Title: Taboo

Author: zeureka

Disclaimer: I don’t own That ‘70s Show. I also do not own Led Zeppelin, or the rights to Physical Graffiti or the song “In the Light”. There is absolutely no money to gain from this.

Warnings: While this story won’t contain any true smut, it does have some adult themes and Hyde. So, mostly you should look for the usual: drug use, drinking, language, and sexual situations.

Author’s Notes: This is just the beginning of a saga of the summer Jackie and Hyde got together. Each chapter will be a lot longer than the chapters of a lot of my other stories, so they won’t be updated very often.

Please be sure to let me know what you think.

IN THE LIGHT: LAST WEEK OF JUNE 1978

SATURDAY

There was something so intoxicating about the scent of her hair that day.

It was the day after Kelso and Donna had dipped out to California. He sat in the basement, watching television and trying to ignore the sobbing brunette next to him. Every time he thought she might possibly stop, she began again, an over-dramatic torrent of wails and cries emanating from her tiny, shaking frame.

He was alone with her; Kelso and Donna were gone, damn them, and Eric was hiding in his room, moping or jerking off or whatever. He wasn’t sure where Fez was, wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

He hated the sound of her crying: that pitiful, half-moan, the sniffling, and, as she became more pathetic, the slight snotty snorts that echoed through her hands, clutching her handkerchief in front of her face.

He wanted to console her, to run away, to comfort her, to flee. He couldn’t decide what he wanted, or how to do it, all he knew was that he couldn’t sit here and listen to her cry anymore.

It made him want to bash that stupid cheesehead’s face in, and that was an idea he was in no way ready to deal with. He wasn’t ready to think about why he wanted to beat the tar out of Kelso, or why he felt his hands flexing without his permission, or anything like that.

He made a fist, looked at her, crumpled on the corner of the couch, sobbing and pitiful. No make-up, her hair a mess, and wearing the same shirt as the day before, he knew she would be inconsolable. He didn’t know what to do.

A year ago, it was easy to take her to the Prom. At first it seemed like a bad idea, but hooking up with Pam Macy was so hot, he could forget about the lameness of the dance. The image of the blonde, supine in the backseat of Jackie’s dad’s Continental stayed with him to this day, superb whack-off material.

Before he could stop himself though, his hand was reaching out to her, patting her back. She looked up at him, doe-eyed, as frightened and alone and sorry as an opossum in a car’s headlights.

He wanted to pull back, he wanted to take her into his arms. Instead, he withdrew his arm, got out of his chair, and sat next to her on the couch. She curled into his shoulder, dampening the sleeve of his shirt with her tears. The next day, the scent of her would linger there, taunting him with its sweetness.

Now, though, there was her damn hair.

It was vanilla-sweet, but lighter. If he’d known flowers, he would have known that the scent he was smelling was lilacs – the best lilac-scented shampoo and conditioner she could buy – but he didn’t.

Instead, in the next few weeks, he would catch a waft of lilacs in Mrs. Forman’s backyard, coming through the back fence that led to the Jespersons’, and would find that faint, loitering scent intoxicating and infuriating all the same.

He wrapped his arms around her reluctantly, not knowing what to say and yet knowing, somehow, intuitively, that there was nothing he needed to say. She would get it all from him just the same.

Gradually, the tears seemed to stop. There was no sense, for him, of them slowing down, simply a sudden sense that her face was not so damp. She pulled back from him, suddenly shy, hiccupping. She wouldn’t quite look him in the face, and he was struck for the first time in a long time by how vulnerable she was.

How human.

Jackie was a human being.

Now there was an interesting idea.

He pulled farther away, to the left side of the couch as she pulled to the right. He saw her, through the tint of his shades, trying to surreptitiously wipe her eyes. He wanted to tell her she was beautiful, in a sad little girl way, he wanted to fall into the floor.

Of course she was beautiful. But she was also off-limits – and not because he wasn’t good enough for her, oh no!

She was off-limits because she was insane.

She was off-limits because she was abrasive, obnoxious.

She was off-limits because the feel of her lips was still burned into his, and he wasn’t sure he could take it if she kissed him again and then turned him down.

She was off-limits and that was all there was to it.

He couldn’t let her feel so bad though. No matter how much he hated her – and he reassured himself that he did – he couldn’t let her keep crying.

Especially not over Kelso.

Just thinking about the two of them together threatened to give him a headache. He tried to imagine what they might possibly do together when not in bed – it had to be such a small percentage of their relationship, after all – but found it impossible. She eclipsed him, if only because she was the only one with any brains.

As he crossed him arms and legs, willing himself to ignore her for a moment, the scent of her damn hair wafted to him again on a draft in the stupid basement.

Lilacs.

Unbidden, the image of her stomping Laurie floated up into his mind. He looked over at her and, for the first time, she looked him in the eyes.

Her eyes were red, bloodshot, blurry. Still leaking tears, clearly aching for tenderness, mascara long since gone, her big beautiful eyes gave him an idea.

He smirked at her. “Do you want to listen to some music?”

He didn’t know why he brought her into his room. The rec room of the basement had a stereo, couch, chairs, television. But somehow, under the thin bare bulb and gentle glow of Christmas lights in his room, it seemed right.

And there was something comfortingly intimate about the thin brunette perched on his bed, huddled into herself, wrapped in a dull brown sweater despite the heat outside. The basement was always dank, drafty, dull. It was comforting, in its own way, how it always stayed the same.

He turned to the stereo, flipped through several records before selecting one. When he slipped Physical Graffiti out of its case, he caught a slight sneer from her out of the corner of his eye, but when the first few notes of the song he’d chosen began playing, she seemed more intrigued than disgusted.

He didn’t know why he cared what she thought, didn’t want to know. Instead of letting himself think, he settled next to her on the thin cot, keeping himself from touching her. No sense in making the poor girl feel uncomfortable.

Ignoring the smell of lilacs next to him, he slipped his cigar box out from under his bed. Inside were a variety of rolling papers, matchbooks, a pipe, a lighter, several half-empty bags. He selected his favorite plastic bag, set to rolling the joint.

He noticed her peeking over his shoulder, the curiosity on her face. She was watching him, clocking his every moment. Each twist of the wrist, tilt of the fingers, every time he licked the paper, used the lighter to dry it. He felt suddenly self-conscious, an urge to turn away, and he forced himself to hold still and continue rolling normally.

And then, there was the scent of lilacs again.

Finally, ready to smoke, he was nearly jittery as he handed the joint to her.

“Spark it.”

“Huh?” She looked utterly confused, but for the first time since the evening before, her eyes were dry. She was almost calm – well, maybe not calm, but at least she wasn’t hysterical any longer.

The music was building, and the bowing of the guitar making those beautiful, ominous whale songs, and he felt like if he had to get into a big discussion with her, he wouldn’t need the joint, because he’d put his head through a fuckin’ wall.

