2007-05-07: Upon Cars We Both Agree

Starring:

Jack_icon.gif Trina_icon.gif

Summary: On a fair night in the Den of Iniquity, two motorheads find each other.

Date It Happened: Friday, May 7, 2007

Upon Cars We Both Agree


Brooklyn, NYC - Den of Inequity

The Den of Inequity is aptly named. A dive bar of the highest order situated in the heart of Brooklyn, it's prominant characteristics are cheap liquor, easy women, cigarette burns, and the heavily musky, otherwise indefinable smell that permeates the atmosphere. A bar formed from the rusted, welded-together wings of retired biplanes dominates one long wall of the small, rectangular room. A sheet of thick glass sits atop it, providing a smooth surface to set drinks upon and a barrier between the metal hulks and whatever patrons may arrive that bear delicate sensibilites. The customers around it are a mix of old codgers nursing boilermakers, Irishmen drinking dark beer and whiskey, working-class men stopping for a nightcap after finishing up for the day (or a bracer on the way to the job) and the barflies that attend to all of them with too-red smiles and lifeless eyes.
Behind the three pool tables in the center of the room and the jukebox against the wall there are three doors at the rear of the pub. Men's and women's restrooms, and a door prominantley marked 'PRIVATE' in white-on-red lettering. Floor-to-ceiling mirrors cover the rest of the wall on either side of the door. Hung high up are a series of signs that read things like, 'Unmarked Nuclear Warheads Travel These Roads - Keep Your Children Radiation Free,' and 'Caution - Hitchhikers May Be Escaped Inmates.'

The Den is relatively quiet this early on a Wednesday. Most of the customers are either nursing hangovers or working hard toward getting drunk again. The bar is almost deserted, and only a few tables are occupied by clusters of working-class men. The jukebox has a handwritten sign taped over it that reads 'DO NOT PLAY. TOO LOUD.'

Behind the bar, Jack is using a moment of free time to brush up on his card handling skills. With deft twitches of his long fingers, he idly deals from the bottom of a worn deck.

Usually, Trina would not be one to venture so far from home. However, the search for a vintage pump motor and resevoir for her beautiful classic Mustang's broken top has brought her out into the wilds of New York. After all, summer is rapidly approaching. Its black top must be able to go down in order to make up for the absolutely freezing winter endured in its drafty interior. Imagine her dismay when the mother fucker tried to sell her a Hong Kong piece of shit rip-off. In fact, it's not hard to imagine. She's still fuming about it when she skulks her way into the Den.

It's foreign turf, sure, but they have a bar. That's all that really matters. Home base is too far away. A quick glance about the place gives the dark-haired woman the most important piece of intel for right now. She knows where the liquor is. With neither an extra glance to the right nor to the left, her long stride carries her to that blessed oasis whereupon she quickly straddles one of the bar stools. One she's on it, she bounces on it a couple of times and looks down in surprise. It's more comfy than the ones at work. …It's dangerously comfortable. Comfortable is already trying to woo her into more time here than just a couple rounds.

Today Jack's wearing a snug white t-shirt that's near worn-through. The front is printed with a devil making snow angels. His jeans are comfortably worn and his boots oft-scuffed by teeth and terrain. After dealing four cards onto the table, he hooks the edge of the fifth beneath the stack and flips over all five, fanning them out as his newest customer takes a seat. "Full house." And it is, queens over jacks. Grinning crookedly, he gestures toward the liquor wall in a lazy fashion. "What can I get you, lass?"

The thick fitted jeans that hug Trina's thighs get two hands smearing down their fronts, faintly trailing the last of the nasty foreign motor oil clinging to her palms. She doesn't look up immediately, choosing instead to closely inspect her work as she runs one fingernail under another to scrape out some debris. "Two thumbs of Ballantine's if you got it; no ice. Chivas Regal if you don't." Her hands now a little cleaner, she then looks up to regard the stranger as she gives her last bit of instruction with a smile that poorly covers her foul mood. It's not his fault after all, and he deserves at least an effort on her part to be nice. "Lie to me if you don't have either and don't let me see the bottle when you pour. I'll pretend not to notice."

A tall, skinny, wrinkled man who's easily in his seventies has taken this lapse in Jack's attention as an opportunity to feed the jukebox.

A moment too late, Jack notices. "NONONOAhhh.. Shit. Fine. But if you put on a single Megadeth song, I swear to Christ, I'm gonna come by the gym and kick your ass."

The old man responds with a middle-finger salute and hits the play button.

