I was sitting at the bar with my shot of whiskey when the dame walked in. I caught sight of her in the mirror behind Mac and my heart sped up a little bit. Dressed in a black fur coat and a skimpy cocktail dress, the red head was clearly at the wrong bar. She minced over to the empty stool beside me and put her tiny clutch on the bar. Her hands were the color of ivory against that coal black clutch and tipped with blood red nails. I noticed that her left hand was free of rings but seemed to have an indentation suggesting that she had worn a wedding band and an engagement ring for a long time before now.
Mac sidled up to the lady in black and did his best to put on an affable expression. Mac, who had all the charm of a brick and the depth of expression that could be found in a thimble, managed something that looked like a twitch of the lips. He would have called it a smile but most people would be wondering if it was the beginnings of a grimace. "How can I help you, m'am?" he uttered in his gravelly, 3 packs a day voice.
Red tapped her fingertips against the polished maple top of the bar, ignoring how pretty much everyone in the place was staring at her. "Whiskey, neat," she said. Mac started to turn away when she spoke again with that honey sweet voice of hers, "Make it a double." Mac nodded as he fetched her drink. Red looked over at me and I made a point of keeping my eyes on the table. Oh sure, I was watching the mirror out the corner of my eye, but I made sure she didn't know it. You don't advertise these kinds of things, especially when your line of work depends on subtlety. It turns into a habit.
"You're different from the rest," she said.
"May be," I answered, "But I'm just a working stiff like everybody else."
"I was told that I could find an investigator here," she said. I didn't want to get my hopes up. As much as I needed a case to pay off my tab with Mac, I had a feeling that this dame was nothing but trouble. "I need someone found," she said, turning and setting one of those surprisingly chilly hands on my left wrist.
"Listen, lady," I said, turning to look her directly in the eyes, "I don't know what you think I am, but I don't think your husband would appreciate you getting handsy with me."
"My husband's opinion doesn't matter anymore," Red replied, "He's dead. I want you to find who killed him." I turned back to my drink with a scoff.
"It's my day off," I answered.
"I'll pay you fifty thousand for your first consultation," she said. I coughed on my drink. It's hard to look tough and indifferent when you've got whiskey burning its way down your esophagus and out your sinuses. "I need this man found," she said, her voice dropping into a low tone that sounded better suited to a bed room rather then a bar room, "I will be generous and give you a reward in addition to your normal fee. The faster you find him, the bigger the check."
"What makes you so sure I am going to take this case?" I asked, grabbing a napkin from where somebody forgot one from their cocktail and swabbing the last drabs of Jameson off my shirt. Mac returned with the dame's drink. He gave me a raised eyebrow. Then the lady gave him a pointed glare. That was when Mac abandoned me to my fate. Some people are just out to watch for their own skins, I'm telling you.
As I set the napkin aside, Red turned in her seat to face me. I couldn't help it, her low cut dress showed me that she didn't believe in tan lines on her cleavage and the motion of shifting in her seat made that skirt ride dangerously high. The seventeen year old hound dog in me screamed that I should take whatever she had to offer and go for broke in the romance department. The thirty five year old ex-cop, however, had alarm bells going off like the city was burning and I was in the fire hall.
I wrenched my gaze up to her face and noticed a small, satisfied smirk on her face. Most dames got irate when you looked down their dress, even if it shows damn near everything. This one, however, seemed to have decided to give me a preview. "Listen Mrs. ..." I started.
"Hathaway," she supplied.
"Listen Mrs. Hathaway," I said, "I don't know what your game is, but I..." A hand tapped me on the shoulder and I looked over. Next thing I knew, a fist the size of a Virginia ham was in my eye and the bar was coming up to greet me. I would have given the mook whatfor but the double whammy knocked me out. When I woke up, I was in a very nice bed with silk sheets that felt painfully luxurious against my skin. That was when I realized that I was naked.
I opened my eyes and found the mysterious Mrs. Hathaway sitting at a vanity a few feet away. She was dressed in a sheer dressing gown that was little more then a suggestion of fabric over her nude body. Her rich auburn-copper colored hair was no longer piled up in the elaborate coiffure of earlier. Now, it framed her face in heavy waves that caught the light of the lamp and gave her something of a halo. It would have been an almost angelic touch if it weren't for the fact that I was pretty sure she was the reason why I was in this situation.
I started to sit up when my head began to throb. I lay back down and watched her in the mirror. It seemed that my overly eager client hadn't noticed I was awake. She was writing on some scrap of paper before she turned to face me. "Don't bother faking," she said in that honeyed tone, "I saw you sit up. There's a bottle of aspirin and a glass of water on the nightstand beside you." I looked to my right and found the nightstand she was speaking of. I sat up and shook two aspirin out of the bottle before putting the cap, that had been so conveniently taken off for me, on it. As I picked up the glass of water, I looked at it suspiciously.
The dame had a thug knock me out and brought me here. She took my clothes. I had to confess I wasn't sure I could trust the glass of water to be just that. "It is water," she said, "just take the aspirin. Then we'll talk." I swallowed the aspirin with a mouthful of water. While a part of me decided it could have been poison, more of me just wanted the jackhammer in my head to go on break. She sat down on the edge of the bed beside me as I set the glass of water down.
"I ..." I started when she shrugged out of the dressing gown. Widow Hathaway didn't believe in tan lines anywhere, apparently. As she moved closer to me, I found myself beginning to get uncomfortably distracted by my soldier deciding to salute. She slid one of those cool hands up my chest and placed one of those perfectly formed fingers against my lips. That hand then moved back down to my chest and firmly pressed me back down to the mattress.
As she ran her hands over my chest, my head swam with the combination of a concussion and rising lust. "Look, lady," I started when she slipped under the covers, "I know grief makes people desperate and ..." I forgot what I was going to say next when she pressed that perfectly curvy body against me. As her frigid hands moved over my skin, I found myself feeling like there was electricity in her touch. I tried not to react to her, but then her mouth got in on the action.
At first, it was just a kiss here or there on my chest. Then she went with the pièce de résistance. As her mouth closed over my erection, a groan escaped me. Her hands wandered over my stomach and the outsides of my thighs as she suckled me. All thoughts of trying to make sense of the situation I was in were washed away with each minute movement of her tongue and the heat of her breath. Soon, I was torn between the dizzying throb of my head and the painfully erotic throb of my dong.
[Author here, I just had the story fall flat. I can't think of a thing to add to it. It doesn't help that I am completely stumped on what it is like to be male and have sex. This, however, is the first attempt at getting back to writing on here. Look for something next Thursday. It may not be a complete story or a scene, but I will give it my best shot so that I can get back to writing this kind of stuff.]