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Traffic was a disaster.
This was usually enough to put Bog in a sour mood that might last all day, his headache doubled by listening to his mother prattle on and on about the ladies she played Bridge with – many of them with very eligible daughters and what did he say to having lunch later this week – after already having had to listen to her be oh-so particular about the brands and prices of her groceries. It was what he got for offering to drive her around and do her errands with her. Griselda King didn’t have a driver’s license, had never felt particularly inclined to get one, and frankly, Bog thought that was for the better safety of fellow motorists around them; the idea of the short near-sighted woman behind the wheel was utterly terrifying.
He didn’t hate being his mother’s chauffer. God knew he preferred it to setting her loose on the town, and she was always grateful, in her own way. She paid for her groceries, usually gave him some compensation for gas or repairs on his rusty old truck (Rusty in color and composition). But sometimes he had to wonder whether or not the money and gratitude was enough to make up for the migraine she gave him, especially says like this one, where it was nothing but red light after red light, topping off with being stuck behind a train that seemed to be taking it’s sweet time.
Usually, yes, this would put Bog in a thunderous mood, almost against his own will. But today, there was one item in his favor and that was the town’s Classic Rock station being particularly on point that afternoon. Nothing could seem quite as awful if he turned it up loud enough to drown out the train and his mother. One song turned to another, and soon enough tapping out the beat on the steering wheel wasn’t enough, and air guitar began to be incorporated into his routine.
Boston’s More Than A Feeling had just begun, the train was still going strong, and Bog didn’t feel the need to set his air guitar down. He vocalized the instrumentals just as dramatically as he sang along to the actual words, nodding his head along in a gesture dangerously close to head-banging, Griselda, more than used to this behavior from her son, let him have it without snarky commentary, and so he went on unperturbed.
The second verse was kicking in when Bog felt the telltale tingling sensation of being watched. He froze, and turned toward the source: the car to the left of his. It was a small car and from his truck he had to look down considerably to see the baby blue volkswagon beetle. The bug’s passenger-side occupant, closest to Bog, met his eyes with her brown ones. He felt blood rush to his face as he looked over this tiny little punk rocker – her hair was short and dark and spiky, those brown eyes were smoky – in the tiny pastel bug. Next to her, Bog could make out the driver; blonde, female, waving her hands around a lot as she spoke to her companion. But the brunette’s eyes never left Bog.
Thoroughly embarrassed at being caught doing something so… childish, Bog tried to break eye contact with her, looking back at the train – the bloody thing was still going. When he, for whatever fucking reason, looked at her again, her expression was unreadable. Then, holding his gaze, she rolled down her own window. Inexplicably, Bog did the same.
Under the grating and clanking sound of the locomotive in front of them, Bog could distinctly hear the sounds of Boston echoing from her car, tuned into the same radio station as his.
Then, this girl curled her fingers around an imagined microphone and belted out. “It’s more than a feeling!” Loudly. Next to her, the blonde looked over, confused, and finally her poker face cracked and she gave Bog the most wicked grin he had ever seen-
And really there was only one way to respond to that.
His window still down, Bog sang back, “When I hear that old song they used to play.”
He wasn’t self-conscious of his singing voice – in fact, it was one of the few things about himself he actually liked. So when she laughed he somehow knew it was from genuine enjoyment, not mockery, and grinned openly back.
The girl recovered only just in time to harmonize, “More than a feeling.”
Bog played his invisible guitar, while she dramatically mimed playing a drum kit.
“I begin dreaming
‘Till I see Marianne walking away”
“I see my Marianne walking away,” they sang together, and only here did she break eye contact, looking down and biting a lip with surprising bashfulness. Bog only had a moment to dwell on that expression before the girl’s companion spoke and the brunette went red and turned to her in clear mortification.
What they said to each other Bog didn’t pay any attention to as it suddenly occurred to him what that had looked like, and a blush of his own heated up his face. Jesus, he’d fend off any bridge-player’s daughter like they were the plague but a punk rock stranger at a traffic stop and suddenly his heart was racing and he was actually… flirting? Like he actually stood a fucking chance with a girl like that – like they’d ever see each other once the damn train had passed.
“Give her your number!” The words so matched his traitorous thoughts that it actually took a moment for Bog to realize it was his mother who had spoken. He had actually forgotten the woman was in the vehicle with him.
He whipped around to her. “Mum, NO.”
