Love is Always Write Anthology Volume 3

the fucker was held firmly in place by a giant shoe sitting on its strap. I didn't want to jerk it too hard and break the strap. I quickly gave up on trying to pry it out from under that enormous clodhopper. He had to feel me pulling on the bag and he didn't even move his foot. What a bastard . A smart person probably would've asked him politely to move his foot, but not me. Since I couldn't pull my bag out, I decided to try and push his foot off.
    When I went to push his leg, it was like trying to move a mountain. Fuck , it didn't even budge. I don't think he even noticed I was trying to move his leg. Moving on to Plan C, I wrapped my hands around his calf. Even through his jeans I could feel his leg was solid muscle, a fact I ignored. I tightened my grip and started shaking his leg as hard as I could, determined to work it loose enough to get my bag and get the fuck out of this store.
    I was not silent in my attempts to retrieve my bag. No, I was grunting and mumbling the whole time with my strenuous efforts to get Zack off the strap. But now was not the time for dirty thoughts. Since the sounds were coming from under the table, by Zack's crotch, and I was grunting stuff like, "dirty cocksucker, you'll be lucky if I don't punch you in the balls," I'm pretty sure anyone within hearing distance thought I was giving him a rather violent handjob. And of course Zack wouldn't just move his foot so I could come out from under the table. Nope, he just sat there. He was probably making faces—like he was in deep pleasure—for everyone to see. Bastard.
    Did I really need my bag? Maybe I should've marked the bag as a loss and run out of the store. My therapist is going to love this story. Maybe I could call her and see what she thinks I should do? But my phone was in my bag and my hands were still busy trying to tear Zack's leg apart. Maybe I should've just punched him in the balls—he'd have to move then—but his reflex would probably cause his knee to jerk into my face.
    I was running out of ideas (besides just tucking tail and crawling out of the store) when Zack bent down. He had the nerve to smile at me, a warm and sexy smile that almost made me forget he was holding my bag hostage. "Whatcha doing, Whit?" he asked with false innocence, like he didn't know he stole my handbag. His eyes darted down and he spotted my sack. "Oh, need some help there, Whit?"
    Yeah, I need you to remove your foot from my bag, and can I suggest shoving it up your ass?
    Before I could actually respond though, Zack had grabbed my bag and I heard it land on the table above me. At least now I could throw my shit in it and go home. This night was not turning out how I had hoped. Stupid Jayne, ending the game before I could make my move. I'm sure I would have. When I elegantly stood back up, I froze. Zack was busy putting my things in my bag. Who does that? "What in the monkey balls are you doing? I have places for everything in there; you can't just start tossing my stuff in there."
    "I know. You labeled all the pockets and dividers. Relax, I can read and am putting everything where it goes," he told me. His tone was sincere and placating. And he was almost done shoving everything in so what could I really do about it? Just let him finish and then I could leave, go home and pretend this night never happened. He finished packing away my stuff and looked up at me with those sweet puppy eyes that he could have probably used to get away with murder just by flashing them. "You ready?" he asked quietly. I nodded before I even thought about it, mesmerized by those peepers. Using his eyes like a weapon seemed like a dirty play. Manipulative bastard.
    With that, he grabbed my bag and headed for the door. I had to follow; he had my stuff after all. So I trailed behind him, walking across the parking lot. I watched as he opened the back door of his car and tossed my bag on the seat. What the fuck was he doing? "Get in," Zack said as he opened the driver's door. I just stared at him; he couldn't expect me to get in the car with him, could he? "Hurry up, I'm starving. I'll take you to dinner. We need to talk strategy for next week's game."
    I don't know what I was thinking, but I found myself slowly getting into his car. I may have been in some kind of daze, because he was pulling out of the lot before I even managed to get my seatbelt buckled. I'm not sure how long we sat in silence before he casually asked, "Why did your mom name you Whitney?"
    I must have