Harsh Times (Jim davis x Diane Bateman

The air in the back of Jim’s Lincoln Town Car was thick with the scent of cheap upholstery, stale beer, and the pungent, skunky odor of high-grade marijuana. Diane sat in the passenger seat, her knees pulled up to her chest, watching the neon signs of Los Angeles blur into long, bleeding streaks of light. Her father, Tony, would kill her if he knew where she was. He’d kill Jim first, then her. Tony Montana didn’t raise his daughter to be a plaything for a discharged Ranger with a buzzcut and a hair-trigger temper.

Jim exhaled a long plume of smoke, his large, calloused hand gripping the steering wheel with white-knuckled intensity. He looked like a god of the underworld in the dashboard’s green glow—muscular, scarred, and devastatingly handsome.

"You’re quiet, Little D," Jim said, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that sent a shiver straight down Diane’s spine. He didn’t look at her. He never looked at her when he was in one of these moods. "What’s the matter? Daddy’s voice stuck in your head? Telling you I’m a bad influence?"

Diane shifted, her short skirt riding up her thighs. She was nineteen, hard-headed, and used to getting what she wanted. In the classrooms of her college, she was the bratty princess. In the hotels where she met her 'clients' to fund her expensive tastes, she was a professional. But with Jim, she felt like a moth hovering too close to a blowtorch.

"Everyone says it, Jim. Not just my dad," she muttered, reaching over to pluck the joint from his fingers. She took a hit, coughing slightly as the heat hit the back of her throat. "Mike says you’re spiraling. He says you haven’t slept in three days."

Jim let out a sharp, barking laugh that lacked any real mirth. "Mike’s a pussy. Mike worries because he doesn’t have the stomach for the real world anymore. I’m a soldier, Diane. I don’t need sleep. I need a mission. I need action."

He suddenly swerved the car toward the curb, tires screeching as he slammed on the brakes. Diane lurched forward, caught by the seatbelt. Before she could protest, Jim was over her, his massive frame pinning her against the leather. His eyes were bloodshot, dancing with a manic energy that terrified and electrified her all at once.

"Is that what you think?" he whispered, his breath smelling of tequila and burnt leaves. He grabbed her chin, his thumb pressing hard into her jaw. "You think I’m some broken vet? Some charity case?"

"No," Diane breathed, her heart hammering against her ribs. "I think you’re the only person who isn't boring."

Jim’s expression softened instantly, the predator receding to reveal the charming, manipulative devil she had fallen for. He leaned down, nuzzling the sensitive skin of her neck, his teeth grazing her collarbone.

"That’s my girl," he murmured. "You’re the only one who gets it. The rest of them? They’re just sheep. They want to put me in a cage and call it 'therapy.' But you... you like the wolf, don't you?"

He didn’t wait for an answer. He pulled back, his hand sliding down her throat to the swell of her breast, squeezing with a possessiveness that bordered on painful. Diane gasped, her head falling back. She knew he had been with at least two other women this week—she’d smelled the perfume on his jacket, seen the messages on his phone. He didn’t even try to hide it. He treated women like cigarettes: light them up, puff until they’re gone, and stub them out.

Yet, here she was, begging for the smoke.

"Jim, stop," she whispered, though her hands were already fumbling with the buttons of his tactical shirt.

"Make me," he challenged, his eyes dark and empty.

This was his favorite game. He would push her until she snapped, then use sex to bridge the gap, making her feel like the most important thing in his chaotic world for exactly twenty minutes. It was emotional whiplash, and Diane was addicted to the crash.

He shoved her seat back with a mechanical groan, creating space in the cramped cabin. He didn't use a condom; he never did. He liked the risk, the raw, unfiltered friction of it. As he moved inside her, Jim wasn't gentle. He was a man at war with his own mind, using her body as a battlefield to drown out the echoes of whatever had happened in the jungle or the desert.

Diane clung to his sweat-slicked shoulders, her nails digging into the hard muscle of his back. She closed her eyes, trying to ignore the fact that he was calling her 'baby' with the same practiced ease he probably used on the strippers at the club. She didn't care. In the heat of the car, with the city humming outside, she felt like she was the only thing keeping him grounded. It was a lie, and she knew it, but it was a beautiful one.

Afterward, Jim lit another cigarette, the intimacy vanishing as quickly as it had arrived. He stared out the windshield, his face turning back into a mask of cold indifference.