“Gracious, do I have to do everything around here?” She said with a disgusted huff. She gathered up her three plastic bags of produce and perishables while Bog watched in confusion. Suddenly the side door was opened and the old woman was fucking getting out of his truck.
“Mother- what are ye- get back here!”
But his mother, in true Griselda fashion, ignored him completely. She stood at the passenger’s side of the next-door car.
He didn’t hear what his mother said to both passengers – he was too busy shouting at her to get back into the damn car – but he heard the girl say, “What? No, I-“ but didn’t finish her protest and took the hand offered almost as if on instinct. Griselda shoveled her bags into the beetle’s tiny seat, helped the brunette out and took her seat in the quickest, most efficient impromptu Chinese Fire Drill Bog had ever seen.
“Have fun, sis!” The driver of the Beetle called cheerfully.
“Dawn!” She shouted back.
But by then the train had passed. The bug sped forward. The car behind it honked as the dark haired young woman stood there looking as lost as Bog felt. Now out of the car, he could see what she was wearing; a loose magenta tank top, leather shorts and a lot more leg than Bog thought was possible for a girl that short.
Another honk, this time with muffled shouting. Bog steeled himself and leaned out the window a bit. “Come on, Marianne,” he said, hoping the reference to their duet would be not creepy and possibly actually pleasant.
Her eyes widened and Bog wanted to kick himself. “What?” She asked. Someone all but laid on their horn, and she shook her head as if to clear it and ran around the front of his truck to the passenger’s side.
In a blur of motion, the door was wrenched open and the tiny woman scrabbled into the seat. She was even smaller than Bog had placed her from afar; short and petite, she probably weighed a hundred pounds soaking wet. Her spiky brown hair was an undercut style, three piercings marched up her right ear, and a ring went through her left eyebrow. Her dark lips were pursed, her eyes unreadable.
He was still getting honked at and finally put the truck into gear again and set off, his destination completely unknown. He could feel her eyes still on him and felt gangly and greasy and everything repulsive. He was used to that, or liked to claim he was, but when sitting next to a woman so incredibly beautiful – and so completely his fucking type – he could think of little else than his own slovenly appearance.
“Uh- hi,” he croaked, to break the silence.
“How do you know my name?”
Bog turned to her, completely lost. “Ah- I… don’t? I was just- wait,” his brain finally caught up with him. “Your name’s actually Marianne?”
She flushed, but at least she seemed to know he was serious. “Yeah.” She rubbed the back of her neck and offered him another bashful smile. “It’s kind of- I think of it as- my song. I don’t think I would have done… any of this, if it were any other song…”
Bog owed that station’s DJ his entire life savings.
“I’m sorry, by the way,” she added, taking his silence badly. “I mean, this probably isn’t what you- and my sister is-“
He shook his head quickly. “No, no. Ah’m- I’m sorry. I don’t now where my mother gets these-“
They both fell silent. The girl – Marianne – laughed, a touch nervously. Bog was thinking over how to ask if she wanted him to just take her home without having to ask her where she lived, when More Than A Feeling faded out and a commercial began.
“Unfortunate,” Marianne murmured, with a nod to the radio.
Bog spoke before he thought. “Glove compartment. There’s a CD case. I mean- if y-ye want t-“
Marianne was already paging through his music collection, humming appreciatively. Bog was fairly certain his heart was going to beat out of his chest. So she had the same music taste, so she actually smiled at him in a way no women smiled at him, didn’t mean he should be prolonging this any longer than need be. There was no way this could be anything-
“What’s this?” Marianne asked, jolting him out of his thoughts. She held up a CD, unmarked except for his initials. His face was on fire.
“Th-that’s- ah- I have a- uhm- playlist- just old songs Ah liked for road trips an-“ his voice guttered out as Marianne nodded and immediately sent the stupid stupid mixtape into the player.
Immediately the start of Elton John’s The Bitch Is Back blared from the speakers. Bog almost banged his head on the wheel. He twitched, ready to switch the song. “Ah’m- sorry- I-“
Marianne all but slapped his hand away. “Dude, don’t apologize for Elton John. Fucking love Elton John.”
His heart was still pounding, but Bog found it in him to put both hands back on the wheel and made an attempt at a smile at her. “Yeah?”
“Uh, of course. He’s a legend. My- um my sister and I sometimes argue over whether he or Billy Joel is better but truth be told, we’re both pretty equal fans of both. Nice song choice, by the way,” she added with a nod to radio. “Not usually the Elton John people go with.”