“Light it! Geez!”

She took it from him, and for a moment – just a moment – her fingers brushed his. They were soft, the nails neatly trimmed and carefully buffed. Smooth.

He practically yanked back his hand, anxious and alert and nervous, even though he knew that in a two-person circle, he would be touching her hand almost constantly. He had to – had to – get ahold of himself.

He watched her lips, smoke wisping into her lips as Jimmy Page sang a sexualized, “Hey…”

She exhaled, not coughing, and he had a long moment to be proud of her for not hacking like a little girl who had never smoked before. He had taught her that. And then she was holding the joint out to him.

He took it from her, half trying not to touch her, and managed not to brush her fingers.

The smoke was sweet, welcome, relieving. He inhaled and inhaled, taking in as much as he thought he could stand. He held it in his lungs as the song cooled in the center, just the singing echoing.

As the song released the tension, deliberate beat and sensual sounds, he breathed out slowly, watching the smoke circle towards the ceiling in serpentine coils. It glinted in the light, creating fog and clouds, heading up towards any heaven that might be up there, accented by the ethereal music around him.

“Steven?”

The moment was broken by the most unwelcome voice he could imagine at that moment.

“What?” He wanted to show her how annoyed she was making him, but looking at her teary eyes, he stopped dead in his verbal tracks. He lowered the joint, dropping it in the ashtray on his nightstand without looking at it.

The world was momentarily eclipsed by her eyes, by the scent of lilacs, once again inexplicably drifting to him, filling his senses.

“Why do you think Michael won’t marry me?”

There was a million reasons: her voice, her ideas, her opinions, her bratty attitude, her snotty friends, her low morals, her lack of respect for anyone else, her perfect hair, her lousy ethics, her porcelain skin, her tiny waist – oh crap!

He had to stop himself.

Had to.

Had to.

“He wasn’t the right guy, Jackie.” Her eyes were huge, teetering on the edge of crying. He looked into them even though he didn’t want to, and tried not to think of her with Kelso, even though he’d heard them going at it on the couch. “Someday you’ll meet someone better for you.”

“You said that before. The last time we broke up. It didn’t happen. Why should I believe it’ll ever happen?”

“Because you’re sixteen, Jackie. Things will get a lot better. You have a lot more living to do.”

He had a lot more living to do. Just for this stupid frigging Hallmark moment he was going to have to get into some serious shit tonight. He was going to have to beat the crap out of some kids, or buy something even more illegal, or perhaps vandalize something important, like the library or the police station.

But then, for no reason he could imagine, her face brightened. “You’re right, Steven! Of course you’re right! Thank you!” And with a Polly-frickin-ana smile, she jumped to her feet, leaned down to kiss him on the cheek, and bounded out the door.

He sat and finished that joint himself, willing himself not to sniff the air for traces of lilacs. Later, he went out to the couch and watched some television, pleased to see a Little House on the Prairie marathon.

Nothing like watching people churn butter to help a guy forget a girl he didn’t even like, he thought, eating a popsicle and wishing his friends were all still together.

Wishing for a world that still made some kind of sense.

SUNDAY

She knew he’d be there. She didn’t know how she knew, or what told her, but there was just something about church and Steven that didn’t mix. And she was right: there he was, sitting on the couch, drinking one of Mr. Forman’s beers, watching something on television.

It had begun to rain outside on her way over – although she didn’t know it, it was the start of the rainiest summer in twenty-five years. It was just the beginning – tiny droplets falling intermittently, overcast skies, dreary wind. Just the same, it was something of a relief to walk into the basement and see him sitting there.

She wasn’t dressed nicely, she wore no make-up, her hair was in a ponytail. She was not dressed to attract a man, and yet she could feel – not see, not through those glasses – his eyes linger on her. It was electric and uncomfortable and she didn’t know what to do besides slump onto the couch.

The far end, nowhere near his chair. She didn’t want to give him any ideas. Not that he would every get any – no, she’d tried that, and he didn’t like her.

In her bag was the letter she’d begun to Michael. So far she’d gotten as far as “Dear Michael, I hate you, you stupid jerk.” It seemed to be lacking something, as well as an address, but she hadn’t known what else to do with herself. It helped just to get that much out so far. She was sure that with each additional sentence, she’d feel better and better about herself, and happier now that she was free from him for good.

Point Place had been preternaturally quiet as she stalked through town – all the good people at church, all the poor people hiding in bed, sleeping off their hangovers from drinking too much Mad Dog. She was usually at home by the pool in the summer, or painting her nails in front of the television in winter.

Little House on the Prairie, she suddenly realized. That’s what they were watching.

She felt herself perk up against her will. She loved Little House. It was a nicer time, where guys married their girlfriends instead of running off to stupid California. She hated California right then, even if it did have Hollywood, hated it more than Texas, more than the whole South put together.

But Little House was a good way to occupy her mind, and this was one of her favorite episodes: a traveler gave Laura a horse, and Pa let her keep it, even though he doubted she could take care of it through the winter. It was so different from her life now, it seemed almost like an omen.

For a moment, she let herself think of what life might have been like on the prairie…

Michael came into the barn, dressed as Pa, his glorious hair in Michael Landon’s signature curls. She, as little Laura, stood brushing the horse’s mane.

“Awesome! A horse! I want to ride it!” Michael/Pa exclaimed, trying to climb on. She grabbed his leg, pulling him away.

“No, Pa, it’s my horse, you can’t ride it.” A pout from her, trying to show him how sad she was.

“Uh, well, fine! I’m leaving anyway because I can’t marry you! Have fun with your stupid horse alone!” With that, he stomped out of the barn, kicking up hay as he went.

She looked after him, hands on hips, curry brush still clenched in one hand, howling in rage. “Fine! I don’t need you! I’ve got Mr. Gumdrop here!”

She faded back into reality, annoyed that instead of the horse she only had Steven. She really would have preferred Mr. Gumdrop.

Suddenly intensely pissed off, she turned to Steven. His hair made her mad, the fact that he wasn’t a horse made her mad, the fact that he wasn’t Michael made her mad. She felt herself growing more furious at his mere presence, the letter glowing hot in her pocketbook.

And then he turned and looked at her. She couldn’t see his whole expression through those stupid sunglasses, but she didn’t need to. She thought of the way he’d looked in her daddy’s car after she’d bought him boots a year ago – boots, she noticed, that he was wearing right then. The clear way his eyes – they had been so blue, so sweet, she’d been amazed by them – had shone on her.

She thought of the way he’d looked after she kissed him on Mount Hump on Veterans’ Day, the way he’d touched his lips after, the way he hadn’t called her bluff. She thought of the electricity that came off him when he punched Chip, when he was trying to teach her to be Zen, when she’d gone to him, sobbing, on the ski trip.

