LOVE AT FIRST DATE

Chapter 18: His Hand

"Y'know, I'm still angry with you, Michelle," he just wanted to be sure she was aware, realizing that it might be a little hard for her to tell after that kiss he'd just given her back in the car.

The way his arms were wrapped so tightly around her, too, could easily give her the wrong impression, he feared. "I don't want ya to think that you can get around me so easily, just by asking me to kiss ya like that," he clarified the rules and reality for her.

"Oh, I know that, dear," she sweetly allayed his concerns, gazing up through thick, sympathetic doe eyes. "I wasn't trying to get over on you. I just had this sudden urge to, umm... Well, you know how I get when I want you to kiss me," she shyly admitted with another disarming Bambi gaze, simultaneously sucking in hard on the sides of her cheeks to keep a smile from busting loose and giving herself away. "I'm not exactly a paragon of willpower when it comes to having to wait around for one, as I'm sure you must've noticed by now."

He beamed. His chest swelled. She could almost hear his macho-meter ratchet up a notch as a proud, arrogant, classic-male smirk settled in comfortably on either side of his lips and across his eyes.

Michelle knew that men had various time-honored traditions and codes they religiously followed, and that milking the Golden Upper Hand for all it was worth was among the gender's oldest, most cherished and humbly revered. But she wasn't sure if she had ever known a male who considered himself more fortunate or honored to have it bestowed upon him, no matter how short its average estimated lifespan.

The Golden Upper Hand, which her brilliant faux pas had instantly handed him on a silver platter, might as well have been one of those silly, highfalutin awards, like that Heifman trophy, or Heisman trophy, or whatever in the world they called that silly thing they gave away to basketball players — even murderous ones, like O.J. Simpson.

She stole a quick glance at his profile and had to fend off another ear-to-ear grin, thinking that he might as well be wearing a full-length, two-sided neon sandwich board that read:

"I'm milking my position as the aggrieved party for all it's worth, and for as long as I can, because, y'see..."

...continuing on the flip side with,

"...I really like the way Michelle dotes and fusses and lets me have my way when she thinks I'm upset. Thank you, and have a nice day."

"Yeah, well, I guess you have a point," he not so humbly, and even less modestly, was forced to agree after reflecting upon the other night when she had asked him to pull over and kiss her on their way to the restaurant. She did indeed seem to have a little trouble in the control department when it came to his kisses, he was forced to cede her, flinching from the unexpected stabbing zing that hit him below the belt when he did.

Their different heights and gaits caused their hip bones and thighs to bump and brush against each other's. His arms draped and encircled her torso, his fingers meeting up around her waist and entwining tightly to keep her tucked up solidly and snuggly against his side. He consciously shortened his stride by half a step to slow his pace, seeking to extend their dreamy, leisurely stroll from the car to her ground-floor apartment door for as long as he could. He felt so content and pastorally serene. He wanted the moment to last and the feeling to continue tranquilizing him. It was hard to believe how good she could make him feel, and even harder keeping up the pretense that he was still angry with her for the multi-leveled blunder she'd earlier committed.

"Y'know, just for the record, dear, I really don't expect you to get over something as traumatic as that so quickly," Michelle panderously put his mind to ease despite her knowing that he wasn't at all upset anymore; nor was he hurt, insulted, wounded, or even slightly dented.

Neither was his male ego anywhere near as bruised as he pretended it to be. If anything, it was soaring around the stratosphere from all the stroking and stoking that she'd given it on the way over; especially after the surprising, last-second, abrupt right he'd made into that little shopping strip, muttering something as he'd exited the car about how he didn't want to be held responsible for damaged epidermis, or hear about it for the rest of his life. He had returned a few minutes later with two economy-sized boxes of her Aloe-treated tissues, declaring that he was keeping one in the car and that she wasn't allowed to use them for anything but crying, which she also wasn't allowed to do anymore.

Michelle had the funniest feeling that he hadn't purchased the tissues for the purpose of sparing himself grief so much as he had done it for her. She also couldn't help but wonder if his reference to "the rest of his life" had been muttered figuratively or literally, consciously or sub-consciously.