"Shit," Jack repeats, shaking his head ruefully. "Ok. So, Ballantine's for the lady." Working quickly, he pulls a bottle from above the bar and a glass from below. Seconds later he pushes the drink across. Though he's still a little hungover, his keen grey eyes pick out the oil smudges on the girl's denim. "Been doin' some spring cleanin' on your ride?"

When the glass ends up in front of her, Trina sniffs it first. Then she takes a sip. Smells right. Tastes right. There's a quiet sigh of relief. "Not so much a spring cleaning as the latest round of resuscitation efforts." Then her head tilts and a dark eyebrow arches as genuine interest glimmers in her eyes. "You dig cars or are you just makin' conversation?"

Jack's reply is to dig out and unfold his wallet. Where most people would have pictures of family, Jack has a single picture of Julia, his 1967 Pontiac GTO. Chop-topped, deep purple, and lovingly restored, it's his pride and joy. "Sorry to hear your baby's on life support." He murmurs. "I just got mine back on the road. A few weeks back she got KO'd while I was out stretchin' my legs." He looks distinctly uncomfortable for a moment. Something's being glossed over. "And what's your lady like?" he quickly queries.

Taking the wallet in hand for a moment, Trina flares to life. "Oh, NICE. You can't beat an American beauty. I am *so* glad you're not one of those Honda freaks. It's always the *worst* to deal with those fucktards and their fiberglass pieces of SHIT." If she notices his discomfort, she makes no sign of it. Handing the wallet back, she indicates the front door with a tilt of her head. "I know you probably can't leave the bar, but, if you can, there's a 1965 Mustang rag top out there with my name in the glove box. She's seen better days, but they'll come back to her. All she needs is a bit of lovin'. And, for her, I've got plenty. If you can dodge the boss for ten, I'll totally let you take her 'round the block. I just dropped in her new clutch back in December and her gears slide like a dream now."

Jack looks sorely tempted. Then, tilting his head to the side, he grins wider. "Why not? I /am/ the boss, after all. And it's not every day you get an offer like that." Motioning over a much tattoed and pierced cocktail waitress, he passes her a set of keys and whispers to her briefly, then scoops up a battered leather coat and tosses it around his shoulders. "And Honda? Please. If it doesn't get less than ten per gallon, it's not for me. Let's go."

Trina looks surprised for a second and then there's a bit of almost-embarrassed laughter. "Here I was talking to the boss, and I didn't know! Glad I didn't start insulting the joint." Throwing back the rest of her scotch with a toss of her head, Trina's quick to spin on the bar stool and start making her way towards the door. She rifles in her pocket for a second before pulling out a set of keys and tossing them in Jack's direction before starting to walk outside. "You put a gouge in that clutch, and you understand I am morally obligated to take it out of your hide. No 'fense." God. He drinks. He owns a bar. He has his own ancient work of motor art. Good GOD, he's hot. Running a hand through her hair when she doesn't think the guy's paying attention, it's all she can do to not just start drooling. Lolling her head backwards to call behind her as she traverses the sidewalk towards the alley where she parked, the girl's nothing but smiles. "The name's Trina, by the by."

"The moniker's Jack." Still wearing a crooked, easy smile, the bartender catches the keys on the fly. "And it's a pleasure to be yours. I see a lady with oil on 'er who knows how to threaten a fella and handle a stiff drink, I get positively twitterpated." He follows Trina out, unabashed to be caught watching the play of her muscles beneath denim and cotton when she turns around to introduce herself.

Turning around and starting to walk backwards, Trina points a finger full of playful accusation in her new companion's direction. "Careful. Keep talkin' like that, Jack, and it's bound to go to a girl's head." Turning back around, her smile finally admits the little bit of giddiness she feels as she rounds the corner and towards her cherry red baby. A baby, one might note, that she is quick to greet with hands gently caressing the hood in opposing directions until the girl's grungy black tee-covered torso is completely spread across the left half of the front of the car and her cheek rests against the still warm metal. Or at least as much as her slender frame can really cover. "And this is my darlin' in all her American, gas-guzzling, oil-hogging, road-dominating glory." Sliding down the side of the car so she can effectively trace her fingertips along the curves of its tire wells and the lines of the door, her eyes never leave the painted finish that glimmers in the dim light that chances down the alley from a nearby side exit. "All muscle and steel and… " There's a deep growling sort of sound that she makes, body slouching before she finally turns her head to grin lustily in Jack's direction. He understands. "Good GOD, they just make you so weak in the fucking knees, don't they?"