"I gotta go see Mike," he said abruptly. "He’s got a lead on some work. Government shit. High stakes."

"You’re just going to leave me here?" Diane asked, her voice cracking. She felt used, hollowed out.

Jim turned to her, a cruel smirk playing on his lips. "What, you want a lullaby, Diane? Go home. Go play the good daughter for Tony. Or go turn a trick for some businessman. I don't give a fuck. Just be ready when I call."

He reached over, patting her cheek with a condescending rhythm. "You love this. Don't pretend you don't. You love the 'bad man' your daddy warned you about."

Diane felt the sting of tears, but she blinked them back, replacing them with the bratty defiance that was her only shield. "You’re an asshole, Jim Davis."

"Yeah," he grinned, put the car in gear, and roared away from the curb. "But I’m the best asshole you’ve ever had."

***

Three days later, Diane was at a house party in the Hills, surrounded by people her own age. They were talking about internships, midterms, and Coachella. Diane felt like an alien. Her mind was miles away, wondering if Jim was in a ditch somewhere or in the arms of another girl.

Her phone buzzed in her clutch. A text from Mike.

*Jim’s flipping out. At the apartment. He’s got the 9mm out. Don’t come here.*

Diane didn't even think. She grabbed her keys and ran to her car.

When she arrived at the dingy apartment Jim shared with Mike, the door was already ajar. The sound of glass breaking echoed down the hallway. She stepped inside to find the living room a disaster zone. Mike was sitting on the floor, his head in his hands, looking defeated. Jim was standing in the center of the room, shirtless, sweating, waving a handgun at the television.

"They think they can just shut me out!" Jim was screaming at the screen, which was playing a looped news segment. "I did the dirty work! I’m the one who bled!"

"Jim, put the gun down," Mike pleaded, not looking up. "The neighbors are gonna call the cops, man. We can't have the cops here."

"Let 'em come!" Jim roared.

Diane walked forward, her heart in her throat. "Jim."

He spun around, the barrel of the gun swinging toward her. For a split second, Diane saw nothing in his eyes—just a vast, howling void of PTSD and drug-fueled paranoia. She froze.

"Diane?" Jim’s voice dropped an octave. The gun lowered slightly. "What are you doing here? Mike, did you call her?"

"I told her to stay away," Mike groaned.

Diane took a step closer, her hands raised. "Jim, look at me. It’s just me. Give me the gun."

Jim looked at the weapon as if he’d never seen it before. A flicker of shame crossed his face, followed quickly by a surge of irritation. He tossed the gun onto the sofa like it was a piece of trash.

"I’m fine," he snapped, wiping sweat from his forehead. "I was just... practicing. Drills. You wouldn't understand."

He slumped into a chair, his bravado crumbling for a fleeting moment. He looked small, despite his size. Diane went to him, kneeling between his legs, resting her head on his lap. She could smell the tequila on his skin, the sharp tang of adrenaline.

"I'm here," she whispered.

Jim’s hand found her hair, his fingers tangling in the strands. He pulled her head back, forcing her to look at him. "You’re a fool, Diane. You know that? Your old man is right. I’m a goddamn nightmare."

"I don't care," she said, and she realized she meant it. She didn't care about the girls, the drugs, the guns, or the way he talked to her. The danger was the only thing that made her feel alive.

Jim leaned down, kissing her with a desperate, bruising force. It wasn't romantic. It was a claim. He was marking his territory, ensuring she stayed right where he wanted her—trapped in the orbit of his self-destruction.

"Stay the night," he commanded. It wasn't a request.

"I have a class at eight," Diane tried to protest feebly.

Jim chuckled, the sound dark and knowing. He slid his hand under her shirt, his thumb tracing the line of her ribs. "No, you don't. You’re staying right here. You’re gonna take care of me, aren't you?"

He was manipulating her, using her loyalty to soothe his own fractured ego, and Diane saw it clearly. She saw the version of him everyone else saw: a violent, unstable man on a one-way trip to a prison cell or a grave.

But as he pulled her toward the bedroom, leaving Mike alone in the wreckage of the living room, Diane didn't pull away. She followed him into the dark, willing to burn if it meant she got to be near the flame.

The world outside could scream all it wanted. Tony Montana could roar until he was hoarse. Diane Bateman had made her choice. She belonged to the harsh times, and she belonged to Jim Davis. As the bedroom door clicked shut, she knew she wasn't getting out. And the terrifying truth was, she didn't want to.