When she’d kissed his cheek on Prom Night. The way he’d stepped back, away, saying, “We don’t do that.”

“What the hell are you looking at?” The moment was broken, however long it was, by the glare now seething out from his eyes. She could feel it pulsing at her, almost a living, hateful thing, and she rolled her eyes and looked away, quickly, before he could yell at her again.

“Nothing, just wondering if you wanted to…you know?”

A faint nod from the corner of her vision, and he got up for the brown baggie.

She turned her head, watching him head back to his room. Hs jeans weren’t tight, but fitted, and the curves of his butt were rounded, tempting. The idea had been laid and now she only had to figure out how to do it.

She would seduce Steven.

It was perfect. She was still technically with Michael, so she would finally get a chance to cheat on him. Despite all the drama with her boss, she didn’t count her kiss at the Cheese Palace as anywhere near all the…the things he’d done with Pam Macy and Laurie, and who knew who else.

He hated her, but if any of that heat that came off him was real, he wanted her too. She could feel it in her bones – and not the way she knew everyone wanted her. There was something special between them, had been since their only date, and she knew it. She could feel him, sometimes, watching her as she walked around the room, and she’d caught herself a couple times, wondering what would have been different.

And, as she turned back to the television at the sound of his returning footsteps, she found she wanted him. It was wrong, it went against every moral her mother had tried to instill in her – he worked for money, for God’s sake, and he didn’t even have a good job, like stockbroker or ranch owner – but there was still something to him.

She thought of his butt in those jeans again and felt herself flush.

He handed her the lit joint, exhaling with a smile, and she found herself thinking of the perks.

There was something about his smile, she thought to herself, taking the joint to her lips, inhaling, then passing it back. She liked seeing it.

She would enjoy seeing it more.

She headed home after they smoked, feeling light and cheerful and free. Her tethers from Michael were being cut – she would go home, finish her fiery letter, and wait for a chance to send it off.

She floated down the street in the summer air, thinking of how much time she had left before summer was over. She would have to work quickly, to integrate herself into his life before Donna and stupid Michael came back from California.

And she’d never done anything like this before. She wasn’t sure how. Usually being her beautiful, vivacious self was enough to get people hooked on Jackie, but he’d known her for years, and never made a move.

Or had he?

She thought again of all the times he’d surprised her by doing something for her.

And she thought again of their date.

Walking through town, past The Hub, she realized that the desire was already in him. If she just hung around long enough, maybe that would be enough to get to him. She wouldn’t have to do much, just get him to notice her.

And it wouldn’t be hard with Donna and Michael gone and Fez and Eric both moping. There would be tons of opportunities to be alone with him.

Grinning gleefully to herself, she turned onto her street, thinking of how tomorrow, they would be alone together again, and she would have her first chance.

MONDAY

The first real day of summer vacation began with a bang.

After sleeping till ten, Hyde finally rolled out of bed, smoked the end of a joint, and headed upstairs for a shower. He enjoyed it hot, steaming, stood in it for what felt like an hour, just enjoying the feel of the soap all over his body. Showers were definitely better after smoking, he’d realized several years before. Soothing, calming, crucial to keeping one’s Zen.

He was just starting to run out of hot water when he heard the pounding on the door. “Let me in, man! I need to be in my sanctum!”

Eric. Eric had spent almost the whole weekend in the bathroom, and, judging by his behavior this morning, intended to spend the whole summer in it as well. Well, whatever. As long as he could get a shower here and there, Hyde didn’t care. It wasn’t his house, and there was a half bath downstairs when he needed to pee.

He cut off the water, shook himself like a dog, wrapped a towel around his waist, and stepped out of the stall. “Just a minute, man,” he told Eric through the door and pulling on his shirt.

“I need to be in there! Now!”

As Hyde finished dressing, he opened the door, letting a puff of steam like smoke issue forth. “Alright, Erica, don’t get your panties in a twist,” he sneered, stepping out and letting Eric in. He hustled down the stairs before Eric could find what he’d left in the toilet.

He’d just hit the last step when he heard it: “Aaah! Eeuw, Hyde, that’s so gross!”

Yep, it was indeed an awesome start to the day.

Mr. and Mrs. Forman had long since gone to work, so he stopped by the fridge to nab one of Red’s beers as he headed downstairs. He had his own stash in the basement shower, but there was something so appealingly decadent and wrong about taking one of Red’s and drinking it before noon that he just had to do it.

It tasted delicious, as a stolen beer should, and he savored the creamy bitterness of the foam as he wandered down the stairs to watch some television. He was in for a big day of television, then perhaps going outside and vandalizing something in the afternoon – although, it did look like rain, so maybe he’d just stay in.

It was the end of June, and he had a whole summer vacation ahead of him. Maybe he’d read one of the books he had stacked under his bed. Yes, that sounded delightful.

He left the beer, cold and frosty, on the spool table, and headed into his room to find a book. He knelt to see under the bed – cot, really, and rifled through the small stack of books, finally settling on a somewhat battered copy of No Man Knows My History filched from the library in Milwaukee. Nothing like reading about Mormons being prosecuted by the government, after all, to keep himself sharp on what those creepy Feds might be up to next.

He walked back to the main room to sit on the couch, drink his beer, and read his book, and was annoyed to hear laughter. Crap.

One of his asshole friends. Must be Fez.

He slipped the book under Chutes and Ladders – Kelso was the only one who really liked to play that game, so it would be safe there for a while – and continued out.

But the laughter was just coming from some game show on the t.v.

Instead of Fez, Jackie’s shiny dark hair peeped up from the back of the couch. She must have heard his footsteps, because she turned back, looked at him, muttered a soft, “Hey,” before turning back to the television.

He walked around, settling into his chair, and picked his beer back up. At least that part wasn’t ruined; it was still sitting there in its frosty, stolen glory. He took a long slurp, looked at the tiny girl out of the corner of his eye, swallowed.

“Hey,” he muttered back, still irked by her presence here. Kelso was gone, so she should be too. Instead she was here, looking all hot and smelling completely delectable, like cookies fresh out of the oven, and he hadn’t any of his friends – including the one who’d dumped her here in the first place – to turn to. There was no one to distract her, no one to beat her up, no one to kick her out.

No one but him.

Somehow, he couldn’t do it.

Somehow, he wanted her there.

But that was insane, he argued to himself. Why would he want her there? She was loud, abrasive, and as persistent as that rash her boyfriend had.

And totally hot.

He forced himself to look away, to turn his eyes to the television. The 20,000 Pyramid, and Dick Clark with his stupid white-toothed smile, and people trying to guess answers with hints. Awful, crushing boredom was beginning to set in, and it was only the first day of summer vacation. As much as school seemed like a way for the government to indoctrinate kids with a prominent sense of nationalism, he missed it in a dull way.

In a way he would never admit.

