  “But some men lie,” he said. “Some men keep secrets.”

  “True, but those chaps are looking for girls on the loose, whether they have a sweetheart or not. They don’t sit at the bar and nurse a beer by themselves.”

  Joe could only grin.

  “So which one is she?” she asked.

  “The one who just noticed I’m talking to you.”

  Lulu’s lips opened slightly. Then her gaze lighted on Patricia. She said something to the man who held her—a beefy, bald sergeant from one of the armored units—and then she skirted through the crowd.

  “Is she coming over?” Patricia asked, still angled so that her generous breasts practically rested on the bar’s shining surface.

  “Yes.”

  She gave him a sweet smile this time, one purged of overt sexuality. “Want my help?”

  Before he could ask what that meant, Joe was standing face-to-face with Lulu. All that dancing had loosened a barrette above her left ear. Her brow, the tops of her cheeks, and the bridge of her nose shone with perspiration. She looked as she had after he’d kissed her good night. That had been three weeks ago and he could still taste her.

  “Joe,” she said simply.

  He took a swig of beer to hide the satisfied smirk he felt coming on. She sounded upset. Maybe even angry. “Hello, Lulu.”

  Perhaps curious about this new arrival, or perhaps providing the help she’d mentioned, Patricia turned away from the bar—and she did it as slowly and provocatively as possible. Joe could barely register the sensations as they occurred: her bust trailed across his upper arm, her hips turned against his thigh, her hands slid around his waist. Between Patricia’s physicality and memories of kissing Lulu, Joe found himself suddenly breathless and very hard.

  “What does it look like?” he said tightly. “I’m sitting this one out.”

  Lulu frowned as if he’d spoken in Russian. “What about our bet?”

  His frustrations hit a fast boil. A sweet, beautiful redhead was glued to his hip, so he decided to take advantage of what she offered. Joe looped his arm around Patricia’s shoulder and gave her a squeeze. She played along beautifully, flattening her palm on his chest and snuggling closer. Lulu deserved as much after how badly she messed with his peace of mind.

  “I got to talking to Patricia here and thought maybe it wasn’t worth it.”

  “Patricia,” Lulu said flatly. Her eyes narrowed.

  “Have you met Patricia?”

  “No.” Lulu extended her hand with brusque formality. “A pleasure.”

  Patricia could’ve been an actress. She shook Lulu’s hand, then returned to snuggling. “Mutual, I’m sure.”

  “So, you’ve won,” Joe said. “Congratulations. You can forget about our dance. I don’t mind.” He smiled down at Patricia, catching the amusement in her eyes.

  Lulu’s scrutiny sizzled as hot as July in Georgia, and her confusion pushed against him like the winds of a fast-moving thunderhead.

  “Have a good night, Lulu,” he said before nuzzling Patricia’s forehead.

  The woman didn’t miss the opportunity to link her hands at his scruff and pull him down for a full, delicious kiss. Joe’s first reaction was to draw back, but he caught himself. Then he indulged. Patricia was a great kisser—not too aggressive despite the way she tugged at him. Scotch flavored her tongue. Pressed chest to chest, her marvelous bust did unsafe things to his blood pressure. And for a moment and a half he forgot all about Lulu Davies.

  But she hadn’t forgotten about him. “Dance with me?” she asked.

  Joe gently unfolded himself from Patricia’s arms. Lulu’s face was tense, her lower lip tucked between her teeth. They hadn’t spent much time together, yet Joe had seen her expressions in those manic seconds after her crash and in the awed moments following their first dance. He’d never seen her this way, as if a breeze could tip her over.

  He didn’t want to relent. Kissing Patricia had been nice. More than nice. He wasn’t looking for a forever girl, not mo
nths or even weeks before he was bound for combat. And he knew that whatever conflict remained between him and Lulu wasn’t settled yet.

  “Did none of those eleven other men meet your standards?”

  Tears glittered in her eyes. “You kept track?”

  He pulled away from Patricia. Just a little. “I said I would.”

  The fast swing tune that had kept feet pounding and knees flying came to an end. The crowded club narrowed to just him and Lulu as the orchestra started into “I Only Have Eyes for You.” Joe flicked his gaze toward the stage, where lights illuminated a portly man as he began to sing, his voice a mellow tenor.

  “I shouldn’t, you know,” he said. “But it just so happens I love this song.” He kissed Patricia on the cheek and whispered, “Thanks.”

  She turned to face the bar. “You let her off too easy, soldier.”

  “I like her too much.”

  Joe finished his beer and exhaled, readying himself for another exhausting, thrilling round. Lulu’s eyes were bright with whatever emotions had forced her to swallow her pride. She was breaking her own rules. She knew it. Joe knew it. What that meant for their future was well beyond his ability to see. Maybe nothing.

  No, most likely nothing. In war and in life he would be wise to stop projecting so far forward. He needed to remember how he’d survived prison and basic training: one day at a time. In this case he vowed that even one night at a time was too much to ask.

  He would take it dance by dance. And at that moment, for that dance, he was holding the right girl in his arms.

  After the brief train ride to Sileby, Lulu led Joe eastward along the quiet pitch-black road to Mersley. She heard the scour of a lighter’s flint just before the fire flared to life. He lit a cigarette and offered her one. When she declined, the light winked out, leaving her with a brief glimpse of his face. He was wearing that contemplative expression again.

  “You Brits amaze me.”

  “How so?”

  “Blackouts, rationing, and then dancing like there’s no tomorrow. It’s like that fella Williams said at the movie palace. You’re still here. I keep trying to make sense of it all.”