“Uhm, thank you,” he said, awkwardly drumming his fingers along to the beat. A moment later, Marianne tapped it out on her legs. Betraying another glance her way, Bog saw she was mouthing the lyrics, giving him just enough confidence to begin singing, first quietly. Marianne caught on, and soon enough it was More Than A Feeling all over again.
She laughed as it faded out, and then grinned up at him. Bog flushed at her open enjoyment – people didn’t enjoy his company – but found it in him to smile back. “Marianne Acker,” she said, thrusting a hand into his space.
Bog peeled a hand away from the wheel to shake it. “Bog King.”
She whistled. “Some name, that.”
And for whatever reason, Bog wasn’t embarrassed. Something about this girl… he knew she wasn’t mocking him. They were too much alike. “Ah live up to it,” he said, smirking.
“No doubt,” she said. Queen’s I Want It All was up next and her resulting grin was delightfully wicked and uncomfortably attractive.
Bog quickly looked back at the road, still driving straight on the main town drag. “So- you- um- did ye want me to take ye home…?”
Marianne stopped singing along quietly, seeming to have only just now considered asking this of herself. “I- I don’t know. I mean… I’m sure you’re busy-“
“Not at all,” Bog blurted out before he could think. “B-but-but if ye are I can-“
“No, I’m- I’m good.”
They were both silent for a minute, blushing. Finally, Bog took a breath – a deep, slow, relaxing breath – and asked, “Is there… anywhere ye’d like to go?”
“I don’t suppose saying ‘just drive’ would be helpful?” She asked. He looked at her, a little startled, and her cheeks went pink. “I mean it, I have nothing else to do and I’m- having fun. If- if you want to just take me home, though – I mean- I know I’m like a total stranger and this- this isn’t something I usually do and… I’m gonna shut up.”
Bog knew he was staring at her, which was probably not helping make her any more comfortable. He was also vaguely aware that he could be running a hundred red lights at this point, but couldn’t find it in him to care. He knew where he could take her. His mother’s family owned several acres of land on the outskirts of town, though they didn’t do much with it. This time of year it would be taken up my knee-high wild grass and flowers. This time of day it wouldn’t be long before it was taken up by fireflies. It was one of his favorite spots.
He was also smart enough to know how incredibly, uncharacteristically, romantic it would be as a location to take her to. God knew he was attracted to Marianne, was fascinated by this girl who didn’t do things like this but was so willing and… happy to have this spontaneous adventure with him of all people. He had no idea what might happen if he took her somewhere where they could be truly alone.
But he didn’t want her to leave. As long as she wanted his company, unbelievable as it was, he wasn’t going to stop this.
“Just drive?” He finally choked.
Marianne’s smile returned, still a little nervous, but happy. “Just drive.”
Then she reached over and turned the stereo up.
It took a few seconds before a sort of comfort washed over them both again. She was clearly impressed by his music selections, singing everything: Immigrant Song, I Can’t Get No Satisfaction, Rebel Yell, Who Do You Love, and Under Pressure. When they weren’t singing, they were talking. He learned Marianne was actually from another town – she and her younger sister had been concluding a road trip to look at college’s for the blonde, had stopped here for a late-lunch and… well, here they were now. Bog told her about his late dad, who’s truck this was, who had introduced Bog to practically all the music on that CD.
Marianne reached over and touched his hand. “My mother died when I was fifteen. I know how that is.”
Bog flushed, but didn’t flinch away from her hand. This was snowballing out of anything he could have expected – not that he had planned on any of this to begin with. Simple attraction he could have dealt with, but Marianne was proving to be his match in humor, wits, in sheer toughness when it came toward a world that hadn’t granted either of them many favors. They’d met by the strangest chance but he was already having difficulty thinking about going back to a life not knowing her.
They reached the field just as the springtime sun was starting to set over a stretch of trees that capped one edge of his family’s land. The result was a field that looked like the dying embers of a fire, glowing warm and bright in places, while the shadows cast by the trees, grasses, and flowers were dark, cool and full. Marianne said nothing as he put the truck in park. She simply surveyed the new scenery, and unbuckled herself, stretching. Bog mirrored her, almost without thinking.
The Eagles wrapped up Take It Easy and in its place began Meat Loaf’s Paradise By The Dashboard Light. Marianne laughed a little, which Bog echoed, though he could feel his cheeks burning. After a second they both joined in singing, quieter than before, with a sort of dreamlike quality that matched their surroundings more than the song itself. As it went, the ember glow of the field faded, cooled as early twilight took hold. Fireflies began to appear, first sparingly, and then all at once the acres spread before them were performing a lightshow just for the two of them.