He glanced over at her again, noting the silkiness of her hair, the way it gleamed in the dull light of the basement.

He forced his eyes back to the television, imagining Dick Clark’s fat baby head exploding, and took another sip of his beer.

It was a full half hour later, midway into Family Feud, that he realized he didn’t have to just sit there. There was a whole world – well, a whole small Midwestern town – waiting outside the basement.

There were walls to be vandalized, alleys to be smoked in, stupid disco-loving kids to knock the shit out of! He was free, he could get away!

He set his feet down on the floor abruptly, downed what remained of his beer, stood. He was heading for the door, studiously ignoring the tiny brown-haired pain in the ass when he heard: “Steven?”

He stopped. Didn’t mean to, but stopped dead in his tracks. He was caught. Shit. Shit shit shit shit shit.

“What?” It came gruffly, perhaps more so than he meant for it too, but she was a trooper. She soldiered on where she was clearly unwanted.

“Where are you going?”

Away from you, he was tempted to tell her, but he couldn’t. The loneliness of the question gave him pause, and he turned back to look at her.

“Uh, I’m not really sure.” That was the truth. “Maybe to go get a drink, pick up a magazine, I dunno.”

And then, with those big sad Bambi eyes, “Can I come with you?”

The worst part was that as he grumbled, “Fine, hurry up,” he wasn’t really as upset at he sounded.

It was overcast, threatening, the clouds closing in. It was really too early in the year for heavy rain, but it had already been a damp year so far. He headed down the street, simultaneously slowing his pace to stay with her and attempting to look like he was on his own.

His feet took him to the local bar, even though he wasn’t sure he wanted another drink. He’d told her he was going to get one though, and now that he was eighteen, it seemed a waste not to get one anyway.

As he pulled the heavy wooden door open, trying to pretend he didn’t know her, she balked.

“What is it?” That drink, which seemed so unnecessary a moment ago, now taunted him merely because she was standing in the way.

“I’m not sure I can go in there.” Her eyes were huge, almost fearful, certainly anxious.

“Look, you knew where I was going. You didn’t have to come with. They probably won’t card you anyway.”

There was a long moment where she rearranged her features, trying to look haughty. “No, it’s not that. It looks dirty.”

He sighed, rolled his eyes, walked through the door. She could come or not – some underage girl with pink toenails was not his problem. All he wanted was a damn beer.

Inside it was dim, half-empty. High schoolers with fake IDs, kids of age, and a couple autoworkers still out of jobs or only holding down part time filled a couple booths, seats at the bar. He motioned for Jackie to head to a booth in the corner and headed over to the bar on his own.

“What’ll it be?” The bartender was another anonymous middle-aged man like Bud, with a grown out mullet and bad teeth. He took a moment, thinking what Jackie would like before realizing that he didn’t care, and just said the first thing that came to mind.

“One Budweiser and a Jack and coke,” he muttered, shoving some money across the bar. A moment later, the drinks appeared, the can all frosty and the coke noticeably lightened by the whiskey. He took the drinks and headed back to Jackie, the back of her head hidden by the high back of the booth seat.

She took one long tentative sip, lips making a perfect pink oval around the straw, then leaned back from the table, wrinkling her face in disgust. “What is this?” Her voice was indignant, but there was something in her eyes that looked almost pleased with what he’d brought her.

“A coke with a shot of Jack for Jackie,” he told her with a rare smile, uncertain what had come over him. He didn’t know where this new Hyde came from, this guy who didn’t mind cracking a joke at her, making them both smile.

And smile she did: she bent again, took another sip of her drink. “I kind of like it,” she murmured to him across the table. Her manner suggested sharing secrets, swapping tales, and for a moment he forgot who he was with or what she was like, caught up in the companionability of the moment.

“Well, next round is on you, moneybags,” he told her, still smiling faintly, as he took a swig of his beer.

They finished a second round of drinks in near silence, watching some high school kids play darts drunkenly. As they headed for the door, he heard her giggle softly from the area near his elbow.

“Why would they ever give drunk kids sharp darts?” she wondered allowed, and before he could remind himself who was talking, he’d let loose one short, low chuckle. He half-saw the glance of appreciation she gave him as they headed out the door.

And into a thunderstorm.

The rain was coming down in sheets, soaking them both in mere moments. They sky was almost completely dark, that singular sweeping charcoal grey that only happens in the Midwest in summer, where the clouds hem you in and threaten with tornadoes and lightning.

He turned to her, both of them drenched, and motioned to her.

“Let’s run!”

As he took off across the street, he found a small hand working its way into his, a jolt of electricity coursing through him at the feel of it, as though he’d been struck by lightning. He turned, looking back at her, and saw her shrug and yell over the rain: “I don’t want to fall!”

They crossed the street, running through the floodwaters at the curb, her tiny hand hot in his much larger one, and he looked back at her through sunglasses covered in droplets of rain.

Dripping, running through water almost up to her ankles, her hair hanging in wet tangles around her face and nipples showing faintly through her thin t-shirt, she was sexy, beautiful, and completely touchable. He had to force his head around, back to the front.

Away from her.

He would be running away from her, that was, if she wasn’t hanging onto him the way she hung onto her popularity, with the Jackie Burkhart Death Grip.

They arrived back in the basement, tripping and slipping down the stairs.

He clattered into the door, feeling the wonderfully forbidden pressure of her wet breasts on his back, then fumbled with the handle until it opened. There was great sense of freedom as they tumbled into the basement, both half laughing and soaked in rainwater.

As he turned to her with a smile, he heard a foreign accent with suspicious joy at their arrival: “Ah, my two wet American friends.”

He turned and saw Fez, leering at Jackie’s rain-exposed chest.

The fun was, inexplicably drained out of the moment.

“Hey Fez,” Jackie panted. And then, for no reason he could see, but one he would later admit to knowing just the same, she turned and ran back out of the basement, up the stairs and, presumably, back home.

He walked across the room, settled himself in his chair, trying to knock the image of Jackie, wet and beautiful, out of his mind.

Trying to act as if things were still the same.

Well, they were, weren’t they? What had changed, really?

“So, Fez, what are we watching?”

“Looks like The Price is Right, my wet buddy.”

“Sounds good, sounds good.”

TUESDAY

When she answered the phone that morning it was Donna, who sounded mildly surprised at herself for calling. Jackie, in the middle of finishing her letter to Michael, uncharacteristically took only a few minutes to talk to her best friend, mostly hearing how beautiful the beach was and how relieved Donna was to be away – without her? Come on! Who did Donna think she was kidding? She took down Donna’s mother’s number and address, then quickly got off the phone and back to her project.

Finally finished, she signed the letter, dated it, put it into a stamped envelope and wrote the address Donna has just given her neatly across the front. She placed her package – the paper was sprayed with her perfume – in her purse, then walked out the door, figuring she might go over to the basement.

