Blondes Have More Fun
Alcohol is like love. The first kiss is magic, the second is intimate, the third is routine. After that you take the girl's clothes off.
-Raymond Chandler
EDIT (6/4):Due to recent activity on the site, the explicit content has been removed from this story. The full version is being hosted on Ao3, under the username tori_tots. My apologies.
Seven drinks in—or maybe I'm at eight—and everything seems like a good idea. She's sitting at the end of the bar and staring into her glass.
Waiting for something, maybe someone. Terribly cliché.
And then the thought hits my alcohol soaked brain.
She could be waiting for me.
She's not of course, but like I said, I'm a genius—just add whiskey.
I can tell that she's not a natural blonde, but I've never been one to discriminate. What's of more interest to me than her hair is her rather generous chest, which is wriggling it's way out of the blissfully low neckline of her blue tube top with every motion she makes.
I probably sound like a pig, but I swear, it's not me talking.
Anyway, the only motion she's making right now is the raising of her glass to her lips and back down to the table. The material shuffles a little lower, and she grabs the fabric roughly and pulls it up so high that the peak of the shirt is nearly touching her chin.
And that was pretty much the last chance I had of seeing a woman's breasts tonight.
Which is why I'm eight or nine drinks in.
I was in town to visit an old friend of mine. Her name's Claire, and we go way back. I don't think you would believe me if I told you what we've been through together. Anyway, since I took a job with the CIA in Washington and she stayed back in Minnesota, we haven't seen each other too much.
` I really like her though, that's the thing. She's cute, smart, knows her way around a gun: all the qualities I consider very important in a potential girlfriend.
We went out for dinner, got drinks, and then she told me that she's seeing someone else.
I wasn't expecting anything, it's just depressing.
She invited me to come to her house for dinner tomorrow night, but I think I'm going to be heading back to Washington DC in the morning.
Her brother is kind of terrifying, to say the least. He's like the Brawny paper towel guy on steroids. His girlfriend just got home recently—I guess you could say she was kidnapped, it's a long story—and I don't think she would be up for having company just yet.
So, I'll call Claire in the morning and tell her I won't be seeing her tomorrow.
I just need to remind myself to not call her right now.
Back to the girl sitting at the end of the bar though; she's cute. Stunning revelation, I know. I said that drinking gave me great ideas; it doesn't make me particularly verbose.
I might as well take a chance and talk to her, after all, if I humiliate myself, I'll be out of the state in a few hours.
So, I'm going to get up from the bar stool right now and, why is the room wobbling?
Oh, that's just me.
Come on, Leon, stand up straight. You can do this. One foot in front of the other.
I sit myself down next to her and muster up my best sober voice.
"Can I buy you a drink?"
Excellent work, Agent Kennedy.
She looks up at me and smiles. She has lovely eyes, they're like glass blue. Almost translucent.
"Sure, why the hell not," she slurs, "My boyfriend isn't here after all."
This would be a massive red flag under any other circumstances, but I'll be a few thousand miles away this time tomorrow.
She's cute and I'm drunk and sad.
That's my rational.
"I'll have a Long Island Iced Tea," she tells me.
We're about to both be drunk.
"One Long Island Iced Tea for the lady," I say to the bartender, trying to exhale as little as possible. I doubt that this dive cares about serving the intoxicated though.
The bartender mixes up the drink and gives it to her, while I hand him my Visa. I'm racking up quite the tab tonight, but who cares?
"So, what brings you here?" I ask her as she nurses her iced tea. I find that pick up lines are exponentially less effective as you find them to be more and more clever, so I'll just stick with small talk.
"I just needed to get out of the house," she says, brushing a white-blonde strand of hair out of her face. "I've just been cooped up at home lately, and when I'm not at home, I'm been busy with work... I don't think I've worn this tube top since like, '99," she said with a laugh.
"No time like the present, eh?" I respond to her. "So, what's your name?"
She stared at me for a little while, as if she was trying to make something up.
"Valentine," she replied. I almost snorted. I've heard some pretty bad fake names from girls before, but Valentine was something a stripper would call herself. I'm not feeling terribly discerning tonight though, so I let the name slide.
"Well then, Miss Valentine, do you have any plans for tonight?"
She stared into her glass and shrugged.
"Get me another one of these and I can clear my schedule right up for you."
