Free His Very Own Girl by Carrie Lofty Page B
Authors: Carrie Lofty
search of a man, he was the sane choice in an insane world.
So when her traitorous heart and lonely body wanted more of Joe, she’d just tell them no. After four years of practice, she was good at that.
“You want something to drink?” Joe asked. “I didn’t bring bottles, but I could do some scrounging.”
Alcohol was simple enough to find, but the rationing of glass and tin meant occasionally providing one’s own means for carrying it.
“No, don’t bother.”
“Or maybe . . . you just want to get out of here?” His eyes were dark, clouded over with things unsaid. The passion was back. The heat. The surprising puzzle of him.
“Why did you fight that lieutenant?” she heard herself asking.
Joe flinched. Lulu swallowed the need to apologize and tell him to forget her unexpected question. Instead she laced her fingers in her lap.
Exhaling slowly, he seemed to assess his own options, motives, and need for privacy. So little trust in these opening moments, she thought. She’d forgotten what it was to truly open up to a man. Having gone without for so long, she’d convinced herself that she didn’t miss it. Yet she did. She missed silly jokes and bumbled talks and those embarrassing moments of intimacy one only shared with a trusted partner.
But what she missed was also what hurt the most when it ended.
“Do you need to know?” he asked.
She couldn’t find an answer that would satisfy her curiosity without sounding like a common scold. When the words didn’t materialize, she could only stare at his apprehensive face. Her question was spoiling their good time. She shivered then, her physical self demanding more than did her conscious mind. More of Joe.
Soon the newsreels would begin. They’d see footage from all across the globe—the fighting, the fear, the simple monotony of making do. She didn’t want a lick of it.
Although her knees wobbled as she stood, she forced them to shape up and fly right. Nothing about her rule had changed. She was merely stretching one night into two. That didn’t mean learning all there was to know about Joe. Chatting, dancing, kissing . . . no more was on her menu.
“No,” she said. “I don’t think I do. And I don’t think I need to see the second feature.”
Joe gave the building a once-over and frowned. The Henley Club practically glowed and glittered despite Leicester’s pervasive blackout, its music loud and its patrons spruced up real fine. But this place hunched into itself. Ratty wooden boards covered every window. The brick walls were so afflicted with moisture and tiny diffuse cracks that they leaned over, yearning toward the cobbled alley floor. A scrap of corrugated tin hung above the lone doorway. Macadam tar had been used to smear on the words The Night Owl.
The only sign of life was not what Joe could see but what he could hear. From inside the dingy structure came the low and woeful sound of a single trumpet.
Lulu knocked on the door, which was opened by a tall man who bore a remarkable resemblance to the building. His shoulders curved like the top of the letter C. He had no waist to speak of; the lines of his body extended straight from armpit to ankle. Maybe forty years old, maybe sixty, he wore a flat cap and a grizzled white beard. Patches of skin poked through where the hair on his cheeks had thinned.
That they’d find some manner of diversion here was absurd.
“Lulu,” Joe said. “Let’s go.”
She ignored him and addressed the man in the doorway. “Allo, Banger, me old china! How’s your pretty young Dutch?”
“Me turtle? Always on the dog. Should give her a good kick up the April.” He squinted at Joe. “Who’s the daft ranger, briney?”
“Just a garden gate.”
“But . . . he’s wooden.”
“Aren’t they all these days?”
The man scratched his beard and offered a smile that shone with genuine affection. “You, briney, always one for a Tufnell. Fancy a Vera?”
“That’d be
So when her traitorous heart and lonely body wanted more of Joe, she’d just tell them no. After four years of practice, she was good at that.
“You want something to drink?” Joe asked. “I didn’t bring bottles, but I could do some scrounging.”
Alcohol was simple enough to find, but the rationing of glass and tin meant occasionally providing one’s own means for carrying it.
“No, don’t bother.”
“Or maybe . . . you just want to get out of here?” His eyes were dark, clouded over with things unsaid. The passion was back. The heat. The surprising puzzle of him.
“Why did you fight that lieutenant?” she heard herself asking.
Joe flinched. Lulu swallowed the need to apologize and tell him to forget her unexpected question. Instead she laced her fingers in her lap.
Exhaling slowly, he seemed to assess his own options, motives, and need for privacy. So little trust in these opening moments, she thought. She’d forgotten what it was to truly open up to a man. Having gone without for so long, she’d convinced herself that she didn’t miss it. Yet she did. She missed silly jokes and bumbled talks and those embarrassing moments of intimacy one only shared with a trusted partner.
But what she missed was also what hurt the most when it ended.
“Do you need to know?” he asked.
She couldn’t find an answer that would satisfy her curiosity without sounding like a common scold. When the words didn’t materialize, she could only stare at his apprehensive face. Her question was spoiling their good time. She shivered then, her physical self demanding more than did her conscious mind. More of Joe.
Soon the newsreels would begin. They’d see footage from all across the globe—the fighting, the fear, the simple monotony of making do. She didn’t want a lick of it.
Although her knees wobbled as she stood, she forced them to shape up and fly right. Nothing about her rule had changed. She was merely stretching one night into two. That didn’t mean learning all there was to know about Joe. Chatting, dancing, kissing . . . no more was on her menu.
“No,” she said. “I don’t think I do. And I don’t think I need to see the second feature.”
Joe gave the building a once-over and frowned. The Henley Club practically glowed and glittered despite Leicester’s pervasive blackout, its music loud and its patrons spruced up real fine. But this place hunched into itself. Ratty wooden boards covered every window. The brick walls were so afflicted with moisture and tiny diffuse cracks that they leaned over, yearning toward the cobbled alley floor. A scrap of corrugated tin hung above the lone doorway. Macadam tar had been used to smear on the words The Night Owl.
The only sign of life was not what Joe could see but what he could hear. From inside the dingy structure came the low and woeful sound of a single trumpet.
Lulu knocked on the door, which was opened by a tall man who bore a remarkable resemblance to the building. His shoulders curved like the top of the letter C. He had no waist to speak of; the lines of his body extended straight from armpit to ankle. Maybe forty years old, maybe sixty, he wore a flat cap and a grizzled white beard. Patches of skin poked through where the hair on his cheeks had thinned.
That they’d find some manner of diversion here was absurd.
“Lulu,” Joe said. “Let’s go.”
She ignored him and addressed the man in the doorway. “Allo, Banger, me old china! How’s your pretty young Dutch?”
“Me turtle? Always on the dog. Should give her a good kick up the April.” He squinted at Joe. “Who’s the daft ranger, briney?”
“Just a garden gate.”
“But . . . he’s wooden.”
“Aren’t they all these days?”
The man scratched his beard and offered a smile that shone with genuine affection. “You, briney, always one for a Tufnell. Fancy a Vera?”
“That’d be