She arrived just before The Price is Right, early in the afternoon. Outside the sky was low, brooding, thick with clouds and generally angry looking. She’d scurried across town quickly to reach the basement before the rain came down, holding her parasol in her hand and trying not to look like she was running, or as if a person such as her could be hurried by the weather instead of her own schedule.

She tore down the basement steps like a tornado, barely getting the door open before she could slam into it, and skittered into the basement just as the first drops came down outside. She shut the door as quietly as she could, painfully aware of the noise she was making.

Inside, Steven was sitting on the couch instead of his usual seat, watching the noon news wrap up with a weather report. She walked in, her certainty to seduce him shattered from the events of the day before, and sat tentatively next to him on the battered sofa, careful to leave a large blank space between them.

As the station transferred to afternoon game shows and The Price is Right began, she heard him sigh. She turned her head slightly to look at him under the veil of her eyelashes. His arms bulged slightly at the hem of his sleeves, looking powerful, exciting.

Forbidden.

Taboo.

As Bob Barker called the first little old lady down to the stage, the picture on the television abruptly cut out to a red screen. The speakers emitted a low, obnoxious wail, and then a man’s voice began to speak.

“This is the National Weather Service in Chicago. A tornado warning has been issued for the following counties: Rock, Walworth, Jefferson, Waukesha, Milwaukee, Racine, and Kenosha.”

She heard a gasp, realized it was coming from her.

At her right, she felt more than heard Steven move forward, listening to the voice.

Tensing.

The television continued. “One tornado was sighted headed East Northeast through Rock county towards Walworth and Waukesha counties. A second has been confirmed heading South Southeast through Milwaukee county towards Racine and Kenosha counties.”

She wanted to reach out to him, to grasp his arm in her sudden terror, but she realized she was sitting still, frozen, unable to move.

“It is suggested that everyone in those counties move to a basement or storm cellar, or at the very least an interior room. Stay away from the windows. If you are on the road, pull your car over now and seek shelter.”

There was a click as Steven leaned forward and turned the television off. She turned to him, not wanting to show how scared she was, desperately wanting to show how scared she was.

“Where are Fez and Eric?”

He sighed. “Eric is at the comic book store blowing the last of his money on Spiderman comics, so hopefully he and the other geeks will get blown back to Oz. Fez is…well, I guess he’s at the pervert convention.”

“And Mr. and Mrs. Forman?”

“I think they’re at work.”

She looked away from him, down at her lap. “So we’re stuck here in this all alone then?”

“Yeah, but,” he seemed to be almost sneering at her, and that made her feel worse. “We’re, you know, already in the basement? Probably it’ll miss us anyway. Remember that tornado at the Snow Prom? That missed us too. I mean, I guess you could go out and play in it if you really want to, or if you feel like doing something nice for the rest of us.”

And that was when it dawned on her: he was trying to reassure her. Make her feel safe.

She wanted to crawl into the safety of his arms, curl up against him, but she didn’t. She sat still, staring at the blank television, frozen.

“Hey, Jackie, since we’re stuck here…” She looked up at him, almost anxious, trying not to be excited. “Do you want a beer?”

She nodded, watched while trying not to look as though she was watching as he stood, walked around to the shower and brought them both beers. They weren’t frosty, weren’t even particularly cold, and hers fizzed on her hand when she opened it, but at the least the flavor was strangely calming.

She could feel the spring, the coil inside of her that tightened at the idea of a tornado slowly, cautiously start to unwind as she slurped a little more beer inelegantly from the pop top of the can. After a moment, she put her feet up on the spool table and turned to him.

“So, now what?”

“Well, now is when I would read my book, but since you’re not here, I guess we’ll have to…”

Candyland.

He was alone in a dank, smelly basement with a hot chick like her during what was practically the end of the world, and he wanted to play Candyland!

It was pretty funny, really. Or maybe just all the smoke surrounding them was funny.

She couldn’t even be sure anymore, all she knew was that it was hard to quit laughing. She began to cough, took a sip of her beer, felt the roughness in her throat relax.

For a long moment, she looked at him, head bent over the board, dice in his hands, and thought how cute he really was. She thought about kissing him, just leaning forward and pressing her lips against his for a moment. How would he take it?

Probably not well.

He rolled, knocking her out of her moment and muttering all the while: “Maybe there isn’t even a tornado out there right now. Maybe it’s the Feds, man, trying to keep us all inside while they do who knows what out there in the streets…”

She felt something twirling her hair and looked over only to realize it was her own finger. The sensation was amazing, and she didn’t want to stop, but now that she was thinking about it, all she could feel was the ache in her elbow from twirling, twirling, twirling that hair around and she had to stop.

“Ohmygod, Steven! What if the tornado rips up the whole house?”

His eyes were big, puffy, and even covered in his sunglasses she could see how red they were around the rims.

“Then I guess maybe we’ll go somewhere else. Somewhere cool, man, like…like Candyland. Yeah. We should take Fez.”

Fez would love Candyland, she mused, taking another sip of her warm beer. He loved anything to do with candy. He would have such a good time there.

She thought maybe she’d like to stay in the basement forever, just call it Stevenland. Playing kids’ games and smoking and drinking with him may not have been the kind of thrill she once thought she’d like, but, then again, neither was hanging out in a basement with a bunch of burnouts and losers rejected by other gangs.

She settled into the couch more comfortably, waiting for him to remember it was his turn to roll but not really caring enough to remind him.

She never thought she’d develop a crush on a guy like that, or that her best friend would turn out to be a giant red-headed (eeuw!) tomboy with a penchant for flannel shirts…

Her neck hurt.

She was still in Eric’s basement, alone on the couch with just the dim light around her.

She had no idea what time it was, or how long she’d been asleep. The beers were gone, Candyland was put away, and the window in the door showed just the faintest traces of sunlight.

Must be evening, she figured, unsure why she was left alone.

Confused, tired, uncertain, she dug her purse out from under the couch and left.

On the way home, she dropped her letter to Michael in the mailbox. After she stepped away from the curb, she turned back and, after checking both ways, she flipped the mailbox off with two hands.

Face set into a doubtful smile, she walked home.

WEDNESDAY

When he opened his eyes that morning, it was in the cool, dark dankness of the basement. Consequently, he didn’t see right away the beautiful blue sky of the morning, nor the gorgeous green of the grass after a long night of rain.

He saw all those things when he went upstairs to first shower and then eat breakfast with the Formans, but the image that haunted him as he woke that morning wasn’t beautiful vistas or even something as mundane and the dull grey of the cinderblock that formed his room.

It was Jackie, blowing smoke rings out of two perfect pink lips, the joint still held in her hand. It was erotic and obnoxious and he didn’t know what to make of her sweet, sensual expression in his image.

Half dream, half memory, it woke him with an annoyed, terrified start, and he sat up in bed, almost hitting his head on the heating duct. Later, he would wish that he had, but for now he was somewhat relieved.

