Playing Jacks

xi. Life's a Race, part 1

xi. Life’s a Race

Perched on the gentle rise of a grassy hill next to the interstate, Sophie wraps her arms around her legs and rests her chin on her knees- watching Jacks’ sweat trickle through the valleys between tight, bunched muscles.  Shirtless, it nearly streams off of him in the warm autumn night.  His back glistens in the intermittent glare of headlights and softer moonlight, a tantalizing drizzle sneaking down the ridge of his spine to dip into the low waist of his pants. 

Shifting uncomfortably, Sophie wallows in her torturous need.  A flat tire has never been so . . . accommodating.

Jacks’ eyes shift to their corners, sneaking another glance at his buxom brunette and smirks at what he sees. “Enjoying the show?”

She hums and wiggles, as if getting a little more comfortable, not bothering to hide her appreciation. “How far do you want to go today?” She asks. They hadn’t gotten far- just outside of Chattanooga, close to the mile marker where Sophie had finally capitulated to her heart’s loud tantrums.

Jacks drops the tire iron with a clamor and, straddling his hands onto the ground beside her, effectively forces her back onto the grass. “I’d say the next exit.”

She blushes, the pretty pink color blending with the purple bruise high on her cheek.  So close that her breath tickles his lips, he watches her chest heave with irregular breaths.  It strangles his lungs. 

Sophie isn’t the only one charred with want.

Blue lights strobe into their tiny universe and, once again, the game is forced aside.  Jacks straightens to stand, watching the car slide to a halt into the gravel next to the interstate.

“Call Callan,” he orders, dropping his phone into her lap.

A little confused, Sophie looks at the small phone as Jacks ambles towards the police cruiser.  You’re not a murderer, she reminds herself sternly; but she’s not looking forward to hearing Callan’s chiding voice.  It stays her actions until, the button pressed and the phone lifted, the police man orders the phone dropped.

“Hello?” Callan asks into the night air.

“Georgia State Police!  I said put the phone down!” The office barks, as if Sophie was unaware of who he was.

“It’s down, it’s down,” Sophie cries, eyeing the hand braced on the butt of his gun warily. “I was just calling a friend.  Flat tire.”

Jacks stands between officer and woman, tanked on adrenaline and testosterone.  The officer’s eyes are obscured by the brim of his hat, hiding his expression; but his arms held away from his body, he looks much too ready for confrontation for Jacks’ tastes.  Danger makes Jacks’ muscles hard but he manages to keep his voice even. “We’re just changing a flat.  We’re almost finished and we’ll be on our way.”

The officer looks between the two of them, full of suspicion. “Driver’s license.”

“Don’t close the phone, Sophie,” Callan orders her.  The voice sounds tinny from the small device, but she hears him plainly enough. 

“I’ve got it.  I’m the driver,” Sophie insists, rolling to expose her back hip and retrieve her license from the rear pocket of her shorts. 

“You, too,” the gruff officer insists, looking over the half-naked man that guards the bruised woman behind him.  Without breaking away from the officer’s shadowed eyes, Jacks reaches to retrieve his wallet when he’s stopped again. “No.  Not you.  You keep your hands where I can see them.  You,” he nods to Sophie, “Get his wallet.”