But, no, he wasn't feeling the least bit crushed anymore, she could tell; nor did he seem the least bit downtrodden, rejected, neglected, or needy. Just wanty. The man wanted it all — all that his almighty Golden Upper Hand entitled him to.

With Upper Hand in hand, he wanted to sit back and luxuriate in male-pig heaven, feasting on his unbridled power, like Henry VIII at a backyard barbeque the size of Europe.

With remote control in Upper Hand, he wanted to click on the ballgame, should the mood happen to strike, and without any lip from the old lady, either. He wanted her to spring up and fetch him a beer; to make him a sandwich without his asking; to serve as his personal couch pillow while he watched the game; and to do so without his having to hear, much less answer, bizarre questions, like why they don't have a rule against spitting; who keeps the "lawn" looking so nice; and why they're allowed to steal bases when stealing sets such a poor example for children.

In short, he wanted her to curry favor with him and cater to his every whim, desire, and need, with the hope of eventually winning his generous forgiveness for having wronged him by thinking that he'd only been trying to wangle sex out of her all weekend.

Michelle had to chuckle to herself. If only he knew how much she enjoyed fussing, fawning and doting on him anyway. But, then again, she understood and appreciated how no amount of her own unprompted doting could possibly compare to the excitement and fun of wielding his Upper Hand around; of watching it perform for him, like a hybrid of Luke Skywalker's Jedi saber and Cinderella's Fairy Godmother's wand.

"It's not like I wanna keep beating a dead horse, or anything, you understand," he said.

"You?" Michelle actually managed to perish the thought with a straight face. "Don't be silly, honey. You don't have to explain why you're still upset... Anyone in your shoes would feel the same way. I realize that," she tenderly slathered him with an overload of affection, which, if it were butter, would instantly clog his arteries and likely kill him right there in his tracks.

"I'm glad you appreciate how fragile a commodity 'trust' is, Michelle," he continued, not to beat a dead horse, or anything.

"No one could possibly be more acutely aware of that than me," she admitted in a somber, humbled tone, hurriedly pulling up the mental laundry list of violations she knew he was hinting for her to recite again. "After all, I mean... I'm the one who actually doubted you, dear... and questioned your honor, and your... your..."

"Integrity," he helped her out.

"... your integrity, and hurt your feelings, and, umm..."

"Worried..."

"...worried you half to death," she condoled him with remorse. "And then there was the crying, which I know upsets you," she introduced to the list for the very first time.

Good answer, he thought. She had done well. He hadn't expected that new addition, either, which had come as a complete and pleasant surprise. He liked that. He let her know with a slow, reflective nod of his chin while gazing off into the distance for just the briefest of moments, as if looking bravely ahead, into the future, where hope always sprang eternal of someday becoming whole again.

"I can't imagine the kind of thoughts that must've been running through your head," she self-tsked. "You must've thought I had completely lost my marbles..."

"That was the only thing I was ever really concerned about, y'know, Michelle... Your health," he heroically and selflessly disclosed.

"Really?" she gazed at him, going for the awash-with-undying-gratitude look and hoping she wasn't overplaying it. There was nothing worse than an over-the-top execution of the awash-with-undying-gratitude look, in her personal opinion. It always went over about as well as a corduroy purse with silk suit.

"Of course," he reiterated as though she were crazy if she thought that anything else on her laundry list could possibly have mattered to him, his ongoing pain and suffering strictly beside the point.

"I don't think I'll ever be able to forgive myself for ruining — well, you know," she sighed with contrition, worry lines crisscrossing themselves into her clenched brow.

"No, honey. What?" he asked.

"Oh, you know," she said as though convinced he was only pulling her leg and pretending not to know, just to give her a hard time about it all.

"No, tell me," he gently encouraged her with growing curiosity and concern, bringing them both to a momentary halt and angling her more face-forward to him.

"The, umm... you know, the way I went and ruined the memories of all those exquisite hours we had together," she self-loathingly lamented, saturating her voice in shame and melancholy, then going in for the kill with a slow upturn of sorrow-hemorrhaging Bambi eyes.

His head cocked hard to the side in sync with the punch that her words and eyes had delivered square to his chest.