Annoyed at himself for what was going on in his head and…well, other places, he stomped up the stairs for a shower.

Looking at himself, clean and slick from the shower, he picked up his razor. It almost seemed to look at him, the way the blade winked in the overhead light, flashing light into the mirror.

He should grow out his beard.

It was an appealing idea, even though he thought it might be a bit hot and scratchy in the winter. It would be pretty cool to see how much it might come in, and there was completely true that he’d like the chance to avoid cutting himself with the razor for a while.

Besides, maybe the beard would stop him from being appealing to her.

He’d seen the way she’d looked at him over the last few days, since Kelso left. He had to keep reminding himself that she was Jackie, she was evil. She was a particularly obnoxious breed of devil, and it was bad enough that she wouldn’t go away – although she did seem to be quieter than before – but he couldn’t encourage her.

No matter how much he couldn’t stop thinking about the way she blew smoke rings, or how the scent of lilacs sometimes wafted to him as he tried to fall asleep.

Beard it was. He had to protect himself. He had a reputation to maintain, after all.

When he got into the kitchen, Kitty was humming and making pancakes, Red was reading the paper, and Fez and Jackie – Jackie? Why was she there? – were sitting at the table eating pancakes and bacon. Fez smiled but Jackie seemed to ignore him, chattering on to Red about something or other.

He refused to listen.

He smiled at Kitty’s cheerful good morning, took her offered plate, sat at the table, next to Fez. Through the screen door he could see the sun shining brightly down outside, making the leaves glow an ethereal green.

Between bites, he turned to Fez to talk. “You want to shoot some hoops after?”

“Mmm, yes!” His friend nodded enthusiastically. “Do you think Kelso ever figured out where the stinky was?”

His face broke into a broad smile. “Probably not.”

They wolfed down their breakfasts and ran outside to get the basketball. As he left the room – grateful to have gotten out of talking to Jackie – he heard Red say to her, “Well, we’ll just have to get under that car and take a look at it!”

Unexpectedly, his whole day was shot to hell.

They played as long as he could stand it, but before too long, the mumbling coming from under the car got to be too much. When Jackie asked Red for the socket wrench, he stole the ball from Fez, ran around the little foreigner, and threw it at the hoop.

He missed, but he wasn’t too worried about that right then. Instead, he headed towards the street, car keys jingling in his pocket.

“Come on Fez, we’re going to the Hub.” He climbed in the car, waving his friend in, and took off before Jackie got out from under the Vista Cruiser.

He tuned the radio over and over again, trying to find something he could listen to that wouldn’t make him jittery. He was running away from her – first he was pushed out of the basement, then the driveway, now he was being driven to the Hub. If he didn’t watch out, he’d be camping out on Mount Hump before the day was out.

And all because of the scent of lilacs on a girl’s hair.

A ninety-five pound brunette with pink toenails was keeping him from his place. He brooded, driving along the streets of the small town in his sleek black car, wondering what he would do later.

He couldn’t stay away all day.

He found a parking space not far from the Hub and the two of them headed inside to get some fries, maybe play some Space Invaders. Maybe there would be a couple middle schoolers they could beat at Foosball.

Being away from her, he felt safe.

They went in, Fez still talking about something – although what at this point, Hyde couldn’t have said – and ordered at the counter before settling into the table by the bathroom. The place was pretty dead – only a couple geeks and a burn-out sitting over by the door.

But no Jackie.

And then, as Fez got up to buy a second root beer – he went through them like candy – it dawned on him: all he needed to do was keep Fez around. Neither of them would dare make a move on the other if he was there.

Of course. It was so simple.

As Fez sat back down, he began to put the plan into action. “Hey Fez man, what are you doing this afternoon?”

“Oh, my host parents decided that I needed more religious education this summer. They signed me up for classes at their church in Milwaukee. I have to go in –“ he paused here to check his watch, “an hour. I hate these classes…sometimes they keep us there very late and none of the girls let me smell their hair.”

No. No, no, no. This could not be happening.

He tried to remain calm. “You mean every day man?”

A nod from his friend. “Yes, Monday through Friday, and then I have to go to church again on Sunday morning.” Then, a little sadly: “Until the last week of August.”

No. Shit. Shit!

“That sucks, man.”

“Yes. I hate it, but they say if I don’t go they will kick me out.”

And so it was that he walked into the basement again. There she was, sitting on the couch. She didn’t look back, merely called out to him that The Price is Right was starting.

He stalked through the room, behind the couch where she couldn’t see him – and what was that? She was wearing a thin, lacy white tank top and when he turned the corner he saw it.

The strap on her right shoulder had fallen down and now it hung there, caressing her shoulder. Her shoulder, which looked so thin, so vulnerable.

Like it should be kissed.

He kept moving, headed towards his chair, and was surprised when his feet had other ideas and put him on the couch, next to her.

Not touching her, but next to her.

And Bob Barker introducing Miss Noni Tisdale, a blue-haired woman who squealed when her name was called and ran down to the stage as quickly as her brittle old bones let her go.

He felt more than saw his own eyes slide over to her shoulder.

It called to him, glowing in the dim basement light. It taunted him. It teased.

When did she clean up so nicely, anyway? When he’d left, she’d been under the car with Red shouting instructions down to her and handing her tools. He ran his eyes down the length of her perfect, elegant arm, and they came to rest on her hands, folded demurely in her lap.

The nails were black underneath with grease.

He felt a shudder try to go through him at how sexy that was, her nails still dirty under her manicure. And then, she shifted them, folding her fingers around so he couldn’t see the tips, and he realized she must have seen him peeking.

He turned his head so he could barely see her out of the corner of his eye, and focused on the t.v.

If his summer meant being bored, that would just have to be it. He refused to get stuck on this stupid little girl in this stupid little town. He’d watched Forman – watched how he’d crumpled over Donna. And granted, Donna was a pretty awesome chick, but he didn’t want to end up like that, hiding in the bathroom all day and brooding.

He was a man, dammit, and he didn’t need some woman to make him feel like one.

He didn’t need a woman at all.

He was starting to think he might need Fez though. At least as a buffer.

THURSDAY

She spent most of the morning soaking her fingers, trying to get the thick black grease stains out from under her nails. Her fingers pruny and manicure ruined, she walked over to the beauty salon to have her hands fixed up, trying to ignore the clouds coming in overhead.

After her nails were done – she couldn’t get him seeing how grimy they were out of her mind! It was so embarrassing! – her feet began taking her over to the basement. She wasn’t sure what else to do with herself. Already this summer was wearing thin, exhausting her with its repetitive dullness. Already the idea of sitting in the basement and watching some other old lady try to reach the wheel on The Price is Right exhausted her, but she didn’t know what else to do with herself.

