The Story of Us Read Online Free Page B

I could see his well-developed biceps straining against the fabric as he braced his arms and pushed on the frame of the seat. The entire back of the car seemed to vibrate with the effort and force he was expelling. Suddenly a dull tearing noise interrupted the low growl Jack was making from the effort. And then his arm just disappeared into the back of the seat through a gaping hole in the material.
    â€˜Fuck! That hurt!’ he exclaimed. ‘Sorry,’ he apologised ludicrously. He withdrew his arm from the hole and it was covered in blood flowing from a long deep cut which ran along the inside of his foreman. The unyielding metal of the frame had sliced viciously back in retaliation. That did it.
    â€˜For Christ’s sake give up. Now
you’re
hurt.’
    He looked down at his dripping arm. ‘What? This? I’ve cut myself worse than this shaving.’
    â€˜You shave your arms?’ He grinned at that. ‘Jack, please,’ I implored, using his name for the first time. I kind of liked the way it sounded. ‘The fire engines are on their way. They’ll have all the proper equipment to cut me out of here. They’ll have those Jaws of Death thingies.’
    â€˜Jaws of Life,’ he corrected.
    â€˜Whatever. I can hang on until then. I’ll be okay as long the petrol doesn’t seep into the car and ignite.’
    He looked at me intently, and I wondered whether I should have paid more attention to those chemistry lessons at school, after all. From the look on his face, what I thought I knew about combustible fuels was completely and utterly wrong. ‘What? Isn’t that right?’
    â€˜It’s not just the
gas
that can ignite, Emma. The
fumes
can too.’
    I didn’t need it spelling out any more clearly. The car was full of them, and they were getting stronger by the minute.
    I nodded at the seat. ‘Try again.’
    He turned his body slightly, and braced his back against the side of the car.
    â€˜Let’s try a new position, this time, shall we?’
    Despite everything that was going on, there was a cheeky double-meaning in his words, which I didn’t doubt was deliberate. It was there in the twinkle of his eye, as he brought up his legs and positioned one large booted foot on either side of the seat’s frame.
    Absolutely anyone could have been driving the car that stopped to come to our rescue; it could have been a woman, a wimpy stick-thin man, or even a coward. I’m just eternally grateful that instead it was a big, strong, athletic man, with a curiously over-developed hero complex. I knew it was going to work, even before the seat began to move. I knew that that level of steely determination, the grimace of concentration and the extraordinary strength and effort, were going to succeed. He would have it no other way.
    The seat didn’t give much, but at the first small protesting moan from the metal, I got ready. Then, when finally I felt the smallest of movement and lessening of pressure, I whipped my legs up, and suddenly I was free. Amazingly, apart from cuts and the kind of bruises so horrible you end up taking photographs of them, my legs were intact.
    Almost as though the car, hungry for my blood, knew I was about to get away, a shower of sparks flew out of each of the vents on the dashboard. The world’s smallest and deadliest fireworks display.
    â€˜Go,’ he urged, gripping hold of my upper arm and manhandling me over the reclined seat and into the front of the car. I clambered through the front windscreen cavity and crawled on all fours up the slippery incline of the bonnet. Jack was following close behind.
    â€˜That gas is going to blow, stand on the edge of the hood, I’ll push you up.’
    â€˜Petrol and bonnet,’ I corrected.
    â€˜You are one very bossy woman,’ he replied, pushing me up the car with a hand placed quite unashamedly on my backside. He hauled me to my feet on to the bumper