"Aww, honey, you didn't do that," he tenderly comforted her, eyes transforming on the spot into bottomless pools of sympathy. "Nothing could ever ruin even a second of any of that," he promised her, leaning in to nuzzle his lips against hers for a few heart-melting, gut-tingling seconds before softly adhering to them.

As he delivered Part Two of that long, tender, soul-satiating kiss he'd given her back in the car, he could swear he heard the rich, albeit faint, sound of orchestral music rising up from the earth beneath him.

His hands moved up to her face to cup her cheeks — her baby cheeks, as he secretly called them. He hadn't verbalized his pet name for them just yet, for fear it might conjure images of actual babies and possibly spook her. Their relationship itself was only still in its infancy stage, and with everything moving along at such a lightning-fast clip, he figured she already had plenty on her mind without having to ponder a subject like that.

"Okay?" he checked with her, securing a nod and a grateful smile before drawing her in as closely and tightly as society was likely to accept, given they were out in the wide open with a long, 2-story row of apartment windows staring them down.

Not until they'd begun to stroll again did he realize that the orchestral music had been coming from the open window of a neighbor who was evidently watching "Gone with the Wind" on DVD.

"'Exquisite,' huh," he repeated the word with a crooked smile, a little bowled over by her choice of adjectives from all that had been available to her.

"For me, at least," she gushed, flashing him a shy, but seductive, smile.

"It was, huh," he proudly smirked, sounding as though it wouldn't kill him if she were to elaborate further.

He felt drunk in love. Their long, gentle, intoxicating kiss had washed through him like equal parts of adrenaline and anesthetic, leaving him feeling wildly animated and serenely numb at the same time. He felt like he was in a dream state. His head was swimming, similar in sensation to the "exquisite" way he would always feel lying beside her in bed, tightly wound in one another's assorted lips and digits and limbs and luxuriating in that stupefying state of orgasmic aftershock; that magical magma-meltdown moment that always left his body shaking and his mind about as functional as putty.

As he followed her up two steps to her apartment's yellow exterior door, he thought of how badly he wanted to get her home and out of her clothes and back into his bed, where she belonged. He ached to have her fall apart in his arms again, running a quick mental review of some of his favorite, most cherished highlights of their time together. It still stunned him to think that Michelle was now his; that he had actually found his "it." For every Jack there was only one Jill and she was his — his Robin's Marion, his Arthur's Guinevere, his Rett's Scarlett, his Tarzan's Jane.

Damned if he hadn't hit that Tarzan thing square on the head with the check he had issued from the Bank of Almeida.

"I was just thinking, dear," Michelle said as she fiddled with her key ring, enjoying the tune he was softly humming — "Gone with the Wind," if she wasn't mistaken.

"Me, too," he softly sighed against her ear, standing behind her with arms around her waist and hands trying their hardest to behave themselves. "If I ever call you 'Jane' by mistake at that, umm... key moment, consider it a compliment," he advised.

She paused for the briefest of nanoseconds and frowned, wondering what Chris's wife, Jane, would be doing on his mind at a time like that, particularly given how unattractive he said he had always found her.

Having no idea what he was talking about, she returned to her task of systematically unlocking her wide variety of bolts and barriers.

"I was just thinking," she continued as though he had never even spoken, "I was thinking that — well, I don't know if you had anything in mind for tonight, but I thought maybe we could just stay home. Perhaps order in some Chinese food, or something," she suggested. "If that's okay with you, of course."

"Sure, baby," he generously gifted her with his consent, strategically pressing himself lightly against her, just enough to subtly notify her of the physical condition she always managed to leave him in.

As he did, a warning signal rose up from his internal control tower, telling him that unless he reactivated his omnipotent Upper Hand, he'd be handing it over to her in forfeiture — gift wrapped, at the rate he was going. His male instinct, on the other hand, was telling him to screw his Hand and fall to his knees, instead, thanking her profusely for wanting the same long, quiet, naked evening at home that he was literally aching for at that point.

Fully cognizant of his weakened state, but determined not to forfeit his golden digits in disgrace, he rapidly pulled his senses together and resigned himself to bucking up, getting a grip, and maneuvering his Hand like a man.