Everyone was gone – Donna had run away, Fez was constantly busy, and even stupid smelly Eric was hiding in the bathroom or in bed all day. Not that she’d want to hang out with him anyway, but it wasn’t an option and it annoyed her to have options cut off. Even stupid Michael had fled for California.

Despite her newly remembered crush on Steven, that still hurt. A guy wanting to be with her so little that he had to put two thousand miles between them was just a little overly dramatic, she thought.

And depressing.

She walked into the basement, still being careful how she handled things with her wet fingernails. No one was there – of course – not even Steven. She stood in the middle of the room for a long moment, feeling marooned.

Finally, knowing it was a bad idea, she tiptoed back towards Steven’s room. She didn’t want to peek in on him, merely wanted to take the record from his player – the one they’d listened to the day before – and listen to it in the rec room. She loved the idea of snooping in his things, but dreaded what would happen if he was in there or snuck up on her.

She slipped a hand up to the light switch and, daring herself, flicked it on.

He wasn’t in there.

Wanting to spend a little more time poking around in his private things but worried he might catch her – she didn’t know where he was, after all – she scurried through the room, lifted the top of the record player, and took Physical Graffiti out. Holding it carefully, she ran back through his room and into the basement.

A moment later, she ran back and flicked the light back off.

Alone in the basement, she went over to the record player. She had to do something to beat back the approaching loneliness. And so, she put the record on, finding the same track they’d listened to the other day without too much difficulty, even though she didn’t remember the name.

As the strange whale songs (that’s what she thought they might be, not realizing it was a bow on a guitar) began the song, she slid her hand into her oversized purse.

When she pulled it out, she held in it a small, rolled up paper bag. Ordinarily she wouldn’t dream of buying this stuff, let alone smoking it alone, but she simply couldn’t keep going through her days in a daze as she had. Martina, her housekeeper, had gotten it for her and rolled it into joints. In exchange, she’d given Martina three hundred dollars and promised she wouldn’t have to clean the toilets for a month.

The maid could do it, after all.

As the song began building, she lifted a joint to her lips, picked up a lighter from the table, and lit it, inhaling hard.

The music began going through the breakdown, Plant’s sexy voice caressing her ears in bluesy tones. She inhaled again, holding the smoke in as long as she could and swaying to the music as she exhaled.

And if you feel that you can’t go on.

And your will’s sinkin’ low

Just believe and you can’t go wrong.

In the light you will find the road.

She was swaying to the crescendo, waiting for the bottom to drop out of the music, joint in one hand and eyes closed and missed the sounds of feet coming down the stairs. Which explained why she jumped in the air when a hand reached out and plucked the joint from between her fingers.

“Bringing your own stuff now, huh?” Steven walked around her, grinning with the joint hanging out of his mouth. He inhaled, sat down on the couch next to her, and then exhaled with the far corner of his mouth so the smoke wouldn’t blow into her face. “It’s a lot better than that stuff I got last time.”

She knew she had to be blushing at being caught. She could feel the redness of her face, hoped it wasn’t too obvious. And then she said something that surprised even her: “I hope you don’t mind, I borrowed your record. I thought it might help me relax.”

He passed the joint back to her and she took it, shakily. Inhaled as he spoke. “Yeah, I didn’t even know you liked Led Zeppelin.”

She was starting to, but she didn’t dare tell him that. Instead, she gave him a haughty look: “Well, you didn’t have any ABBA and I didn’t bring anything…”

And then he was laughing. Before she could stop herself, she was too. The song went through a second decrescendo to leave just the echoing sound of their laughter against the guitars and Plant singing.

“You want a beer, Jackie?”

“Sure Steven,” she was flattered he even asked.

“Good. They’re in the shower. Get me one too, will you?”

Still annoyed at him expecting her to get her own beer, she settled back into her seat after running upstairs to use the bathroom. Things were starting to come back into focus in her own brain, and that generally meant she should do something else, but she was feeling too lethargic to get up and grab another joint or beer.

And so she sat there, unmoving, as the television clicked over to The Price is Right. Again.

She didn’t want to watch it, but she was loathe to get up and move, and when she heard him coming back from his room, she perked up just a bit, from feeling nearly catatonic to just being simply bored.

Her head leaning against her hand, her elbow secure on the armrest of the sofa, she barely moved when he sat down next to her on the couch. She felt his weight settle in next to her as he leaned back and put his feet up on the spool table.

On the television, Evelyn Beatty was called down to the stage. She was a bigger old lady, but still had trouble reaching the wheel, and Jackie felt herself getting thoroughly annoyed with Bob Barker, the summer, stupid Michael and dumb Steven.

And then his knee brushed against hers as he adjusted his seat. It was just a moment – one brief, amazingly delicious moment – but her skin flushed hot, radiating out from where he touched her, up into her chest and face, down into her leg, tingling the whole way.

Her earlier ennui was broken; she felt as if she was vibrating in her skin, just from that one gentle touch of clothed flesh. The electricity of the moment made her want to turn her head and look at him, made her want to hold still and never move again.

She looked, carefully, under her lashes and to her right, trying to look at him without him noticing her. She couldn’t be sure when he began sitting next to her on the couch – it had to be this week, but she couldn’t remember the first time he’d done it, left his chair to sit near her.

Was it a sign?

Was the pot smoking making her paranoid? It wouldn’t do to become a burn out.

When did he start sitting next to her?

How did she start to care?

Perhaps she should get out.

She stood, abruptly, grabbed her handbag and, muttering a goodbye, ignored his stare as she walked out the door. She had to get home, away from him, even if home was dull and boring and everything there reminded her of Michael – which was, of course, the last thing she wanted at this point.

Walking through town, she found herself standing in front of the record store. It was a tired-looking place, with poor lighting and filled with music geeks peering out at the world from behind their glasses. She paused only a moment, then went in and bought herself a copy of Physical Graffiti.

Now if she wanted to listen to a song about light, she needn’t go over to his house; she could stay in her own.

She went home, put the 8-track on, and, inexplicably, began to think of him.

It was worth it.

FRIDAY

He sat next to her through Family Feud, The Price is Right, The Newlywed Game, The 20,000 Pyramid, The Brady Bunch, Petticoat Junction. Neither of them spoke, neither of them looked at the other. It was silent except for canned laughter and stupid dialogue. Finally feeling as if his head would explode if he watched any more television, he looked at the clock.

Half past six, a whole day gone. Outside thunder was rumbling overhead, but he knew he had to get out of the basement. Fez was had come over that morning before his classes, told him that he would be at a prayer group all night, and that he was very sorry, he’d be all alone all night.

He stood, turned off the television.

“Hey,” she looked at him, crabby. “I was watching that.”

“Come on,” he muttered to her. “It’s Friday night, there’s some sort of trouble out there, and we’re getting into it.” He could see her face brighten, and he suddenly regretted his words. “Relax, princess, we’re taking Forman with us.” But her face remained elated.