It's obvious that the sight gets to Jack as well. The first thing he does is carefully stuff his hands into his pockets so they won't wander. Most men would be captivated by the sight of a young woman pressing herself so fondly against a Mustang, but Jack isn't most men. The car is enough to captivate him all by herself. Letting out a low whistle, he paces a slow circle around the vehicle before coming to rest in front of Trina and leaning over her to peer through the driver's side window. "Marry me?" he murmurs under his breath without shifting his gaze.

"I don't think they allow man-automobile marriages in the state of New York. Could be wrong, but I don't think I am." Biting the side of her lower lip, Trina comes within a breath's distance of Jack's mouth, carrying the unmistakable odor of warmed scotch upon it. A part of her briefly ponders that she should have gotten another glass before offering him the keys. But now they're here, pressed against the breath-taking, spacious frame of an American classic. When she finally speaks, it's between clenched teeth. "You're killin' me with the foreplay here. You know you wanna feel that engine race just as much as I do."

Jack leans forward, his lips hovering a hair's breadth from Trina's and his eyes locked on hers. One hand reaches out to rest on the door panel, leaving his arm neatly draped around one of her hips. "Mmm. Sounds fun." Then there's a series of soft, metallic clicks from just behind Trina's backside as Jack fits the key and unlocks the driver's door. He snaps his teeth playfully before he steps away so he can open the door, his greys sparkling and a hint of laughter tugging at the corners of his mouth. When he slides into the seat, he immediately stops chuckling at his own antics. His mouth pulls into a small, tight 'o' of pleasure as he runs his fingertips over the dash, then the steering wheel and the shifter. Reverently, he starts up the Mustang and closes his eyes as he listens to the throaty rumble of the engine.

She can't breathe. For seriously. Can't *breathe*. As Jack closes in, Trina is momentarily rendered entirely speechless. And then he pulls away to get into the car. Oh, *man*. She takes the moment to recover, head falling back to rest against the roof so she can stare upwards into the glowing city night sky. As her precious vehicle declares its mistress's love to the night, Trina closes her eyes softly and just revels in the feel of it resonating through two thousand pounds of wonder and the break it gives her from thinking about the massive levels of hotness that are currently perusing her handiwork. It's a sacred moment: the key sliding into place and the easy grace of the engine as it bends to to the will of the key only to come into a power all its own. When her pale blue eyes open again, the girl has her mischievous grin back as she twists and lowers herself to call through the closed window and point to the other side of the car. "You gonna unlock that passenger door?"

With a quick, delicious shiver, Jack blinks and comes back to himself. "Uh. Yeah. Sorry." Leaning over, he flicks the lock and pops the door open, then gives the engine three quick revs with his eyes locked on the tach. No cross-brand envy here, just the simple pleasure of steel, oil, and gasoline in perfect harmony. "Fuck me," he repeats, appropriately awed. The Mustang is an easy match for Julia, though you'd never get him to admit it out loud. His heart races and his breathing is shallow and fast with excitement as he waits like a racehorse at the gate.

Trina takes her time as she rounds the hood, fingers still delicately tracing a path with the tenderness of a lover. There's no need to hurry. Eventually, she makes her way to the right side of the car and slips into the bucket seat that's waiting for her. She buckles up, rolls down the window and then simply rests against the reconditioned leather of the seats. "Remember," she says, breathing in deep the beautiful smell of an engine designed in an era free of the shackles of 'carbon footprints' and 'greenhouse gases'. "You hurt her, I hurt you."

"Promises, promises." Cheeky to the core, Jack pulls out of the alley with a quick clutch-shift-gas. After shifting to second he hangs for a moment, savoring the growl of the engine in low gear before throwing it into third and punching it. More wheelman than racer, he weaves through what little traffic there is with practiced ease as he shifts into fourth. "Baby, don't be so mean!" Eyes crinkled, he lets out a satisfied, rumbling basso laugh as he takes a hard right just a /little/ faster than is strictly nessescary. Sadly, the speed limit on this stretch can only be described as snail-like, so Jack allows the engine to run back down into third.

"Damn fucking right that's a promise," the car's proud mama replies without lifting her head. She's trying not to show that she's desperately worries about what this stranger will do to her Precious. A discerning eye would easily see that she's got a white-knuckled grip on the seatbelt and eyes are locked foward as she anticipates the driver's first move. And then her poetry is in motion. It takes only a few well-practiced shifts to assure Trina that Jack knows more than his name might imply. Ahem.

Left to only enjoy the ride, she rests her arm on the door as she closes her eyes once more, savoring the wind as it tussles her hair and whips it about her face. About the tight turns, there are sharp inhalations of breath — but its of pleasure, not concern. This is her baby. Her baby would tell her if something was wrong. At the last turn, she merely lets her head fall to the side, looking almost lethargic in her bliss. "What d'ya think?"

