Black Jack

8

Lydia, on her way up to Spanish Harlem to check on Simon and the kids for the third day in a row, and thinking she should've waited until after Monday-morning rush hour, turned around on the Wall Street station platform as soon as she heard her name. She scowled when Jack caught up to her. He wasn't smiling. Wasn't penitent in the least. Pissed off, in fact.

"I want to start over again," he said tightly.

That shocked her, especially because he seemed to expect her to be receptive in spite of his boorishness. "Why?"

"I don't know," he snapped.

She stared at him for a few seconds, then couldn't help her smile.

"What?" he demanded.

"You hate-flirt."

He glared at her. "What's that?"

"Like hate-watching a TV show. It's bad TV. You hate it. But you watch it because it's a guilty pleasure, then you mock it because you feel stupid. I'm your guilty pleasure."

"That's the God's honest truth," he grumbled, then squinted at her. "You don't seem to mind unconventional flirtation."

"Clits and microdicks?"

He barked a shocked laugh. "Band name. Clits and Microdicks."

She laughed then too. "Soooo you're mad at yourself, blame me, then track me down to talk about vulgar band names."

"I didn't track you down," he said testily. "I'm going the same place you are."

"For which you could call your car service."

He gave her a get-real look. "Like I'm going to show up in that neighborhood stepping out of a Cadillac? Let's just put a fireworks show in front of Simon's labyrinth, shall we?"

"Oh." She looked at him then. Really looked. Ratty jeans. Worn concert tee shirt. Running shoes past their useful life. "Right."

"Mmm hm, and you in Daisy Dukes."

She winced inside, but only said, "They're too long to be Daisy Dukes."

"And that's a damned shame. Is this like your uniform in Kansas?"

"No," she sneered. "We are not uncultured swine."

"I have culture."

"In your refrigerator."

He grinned, and Lydia's breath caught. She needed to cut bait and go home. Three days ago. When Sebastian told her to.

"How was your weekend?" she asked slyly.

"Spent it in bed."

Her mouth pursed.

"Thinking about you," he said smugly.

Her body tingled in all the right places.

"Not really all weekend," he amended. "Just long enough to get myself off a few times. Then I played tennis with my dad."

She put her hand to her mouth and started to laugh.

"That is not a joke."

"I didn't think it was. Is this why you want to start over?"

"Yes, because I'd rather have you in my hand, but it's hard to think up an extra super good grovel when I'm imagining you naked and on top of me. Very, very hard. For a long, long time."

"Condolences on your priapism."

"Well, I didn't have to go to the ER." She was shocked, delighted, and he gave her a smug grin. "Didn't think I'd know that word, did you?"