The three of them drove through town in the El Camino, Jackie in the middle. Her leg was warm against his, and he was having a hard time focusing on the road. He was grateful that he always wore his sunglasses at night – no one could see the way his eyes kept straying to her thigh, where her skirt had hiked up when she slid across the seat.

He kept thinking of how the skin there might feel – velvet soft, he thought as he tried to focus on the road. Hairless and smooth and perfect.

It would smell like spring down there.

“Hyde, man, watch out!”

He looked up, swerved back into his lane just in time to avoid being clipped by the dump truck trundling up the narrow street.

“What the hell, man?” Forman had been whiny, antsy ever since they fairly pulled him out of the bathroom, telling him that he was going out with them tonight whether he liked it or not.

“Sorry,” he muttered, forcing his eyes to stay on the road.

“You could have killed us, man! And I’m too young to die,” Forman whined.

“And I’m too pretty,” Jackie chimed in, batting her eyelashes flirtatiously.

He rolled his eyes behind his shades, shaking his head. “If I’d known you two were going to be like this, I would have left you both at home,” he mumbled, half to himself as he pulled the car into a parking space near the bar. As he put the car into park, he scratched his face – the stubble was coming in nicely, giving him a heavy shadow around his chin and jaw and partway down his neck, but it was scratchy right now, the edges still sharp from the razor.

He opened the door, climbed out, left it open for Jackie. Tried not to think about doing that in the first place. He walked ahead of them into the bar, waved them over to a table. Jackie slipped some money into his hand as she walked past him to the same table they’d sat at earlier that week.

“Can you get me one of those things I had the other day?” Jackie chirped cheerfully to him as she slid into the high-backed booth. He wanted to keep his eyes on her, to see if her skirt rode up again and reveled some of her thigh, but he saw Forman giving him a strange look.

“Uh, yeah, sure,” he mumbled, turning and walking towards the bar.

He got drinks for the three of them, navigating his way through the after-work Friday night happy hour crowd, and set the arrangement of glasses down on the table. He grabbed a chair from another table, sat at the end of the booth so he was facing both of them. As he settled in, Jackie leaned forward and picked up one of the shots he’d brought back.

“What is this?” she asked, eyeing the dark, almost opaque liquid suspiciously.

“Jagermeister.” He wasn’t sure what it was that compelled him to get those too – maybe it was the feeling of Jackie’s money, hot in his hand. He’d only had it a couple times before, but he thought they could use it tonight. He nudged another shot to Forman, picked up his own. “To summer,” he said gravely, as they all clinked glasses.

And down it went. It burned his throat, leaving a trail of thick licorice taste as it went down. He saw Forman grimace but, to his surprise, Jackie seemed to enjoy it. Seemed energized by it. She set her shot glass down with a clink, picked up her Jack and Coke, began sipping from the straw. Forman picked up one of the beers, gulping it down.

Hyde’s eyes widened in surprise. He’d never seen Forman drink so quickly, so willingly. “Damn, Forman, I guess you’re trying to get fucked up tonight, huh?”

His friend stopped drinking, set the half-empty can down. “Are you kidding? I’m just trying to get that taste out of my mouth. Uygh,” he made a face, sticking his tongue out and making retching noises. “That was disgusting.”

Hyde suddenly felt a person next to him. He looked up to see a tall guy with dark, shaggy hair standing next to him, leering at Jackie.

“D’ya want to dance?” The guy asked. She looked up at him, her drink a quarter gone, her eyes luminous. She nodded, offered her hand to him, winked at Hyde as she slipped past him towards the dance floor.

He moved into her seat, watching her dance, suddenly – for no reason that he could see – hating the loudness, the closeness of the bar, of the lame music. He picked up his own beer, cracked it, began drinking it down. When he reached the bottom, he stood up, nodding to Forman.

“I’m getting more drinks,” he told his friend and dove into the crush of people around the dance floor, heading for the bar.

It was four minutes later when he managed to get back to his seat. The two friends sat in silence, each thinking their own thoughts about girls, about other guys. They drank their beers, and Hyde tried not to watch the way Jackie’s tiny body undulated to the music, the way her skirt twirled, showing just the outline of her toned legs…

“I miss Donna, man,” he was actually grateful to hear Forman start whining. At least that would be easier to listen to than his own thoughts. He tore his eyes off the tiny brunette across the room – resolving to keep an eye on her here and there for her own safety – and turned to his morose friend.

Forman had his eyes glued on the scratched tabletop, the etchings in the wood. There were crude renderings of genitalia there, and notes carved about what one person would do or had done to another person, phone numbers. He was only slightly surprised to see Forman’s number there, with Laurie’s name above it.

“I just can’t believe I was so stupid, that I turned her down,” his friend wouldn’t look at him, and Hyde’s eyes wandered back out to the dance floor, to Jackie. She was dancing with a new guy now, a Nordic-looking blond with curls like Robert Plant. He gazed through the crowd, looking at the guys in their loosened ties and women in suits with their pantyhose falling down, drinks in their hands.

“I hate Casey Kelso, I mean it. I’m going to beat the crap out of him. I can’t believe he told her that he loved her when he didn’t mean it,” he can hear frustration in Forman’s voice, and as the crowd shifts, a faint smirk breaks onto his face. “Can you see the look on his face when I kick his ass? If I see him –“

“I do see him,” Hyde told his angry friend, nodding and waving a hand in Casey’s direction. The skuzz was trying to hit on Jackie, and he was pleased to see that it looked like she was telling him off. Good for her, he thought vaguely. Standing up to him. “He’s right over there,” he told Forman as Jackie stormed away from Casey towards their table.

Forman’s head shot up, like a dog on point, eyes locking on Casey. He sucked down the rest of his beer just as Jackie reached the table and grabbed her drink, sliding into the booth next to Hyde and ignoring the chair he left at the head of the table. “I don’t believe that sleaze…I mean, I understand why he hit on me, I mean, I am the most gorgeous girl in town, but come on, after what he did to Donna,” Jackie stopped babbling angrily long enough to take a gulp of her drink.

“I’m gonna kill him,” Forman said, slamming his beer can down. He got out of his seat and walked over to Casey, who was trying to get some buxom blonde girl to dance with him. Hyde moved his hand to Jackie’s hips, ignoring the buzz it gave him to touch her, and nudged her out of the booth.

As Forman tapped Casey on the shoulder, he turned to Jackie. “This is about to get really bad.” He dug in his pocket, handed her his car keys. “You may have to drive us back.”

And so, as Forman threw the first punch, he headed into the fray.

Sorry for the cliffhanger-type ending, but I always thought Eric should have really picked a fight with Casey like he was always promising. You’ll learn more about the outcome in the next chapter.

Please be sure to leave a review so I know what you think!