Free His Very Own Girl by Carrie Lofty

Joe’s forearm for balance and bobbing her head to catch a better view. Her cheeks were flushed. A sheen of sweat beaded along her brow and upper lip.
    “Now ladies and gents, dames and dodgers, I want you to do something for your Uncle Willy.” He crouched at the edge of the stage, his delivery more intimate now. He still looked ridiculous, but he claimed everyone’s attention. Joe watched him as if he were a preacher, a man sent to save them all. Williams had galvanized his audience—just regular people taking advantage of a night out—into a congregation. “Are you ready to do this?”
    The expectant crowd replied in the affirmative.
    “I want you to look to your left or your right. If you’re here with a grand girl, if you’re here with some brave boy, I want you to turn to that dear soul . . . and give them a big fat kiss for victory!”
    Laughter and shouts were his reward. And then people throughout the theater began to do just as he’d asked. Couple by couple, men and women melted into each other’s arms. Some were tentative. Some were eager. Some looked as if they wouldn’t be sticking around for the feature.
    Joe turned to Lulu. She was a tall girl, taller than he remembered. Her flushed-face excitement had not subsided. She was reckless and wild, reminding him of the first time he’d seen her in the cockpit of her Hurricane. Memories of that adrenaline-soaked run, an understanding of how close she’d come to death, and the unspoken fear of his own fate in combat—it all surged up inside him. Joe took hold of her upper arms and pulled her close. He gave her every chance to back away or stiffen or shake her head.
    Instead, their eyes met. The packed theater disappeared.
    The jolt of that first touch of lip to lip snapped through him like the pulse of machine gun fire—sharp, quick, startling. The warmth of her mouth, firm and soft and giving, blew every thought from his mind. Their tongues touched, withdrew, and then pressed onward. She tasted salty and sweet at once. Joe encircled her back, pulling her closer. Her hands wove into the hair along his nape, and her breasts pillowed against his chest.
    When his body swiftly responded, eager for even more, he raised his head.
    Lulu laughed. “Lipstick,” she said simply.
    Couples had started to resume their seats. He and Lulu joined them.
    A scattered sense of confusion clouded his return to regular breathing. All he knew for certain was that he wasn’t kissing her anymore. And any moment when he wasn’t kissing her was a moment wasted.
    Using an unadorned white handkerchief she’d pulled from her purse, Lulu scrubbed her lipstick off his face. Joe was laughing, too, by the time she finished. Then he took the handkerchief and returned the favor. He had to be very careful, easing the thin fabric around the outline of her mouth. But soon he was doing more petting than cleaning. Her lips parted. She was breathing heavily.
    “I’ll take that,” she said, reclaiming her handkerchief. “No offense, Doc Web, but I don’t trust chaps to know much about makeup.”
    Joe didn’t know what to make of his army nickname coming from Lulu. Strange. As if he had new expectations to live up to.
    “You look real fine,” he said.
    “But you’d say that no matter what—messy lipstick, or wilted after a hot afternoon, or first thing in the morning.”
    The image he concocted of Lulu first thing in the morning was enough to thicken his voice. “You’re not wrong.”
    “Then you see why I must trust my compact, not you.”
    Despite the heavy thrum of blood that had gathered into an undeniable erection, he took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. The few moments she needed to touch up her lipstick gave Joe time to recover.
    She had just returned her possessions to her small handbag when the lights dimmed and the tattered red velvet curtain parted. The screen glowed white in the mild half-light. Lulu threaded her arm through Joe’s and leaned in close.
    Light