"What do I think?" Jack brings the car into first in a matter of seconds, then into neutral as he coasts into a parking space in front of a closed deli. He sets the parking brake and leaves the engine running. "I think I need a cigarette. Bollocks, I'm the happiest man in my pants right now." Still wearing the same boyish grin, he reaches out to tuck a loose lock of hair behind Trina's ear. "Bloody beautiful." Making eye contact again, he could just as easily be talking about the girl as he could her car.

The touch of his hand is enough to coax Trina's eyes shut once more, as she savors it. To that end, her delicate hand reaches up to hold that hand in place for just a split-second longer. Between it and her baby's purr, she's got a puddle of goo where her insides used to be. "She is." And then… crap. She's… out of things to say. Crap. Crap, crap, crap. At least, she's out of the things that make for nice transitions. Might as well not bother beating around the bush. Dropping her left hand back down to her lap and looking out the window as she perches her chin on the other upturned fist, Trina just comes out and says it. "So. Am I gonna have a scary jealous girlfriend hunting me down tomorrow?"

"Nope. Until we left my pub, I was flyin' solo. But there is still somethin' standin' between us." Dragging his fingertips through Trina's hair and along her scalp, the Irishman reaches down with his other hand to grip the shifter and give it a quick jerk. Leaning close, he whispers into her ear. "This. Why don't we trade seats and you show me what your baby can really do on the way back?"

Damn him. Damn him and his stupid hands and his unfair knowledge of her car's power over her. DAMN HIM TO HELL. Except not really. She wouldn't want to have to go all the way to Hell just to see him again. That leaves her only the option to sink into her seat for a moment, undone by warm breath, and long legs twisting about themselves. Her hand curls as she reaches up to gingerly drag her soft knuckles over the dangerously alluring line of his jaw just to beg him to linger. "How bad are the cops 'round here?"

Jack's tounge slips out to trace a line along his upper lip. "The question is how fast, not how bad." Closing his eyes, his voice lowers to a rumble as he leans into Trina's touch. "Answer? Not fast enough. What're they gonna do, call in an APB on somethin' red?" With a wink, he leans against Trina's touch. For the second time tonight his lips are a fraction away from hers, but this time he doesn't pass up the opportunity for a brief kiss.

Oh, God, why did you have to make men like this? All with the cars and the words and the kisses that seem to eat the world. And hot. Oh GOD, is he hot. It takes a moment for Trina to recover and realize that he's egging her on. The threat of police makes Katrina's common sense desperately wave a red flag.
Unfortunately, her brain is no longer in control.
"You make a very good point," she offers breathlessly. Her hand then reaches across his lap and down to make sure the parking brake is engaged. He's broken the ice, so now it's her turn to lean over the small gap between the seats, plant her right hand between his legs, and seize another kiss — angling for something deeper, but taking whatever she can get — before her lips curl into a lopsided smile and her nose crinkles. "I think you're in my seat."

Jack's hand tightens in Trina's hair by reflex as he returns the kiss eagerly. His other hand slides down her back, forefinger slowly tracing each bump of her spine. The presence of her hand isn't going unnoticed by the Irishman or his physiology. Groaning with pleasure, he reluctantly seperates himself from her. "Ok," he says breathlessly. "Your turn to drive, or we'll never make it outta this parkin' spot." He's taking her in, studying her in detail and liking what he sees. He sneaks one more kiss before he vacates the passenger's seat, complete with a nip to Trina's lower lip.

"Right. Driving. Whew. Driving." Now that it's Jack's turn to walk the front edge of the car, Trina takes the opportunity to clear her head. Gotta drive. Gotta impress. Two hands go up into her hair, gripping tightly for a moment as she exhales. Lowering her head to rest on the steering wheel as she adjusts the seat, she coos to her car. Her right hand caresses the leather-wrapped wheel as if petting a beloved cat. "Okay, baby. You gotta behave for me. Pleeeease. Don't make me look like a clueless bimbo, okay?" That said, she straightens and jostles the stick in its neutral slot. And, should she catch Jack as he walks past the headlights, he can rest assured that he's getting a loud wolf whistle as Trina continues to do her part to break the tension.

Caught in the lights, Jack laughs and pulls a slow spin in response to the whistle. When he slips into the passenger's seat, he lets out a satisfied sigh. Seatbelt noticably absent, (a sign of trust? Nu.) he lays his hand on Trina's thigh and scratches his fingernails lightly along her inseam. "Ok, beautiful. Take me for a ride," he purrs.