Marianne’s singing faded out and Bog could feel her looking at him. When he looked at her she was smiling in a way she hadn’t been before and his heart began to race anew. She nodded toward the open field and it’s flickering lights.
“Do you think they’re the show for us, or we’re the show for them?” she asked, her brown eyes alight with laughter. The cool light of evening suited her so well, that for a moment he couldn’t breathe, just looking at her.
Bog didn’t answer. He leaned forward a few inches and kissed her.
Marianne stiffened, but didn’t pull away. Bog kept the kiss short, light, trying to reign in his desire for her, not to scare her by going too far. Parting, he searched her face, not sure what to expect.
She didn’t do anything for a long moment, holding his eyes with hers. In the silence Bog realized Meat Loaf was playing. Unsure whether or not it was the right thing to do, Bog silently reached to shut the stereo off. The truck was immediately filled with a numbing silence, broken only by the sounds of the crickets in the field.
Marianne moved, and he broke eye contact to watch her. She turned the stereo back on.
When Bog looked back at her in surprise, she lifted herself to tuck her legs under her on the seat, brought both hands to cup his face and kissed him, hard.
As far as he was concerned, he saw fucking stars. Completely helpless in the face of her soft lips, so firmly pressed against his, Bog let her take the lead – parting his lips when her tongue stroked against them. The evening was rapidly cooling around them, but Bog felt as if someone had stoked a fire in him. When she moaned, the sound low and reverberating, he shook his paralysis and reached for her, needing her closer, needing to feel her pressed against him.
He settled his hands on her hips, pulling her across the seat to him, shifting so he was angled almost completely to her. Marianne murmured what might have been his name, one hand still stroking the line of his cheekbone, the other gripping his arm as if he was a lifeline. Her tongue brushed the roof of his mouth and Bog tightened his grip on her, shuddering. He was the one who needed a fucking lifeline; it was taking all he had not to just sink into her, lean her back against the seat and-
“Oh God, Marianne,” he cursed, breaking the kiss to keep himself from simply passing out from lack of oxygen. Marianne was panting, her cheeks burning, her small figure heaving slightly, and Bog’s self-control could only take so much. He shifted, moving her toward him before guiding her to a reclining position, thanking god again and again that his father’s old truck didn’t have bucket seats. He only had a moment to dwell on that before Marianne was pulling him toward her, the amber glow in her eyes beckoning in a way that was impossible to resist.
“I’ve never – mmph – done anything like this – before,” she gasped, as he kissed along her jaw, grasping the back of the seat with one hand so not to completely crush her.
He buried his head in the crook of her neck and chuckled, sending a shiver through her. “An’ ye think Ah have?”
She laughed, dragging her fingers through his hair. She pulled him up to look at her; her eyes smoldered. “Tall, dark blue-eyed stranger with impeccable music taste and that husky accent…” She hummed low in her throat, almost a growl it was just as hungry. “I’m surprised you don’t have a line out the door.”
Bog chuckled, his free hand slipped under her tank top, skating over skin that was positively burning. He nipped at her ear. “Not e’eryone has yer taste, Tough Girl,” he groaned.
Marianne arched under his touch, moving her hands to skate over his shoulders and down his back, trying to pull him closer to her. “Their loss,” she breathed, she almost grinned, before he stroked at her breast, awkwardly brushing aside her bra to get to her smooth skin. “Ohh god, oH. BOG,” she whined.
He was glad she was so vocal. For however nonchalantly they had expressed their lack of experience, Bog was still willing to bet she had more than he did in this department. Every moan she made, everything shiver of pleasure he could illicit was a point to remember, to tuck away and make sure to repeat… slower, with different levels of force, teasing her and basking in her obvious pleasure.
A particularly deft caress had her hips jerking, grinding against his and his eyes nearly crossed. “Christ,” he growled. He was getting so fucking hard and he knew it. Unable to help himself, he took his right hand from the seat to grab at her hip and thrust against her, keeping a none-too-gentle friction between them.
Marianne tossed her head back, nearly smacking it against the passenger door. “Mmm Oh, yes! Bog, yess, like that.”
Under her cries, and his own deep-throated groans, the music still blared around them, and Bog almost wanted to laugh. Forget neither of them having never done this before; he was pretty sure no one had ever done what they were doing right then. This was what movie clichés were made from, the very meat of the Classic Rock songs they had been listening to all evening.