"I just want it to be us, okay?"

"We can do that," he promptly folded, though trying not to sound too deliriously ecstatic as he followed her through the door, which opened directly into a reasonably spacious living room. "Provided one thing," he added, this time with a slightly more authoritative, less lovestruck tone, just in case she thought he had suddenly gone soft on her, which he had. "That ya don't take forever getting your stuff together, y'hear? We're already gonna get stuck in traffic as it is, once those skies open up. And you know how people get in a torrential downpour."

"I know. I will," she said with an appreciative smile. "But I do have —"

"Everybody suddenly starts driving like they're eighty," he railed a little, for effect, figuring that yelling could only help to fortify his Hand's stronghold. "I don't know what it is about people and rain," he grumbled onward, rubbing the back of his neck as if pinpointing the precise spot he just knew he'd be getting a crick from sitting in traffic forever.

"I just need a few extra minutes to change my clothes," she explained. "I'm sure you've pretty much had it with looking at me in this dress."

"Well, just — just hurry it up, then," he said with aggravation and a frown, watching her glance back at him with a soft smile. "And for the record, I like that dress," he wanted to add, but was sure to do so a little grumpily.

"You're just saying that because you know I made it," she self-consciously deduced and grinned before sweeping through a door that he assumed led into her bedroom.

Although dying to crawl on his knees behind her, he resisted the burning temptation, taking a deep breath, instead, and darting his eyes around the room.

"That's only one of the reasons I like it," he reassured her, drinking in the layout and decor, focusing on the details, and formulating his first impressions.

It only took a second to realize that he'd never stood in a room quite so clean in his life. If the president of the United States were to require emergency life-saving surgery, the doctors could cut the man open right there on the spot and never think twice about infection setting in.

"So? What do you think?" Michelle called out to him from the bedroom.

"It's, uhh... it's really nice," he replied, his subconscious encouraging his hands to slide into the front pockets of his jeans, therein greatly diminishing his chances of touching anything.

But it really was nice, he thought, the frightening level of cleanliness aside. He liked it a lot. Everything was very streamlined and in surprising conformity with his own taste; only she had some antique pieces mixed in here and there, which actually looked pretty good.

What he really liked most, and was greatly relieved to find, was that it wasn't the least bit pink or phoofie-looking. He'd always felt uncomfortable in girlie-leaning environments. Nina's place had been that way, much to his enormous shock. He'd always seen her as a bit of a stiff and very much on the regimented side, and had therefore expected to find a primarily barren, austere living space, with snooty artwork, muted grey hues, imposing coffee table books by photographers he'd never even heard of before, and new age music seeping out from strategically positioned speakers the size of hearing aid batteries.

Instead, he had found himself on a frilly, flowery bedspread surrounded by a ton of stuffed animals and dolls from her youth, all of which he instantly detested, one more passionately than the other. It seemed so paradoxical to everything he thought he had known about her.

But then again, no one could say that they'd ever really known Nina.

He was tempted to shove her memory out of his mind with the same force that he sometimes still wished he could apply directly to her jaw with his fist. But he let it linger there for a moment longer, feeling it cathartic to compare just a fleeting recollection of his and Nina's relationship to the love he now shared with Michelle.

"You sound like you're just being polite," Michelle called out with a lilt of laughter resonating in her voice.

"Nah, I mean it, honey. It's very nice. It's, umm... it's really clean, too."

Scary clean. It was the kind of clean that made men a little nervous. He wondered if this might be a problem down the road. He had the funny feeling that if he were to pick something up, he might well find himself catching some heat for leaving his fingerprints on it.

"My housekeeper is German, from the old country. She likes things spotless and orderly. She's extremely fastidious."

"I see that," he answered lightly and casually, though reeling with internal horror at the thought of neat-freak Michelle learning at the feet of an older, wiser, high-holy mentor from Dusseldorf.

Something about the concept more than mildly alarmed him to the point where he could swear he felt the hair on his arms beginning to stir. He wondered if it were even safe to pair two people like that together. Something felt wrong about it, in a cosmic sort of way. They could conceivably collide in a hallway while trying to out-clean each other, and their industrial-strength cleaning fluids could accidentally intermix and permanently alter the natural harmony and order of the earth.