Right. I shouldn't be fine with doing this, but I'm feeling sexual frustration in between my legs pretty strongly now, as she leans into me and lets her breasts spill over the peak of the shirt. She's wearing a gray lace bra, and it doesn't appear to be a push up.
Impressive.
"Another iced tea please?" I shout.
Perhaps it won't be a waste of a night after all.
I have to practically carry her up to my hotel room. She's laughing and slurring her words now, going on and on about the boyfriend she spent tonight trying to drink herself away from.
"He's just so clingy... ever since I had this whole, um, accident thing, like he's so overprotective. We had a huge fight tonight just because I wanted to leave the house without him."
I guess I really shouldn't stick around this town for long after tonight.
I stick my key card into the door and we walk inside the room.
Sobriety is returning to me with an unpleasant speed. She's drunk and emotional and I'm trying to run away from my problems and... holy shit, she's taking her clothes off.
I can stay drunk a little longer.
She's absolutely gorgeous anyway; if I was her boyfriend, I'd be clingy too. She's pulling her bra off with a lightning speed, letting her breasts free from their constriction.
Definitely not a push up.
She's got a scar on her chest and she runs her fingers over it before saying,
"Car accident," in such a matter of fact way that I don't think twice about it. She reaches for the waistband of her skirt now and starts tugging at it frantically, muttering as she goes. "We haven't had sex in ages, because he thinks I'm too Goddamn fragile or some shit, and all I want to do is just get laid like a normal person, fucking..." she streams off into a row of curses. All the boyfriend talk is making me nervous, but the skirt comes off and she's standing before me almost naked, like some kind of troubled Venus: full breasts, slim waist, curvy hips, her long blonde hair doing a half assed job of covering her tits.
"Well come on, sweetheart. Are you just gonna stand there or are you going to take your clothes off too?"
Yeah, I can stay drunk a little longer, because she's fucking gorgeous and she wants me to get naked, so who am I to disappoint her?
I have the worst fucking headache, my tongue is plastered to the roof of my mouth, and the fact that I don't know the girl in bed next to me is doing nothing to make it better. Granted, she's gorgeous, so clearly I knew what I was doing last night.
Too bad I don't remember any of it now.
She's bleach blonde and has a pretty face, nice nose, full lips. She also happens to be completely naked underneath the covers.
She stirs with a yawn and mumbles, "Chris, baby?"
Oh shit. That is not my name.
"Um, good morning..."
She rolls over to face me and immediately yelps.
I do not look that bad in the morning; I swear. My hair might look a little funny, but it's nothing worth yelling over.
"Who the fuck are you?" she demands. She's in my bed, so I feel like I should be the one asking that, but I'll let it slide for now.
"My name is Leon... I don't seem to recall yours."
"What the hell is going on?"
She seems pretty distressed now. I remember something about a boyfriend, maybe?
"Well, it appears that we slept together last night," I say, full of tact, as always.
"Like... sex slept together?"
"I would assume as much, unless you sleep naked all the time."
"Oh God, Chris is going to die, Chris is going to fucking die..." she mumbles as she gets out of the bed and runs to her purse. She's still naked, I might add, and she has amazing breasts.
"Stop looking at me," she hisses and picks up a pillow from atop the bed and throws it at me.
"Sorry!" I exclaim as it hits me in the face.
She pulls her phone out of her purse.
"Oh God, I have like, ten missed calls from Chris and Claire."
This has got to be a coincidence.
"Chris and Claire?" I ask her, an inkling of dread crawling up my spine.
"Yeah, that's my boyfriend and his sister... I just left last night because he and I got in a fight and then,"
Fuck.
I cut her off.
"Is your name Jill Valentine?"
She stares at me, and her mouth hangs open in what's either surprise or nausea. Maybe both.
"How do you know that?"
I sit up in bed and feel a lump rise in my throat.
"Nice to meet you. Agent Leon S. Kennedy, CIA. I've heard great things about you, Ms. Valentine."
Yeah, probably not the best way to go about this.
"You're fucking with me," she says.
"No, that was last night."
My attempt at humor clearly is not appreciated.
"Get out!" she screams.
It's my hotel room, but I never like to argue with a lady. I get up and collect my things as quickly as I can, because I've got a plane to catch right now, and if there's anything I know about Claire's brother, it's that he will not want me coming to dinner after this.