Those thoughts derailed as Marianne seized him in another deep kiss, open-mouthed and hungry. He gave a whine of his own when one of her hands dipped under his shirt to stroke down his spine and he spared a moment to dizzily wonder just how far he was going to go with this incredible woman, here in this beat-up old truck.
He didn’t have long to wonder, just as Paradise By The Dashboard Light began to face out, the opening riff of Barracuda began and for a moment in Bog’s half brain-dead state, he thought it was the next song on the CD. Then Marianne groaned a very different kind of groan and wiggled a bit under him – which was horrible for the state of his arousal – and fished out a phone from a pocket he hadn’t known her outfit possessed. “What is it?” She snapped.
“Marianne, where are you?” A female voice cried, clearly audible through the receiver.
Marianne’s head fell back and this time did indeed hit the passenger door. “Dawn, where do you think I am?”
“Well, since you answered, not dead in a ditch, I assume.”
“If you thought dead in a ditch was an option I hope you also understand that it would have been your fault for letting me be, like, reversed kidnapped, here.” His face still pressed against her neck, Bog snorted. Marianne gently smacked the back of his head. “Yes, I’m still with him. Yes, he’s- he’s lo-unphh-vely.” She barely held in her moan as he returned to gently kissing along the smooth skin, moving down toward her collarbone. She smacked him again, less gentle and he almost laughed. “Why does it matter, and, like, how did you even know I was still out?”
“It matters because we were going to have dinner with dad tonight, remember?”
There was a pause. “Fuck,” Marianne groaned. “Did you tell him I got reverse-kidnapped and might be dead in a ditch? Did you also tell him that all of that was your fault?”
“It was not all my fault – it wasn’t even my idea, if you remember – and no I didn’t tell him. I said something came up, and that we’ll move dinner to tomorrow. I also told him you’d call him.”
Marianne cursed again. “I hate you, I hope you know that.”
“Hey, be nice to me. I scored you a boyfriend, didn’t I?”
Bog felt his face heat up – which was, frankly, ridiculous, given their current position – and Marianne’s did too. “Dawn- no- he’s not- we’re just-!”
“You can fill me in on the details later. Call dad!” And with that, the phone call ended.
Marianne pushed herself up on her elbows, and Bog awkwardly peeled his hands off of her. “Sorry about that,” she mumbled. “I guess I- did have something going on after all.”
He sat up completely, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s- it’s fine.”
“If it makes you feel better, this is like a thousand times better than dinner with my father.”
He laughed a little. “Ah’d hope so.” Then he scratched the back of his neck. “I suppose- I should probably take ye home then.
“Yeahhh,” She drawled, sitting up as well. She looked him over, and then blushed. “Uh- I’m sorry about… that, too.”
Bog knew what she was referring to and shifted awkwardly, his face now positively burning. “N-No problem. Ah- I’ll be- fine.” A few choice imagined scenarios would get him back down as quick as a bucket of ice water, and he didn’t want her to feel guilty about anything they had done or not done. This had already been so surreal, so much more than he could have ever imagined.
She smiled, a touch sympathetically, but didn’t push the issue. As he put his truck into reverse, and headed back toward the highway to take her home, she spoke again. “So, how much do you want to bet my sister gave your mother my number.”
“Not if my mother didn’t give your sister my number first.”
They were silent for a moment.
Then Marianne spoke quickly. “But I mean, just in- in case, like, if not-“
He caught on. “Goo-good idea. Good idea. Uhm-“
Marianne was already digging an age-old napkin out of his glove compartment, scribbling a number on it. “Maybe… call me, sometime. I bet you sing mean karaoke…”
Bog laughed, shaking his head. “Ye could say that. I have a- I mean I sort of have a band.”
“You have a band?” Marianne grabbed his arm. “Jesus Christ, why didn’t you say so sooner? I am so going to your next gig. Guaranteed.”
“Aye, okay,” he said, raising a hand as if to placate her. “Ah’ll- Ah’ll let ye know details.”
“Promise?”
“Ah swear,” he said, keeping the hand raised. “Ah- I’d- it’d be… really great to see you. Again.”
Marianne blushed and smiled at him in a way he had never once been smiled at before that day. Before he met her. It was soft and bashful and maybe just the tiniest bit hopeful. “Yeah?”
He exhaled shakily, offering the same smile at her. “Yeah.”
As they hit the highway, the last song on his CD began.
It was More Than A Feeling.