His fear was far from irrational or unfounded, too, since Michelle, after all, had history in this area; she had already blown out the brick wall of her high school building under chillingly similar circumstances involving a number of common household agents, one of which had been an industrial floor cleaner, if memory served.

He made a mental note to ditch Broomhilda and keep Mrs. Sanchez after he and Michelle were married.

"I can't tell if she's been here yet, so you might even get to meet her," Michelle announced.

"That would be nice," he gratuitously replied.

That would be a disaster, he instinctively knew, having already decided to meet the wunderkind for the first time approximately sixty seconds prior to signing her severance check.

He wanted to have a closer look at the bookcases that were cut directly into the wall, caddy-cornered and framing her couch, which was another look he liked a lot. There was just enough room between the bookshelves and couch's back and sides to comfortably stand and browse, which he thought was another nice feature.

On his way over for a closer look, he thought about taking a peek at the level of cleanliness going on in the kitchen, then beat himself up a little for chickening out at the last second. Jack would've gone in, he knew. He probably would've been just as spooked, but he would've gone in. That was the difference between Jack and every other field operative out there: when push came to shove, Jack was fearless. It was really just as simple as that.

"There's stuff in the refrigerator, if you like," she called out to him.

"Nah, I'm good. Are ya moving in there, or what?" he called back with a light whine, feeling it was getting to be around that time to bark again, for Upper Hand's sake.

"I'm just finishing up a honey-and-almond exfoliation, dear, and after that is just a quickie moisture-surge under the eyes. It only takes a second," she promised.

He was really glad he had asked.

"Well, just keep it moving," he snarled, thinking about the impending rain. "Time and tide waiteth for no man, y'know," he added, having no idea what that had to do with anything. But it was the only sage phrase he could come up with at the moment, and since "tide" had to do with water, and water with rain, he left it at that.

The built-in shelves showcased the types of books he would expect her to own, along with myriad decorative items, art pieces, and some memorabilia from her personal past, like framed pictures and sewing trophies and such.

He reached for a silver-framed five-by-seven of Michelle standing beside a boy he recognized as her brother, Danny, and in front of two middle-aged women, whom he assumed to be her aunts. He could immediately see where Michelle had gotten her extreme femininity gene; both aunts, though not necessarily the best looking women ever placed on the planet, were groomed immaculately and ultra-femininely, with soft pastel and flowery dresses, pearls and done-up hair, and all those other little appointments that seemed to give some women a softer appearance than others. He was sure he could bet the ranch, with confidence, that neither had ever owned, nor worn, a pair of pants in their lives.

An ear-to-ear grin shot across his face as he zeroed in on Michelle, somewhere around eleven years old, the best that he could figure. He felt his heart tenderizing inside his chest, like a slab of sirloin immersed in a vat of high-octane marinade, at the sight of her frizzy hair, clunky glasses, baby cheeks, and those dazzling white teeth, which she had yet to fully grow into at the time the photo had been snapped. He immediately foresaw a vision of himself with a daughter that age someday, sitting on his lap and weeping into his shoulder about how none of the boys liked her; refusing to believe him when he assured her that she would be blossoming into a breathtaking, reddish-haired beauty, just like her mother, before she knew it.

No sooner had he replaced the frame on the shelf when he abruptly snatched it back to wipe away any fingerprints, DNA, or other trace evidence that could connect him to the crime.

He was just about to call out to her and suggest that she wear that blue thing with that black thing to the office tomorrow, which he'd always liked, when the thought struck: he wondered not only which outfit she was busily packing, but how many. They hadn't discussed the logistics of life, come Monday morning, compelling him to wonder how they would travel to work tomorrow, and how much of a secret, if at all, they should keep their relationship, considering he was planning on asking her to marry him anyway... only she didn't know that yet.

He further wondered what she was thinking about in there. She must've already decided by now whether to pack enough clothes for a day or a week. She must've considered, too, whether she wanted to drive herself to his apartment, so she could arrive at CTU in her own car tomorrow morning.