And with that, Trina gently releases the parking break… only to let the car roll down the shallow incline and out of the spot. Then she shifts the car into gear, and her shoulders square as she revs the engine. All of her concentration is there for a moment, listening for anything off. But there's nothing. "You asked for it." He wants a ride. He's getting a ride. There's only a moment's delay between the words, and then the car as it roars into action. As she tears into the turn onto the street, her back wheels slide into their position behind the front of the car as she manipulates brakes and clutch. Then she guns the engine into a jack rabbit.
Her tongue licks along exposed, grinning teeth as she leans forward in her need for speed. And then she seemingly flies past the turn back to the bar. …only to slam the car into a screaming U on the empty four-lane stretch before screeching into a halt. That control, however, isn't the Mustang's forte. No, her baby's about muscle. It's about that gratuitous expenditure of fuel as Trina jack rabbits the red beauty back into motion, wheels barking against the asphalt. Each stunt brings a throaty gurgle of pleasure as she revels in the glorious nature of an engine unleashed; she's only got so many blocks where she can justify this controlled recklessness on account of the man beside her.
To his credit, Jack doesn't cringe or flinch. Quite the contrary, his hand tightens on Trina's thigh and he lets out a rich, bellowing laugh. His eyes are wild, his smile feral and challenging like a kid refusing to hold the lap bar on a rollercoaster. For this handful of moments, he is truly free. There is no unattended pub. There is no upcoming heist in Vegas. There's no Sylar, and no Company. There's only pavement, rubber, gasoline and an outrageously sexy woman sitting next to him.

What's far more important, this is the first time he's ever gotten this feeling from the passenger's seat. Though their cars may be well matched, Jack is wheelman enough to know a superior driver when he sees one.

As they draw near the pub, Trina reduces speed. By the time she's pulling back into the alley where they started, she's just praying there weren't any cameras. She pulls into the spot still left open from before, then gently lulls her car back to sleep with a jiggle of the neutral-set shifter, the set of a brake, and then the the soft turn of the key. Resting back against the seat, the dark-haired woman tilts her head up and lets out an open-mouthed sigh into the air. "Next time," she manages after a moment, "We play in your car." Again, her head rolls to the side so she can regard Jack fully. "If I'm allowed to see you again." She bites her lip, as she lays the request out on the line. "So what'cha say? Can I?"
"You bet your perfectly-formed ass you can, lady-o." Jack meets the young woman's gaze squarely, a smile quirking his mouth. "My moves might not be so fancy as yours, but I think I can show you a thing or two about spinnin' the wheel."

This was a good idea. Damn good. Tension that Jack wasn't even aware of has melted from his neck and shoulders, and the faint worry lines at his brow and around his mouth have smoothed. "Man.. I feel good," he murmurs. "We don't have to stop now, you know. The pub's closed, we can sneak in an' have a nip. I don't know about you, but I could use like seven fuckin' drinks after that. In a good way."

Trina debates for a moment. It's only a moment. She took the night off; she deserves to enjoy it! And she honestly can't remember the last time she's had this much *fun*. Everything about this guy is so ridiculously awesome that it must mean that there is some devastating problem that's bound to be standing in the wings, ready to ruin everything. That means she really should step back, breathe, and think about this before diving in. She always dives in, and it has yet to turn out so pretty.
Against everything churning in her gut, caution finally wins the battle. "I… I'd love to. I really, *really* would. But I really should get back. I gotta get all the way across the city, and I got the mimosa shift tomorrow. But I get off at six, if you're free."

Jack nods easily. "I can make that happen," he replies. Gripping the shifter to support his weight, he leans close to steal another lingering kiss from Trina. "Mmm. Scotch tastes good. Who knew?" He smacks his lips and lets out a snort of laughter. "Anyway, I'll be here whenever you want to find me. And in case you get cold feet.." he winks and produces a slip of paper with a flourishing gesture. "I swiped your registration. So, see you soon?" That said, he slips out of the car and fades out onto the street.

The kiss is more than sufficient to lull Trina into a quiet happy place. Honestly, it's giving her more of a buzz than the liquor did. But then… her registration. "Hey!" FUCK. Okay, now she REALLY can't get pulled over by the cops. "YOU'D BETTER NOT LOSE THAT!" FUCK FUCK FUCK… and good grief. He's still hot. …She'll forgive him this time. After all, it's just one day. How much trouble could she get into in one day? Right. So. Deep breath, exhale through pursed lips. Once that's done, the dark haired grease monkey shoves her keys back into the ignition and much more gingerly turns out onto the street, bound for home.

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