Bombshell

“Lady, you might want to call your mom to pick up the kid.” This morsel of advice is from the policeman who glued himself to my side as if I’m a danger to the public and not the tall, well-built man pulling out a credit card from an expensive leather wallet. “If this man decides to press charges, you’ll have to go down to the city jail.”

“What?” I exclaim.

“No fucking way,” Mae rages. “My friend needs a medic.”

“Waahhhh!” Anna begins to wail. I press her head against my breast and ignore the twinge in my abdomen.

“I’m not pressing charges.” Jack waves the credit card. “Let me pay for the damage and we’ll get out of your hair.”

“Ugh. The nerve of him.” Mae crouches down next to me. “How are you doing?”

“I thought I ripped my stitches,” I tell her. I lift Anna up off my stomach. “But apparently it was just blowback from the tomatoes I threw. It’s not blood. I just want to go home.”

“Then let’s go.” She helps me to my feet. Anna clings to my neck as I stand up. “There’s lettuce in your hair,” murmurs Mae as she helps me shuffle toward my abandoned cart.

Of course I do. With all the produce that I sent flying toward Jack, I’m surprised it’s only lettuce. I should be wearing an entire garden.

I brush a hand over my scalp, but before I can get it, Jack is in front of me and his hand is outstretched. I flinch back. Hard. Jack’s hand falls to his side and a flicker of disappointment passes over his face.

“I’ve paid the damages and we’re all free to leave.” He waves his hand toward the doorway.

The tall, thin cop comes up behind Jack. “You sure we can’t call you an ambulance, Mr. Harris? It looks like you’re growing a knot on the side of your head.”

My eyes fly to Jack’s left temple, above his dark brown eyes. His own fingers come up and lightly smooth over the visible bump.

“It’s all good,” he says soothingly. His words are directed toward the cop, but his gaze is locked with mine.

“If you say so.”

Jack tears his eyes from mine and holds out his hand. “Thanks for all your help.”

“Anytime, Mr. Harris. Anytime.” The cop shakes Jack’s hand with exuberance. “We at the Fulton Police Department are here to protect and serve.” After that little speech, I half expect the cop to salute and bow, but all he does is doff his cap before turning on his rubber-soled heel and collecting his partner.

But all this deference makes me wonder what in the hell is going on. The Jack Harris I knew barely had two dimes to rub together, let alone a black credit card tucked inside a wallet that probably cost more than my groceries for a month. He certainly didn’t have cops bowing and scraping to him. Nor did he wear a suit. In fact, the only nice thing he had was this shirt I’m wearing.

“You have some other stuff up there.” He gestures toward my hair.

“Perfect,” I say sarcastically.

He approaches again, cautiously, as if I’m a wild animal ready to pounce at the slightest movement. He’s not wrong. I feel on edge. Every nerve in my body is vibrating with emotion—mostly anger, I reassure myself. Those other twinges that are happening below the waistband and in my chest are echoes of the same sour fury. They are not—definitely, absolutely, positively not—desire or lust or arousal.

He stops when his chest is almost brushing my nose. He’s only de-lettucing you, I tell myself. He’s not going to run those long, elegant fingers through your hair. He’s not going to deftly unbutton your top, cup your breasts, slide the digits between your legs. You don’t want that either.

My dumb, stupid pussy throbs in anticipation anyway.

This is what happens when you go long periods without sex and without toys. If I’d paid more attention to my body, I wouldn’t be shaking with need solely by his nearness, by the scent of the cologne on his wrist, by the warmth of his body next to mine.

Out of the corner of my eye I can see the corded veins that run along his forearms—veins that I traced with my tongue and teeth. Those arms spent many hours planted by my head, the veins popping, lightly sheened with sweat as they supported the weight of Jack’s body as he drove inside of me.

“Are you feeling okay?” he murmurs quietly.

His words pierce the haze of arousal that had enveloped me. I push him away and stumble, nearly falling to the tiled floor.

He catches me. “You there,” he snaps at Mae, “call 9-1-1.”

“What? No. I don’t need an ambulance.” I struggle free of his grip. “I’m fine.”

He frowns. “You don’t look fine. You’re sweating. Your skin is clammy. You’re short of breath and you’re having trouble standing.”