Two things immediately leapt into his mind. They were the only two things that he knew for certain: One was that he couldn't even imagine sleeping a night without her beside him, now; the other was that he knew he didn't want her to give up her apartment and move in with him.

There was something about living together, as opposed to marriage, that had always struck him as cheap. It was like the guy was taking the woman out for a test drive first, to see if he liked her enough to actually make an investment in her. It was inherently insulting, and Michelle was way too good for that. She wasn't the type of woman who shacked up with a guy, and he didn't want people viewing her that way. She was lady-like, and smart and professional, and had baby cheeks and curls, like cherubs, and he wanted everything to be dignified and legitimate. He wanted her to have a wedding band, like millions of other women out there; to be seen as the car that you didn't test drive, but the one you knew had been custom-designed; the one you slapped money down on the table for, without thinking twice about it or ever regretting it for a second.

He decided, there on the spot, to grab the first ring he could get his hands on tomorrow.

"Y'got that surge-thing done yet?" he called out to her, impatiently.

"I'm just throwing on a little mascara to make myself feel human," she replied. "I'll just be another second, dear."

Which star system's time measure she was using to calculate her ETA's was anyone's guess.

"Getting stuck in that rain isn't exactly gonna help me shake this anger off, y'know, Michelle," he hated to remind her. "I've already been through enough aggravation for one day," he added, not to beat a dead horse, or anything.

"I know, dear," she called back. "I was just thinking that very same thing."

"Yeah, well... perhaps a little less thinking and little more hustling, huh?" he strongly recommended, mentally polishing his Upper Hand and pausing to admiring its rich golden luster. "I might as well be hanging outside a dressing room while you try on half the store, at this point — which you'd better never do to me, by the way," he decided to inject, as long as he was already on the subject.

"I'll remember," she soothed him. "Why dont' you just —"

"I hate that, Michelle," he stated for future reference.

"All men do, dear. I know. Don't worry," she said, easing his fabricated fears. "Why don't you just look around a bit?"

"What's going on in there, anyway? Are ya packing enough for a two-week vacation?" he heavily hinted, leaning a little harder on the "two week" portion of his whine.

"I wasn't sure what I'd be in the mood to wear, so I thought I'd better pack a couple of things, just in case I still have trouble deciding in the morning," she explained. "I'm trying to be thorough, too," she added, "figuring you'd rather have me invest a few more minutes now than have to drive that full circle because I'd forgotten a shoe."

He beamed. Her excuse for packing a few days' worth of clothes was the perfect way to ensure that she had enough stuff, but without seeming presumptuous or committal one way or the other. Very smart and diplomatic of her, and crafty and shrewd, he thought, making a quick mental note to watch out for that in the future.

Two shelves down he spied a small white porcelain frame, only about two inches square, if even that. His eyes welled up as he brought the image closer to his face. The prettiest, most angelic three- or four-year-old stared back at him, with long, curly, strawberry-blonde hair. She was dressed in a pink-and-white checkered dress, with a white apron sewn onto the waist, standing on a lawn in what he assumed to be her aunts' yard. He chuckled at the way she was looking at lens and nervously tugging her fingers as if worried she was about to be literally shot, instead of figuratively. Whomever had taken the photo must've asked her to stand still so he or she could "get a good shot." He smiled even wider at the sight of one of her knee socks, which had fallen and bunched around her ankle, her leg too skinny to keep it up. He remembered always constantly having to pull Olivia's knee socks up for the same reason.

For a second it felt like he was looking through a window into the future and catching a glimpse of his daughter; or at least he hoped that if he and Michelle were ever to have a daughter, she'd look exactly like the cherub staring up at him from the photo.

Just as he was about to wipe away his fingerprints and other associated trace evidence, he stopped short for a beat, deciding to shove the photograph, frame and all, into his jacket pocket instead.

He was on his way over to the adjourning bookcase to see if he could find any more pictures when a rush of adrenaline hit him like a cannonball to the chest. An inner danger siren had sounded out of nowhere, sending his shoulder blades slamming up hard against the inner caddy corner of the bookcase, providing him cover.

Every minute of training throughout his career was telling him that something was wrong.