Melinda ran nervous hands over the new dress. She had to admit that she just wasn't suited to the styles of the day. The boyish cut, and the straightness of the dresses didn't really flatter her more...curvaceous frame. She'd resorted to binding her breasts just to get this dress on, but Kevin wouldn't have it any other way.
She swallowed.
Her mother wouldn't approve of this.
To be truthful, Melinda was a little scared herself. She was just a girl, in bobby socks and saddle shoes just a few short months ago, in her last year of school.
Like all other girls, she'd vaguely hoped for college but only expected marriage with a hopefully not too disagreeable husband. Unlike most other girls, Melinda had always ached for more. A lot more. Excitement. Passion. Danger.
Romance.
And she'd found it all in Kevin McCall.
Her mother didn't approve of him at all. That was, Melinda had to admit, a very big part of her attraction to him.
And his looks. Dark hair, dark eyes—so dark that at first they'd scared her—pale skin and long fingers.
He was tall...compared to her. But anyone was.
The day that she'd met him, she'd just been visiting the drugstore after school as usual, trying a new lipstick color that her mother would never let her buy.
And Kevin had been there, leaning on the counter, just staring at her.
It had made her uncomfortable. No boy had ever looked at her like that before.
And when she'd stood up, left, brushing her hands on her skirt, he'd followed, pressing her against a wall and leaning over her.
"You're the prettiest girl I've ever met," he'd whispered.
Wide chocolate colored eyes had gazed up at his dark, dark ones.
And her lips had parted. "So what?"
He'd laughed, surprised. "So will you...let me walk you home?"
Her mother, watching Melinda like an eagle as usual, had given Melinda the scolding of her life when she'd come home accompanied by a strange boy.
Melinda wasn't sure how she'd managed to refrain from pointing out that if her mother had let her, Kevin wouldn't be a strange boy. Not anymore. Or that any boy was strange to Melinda because her mother kept it that way.
He'd found her at the library after that. Melinda wasn't quite sure how, but one day she'd looked up from her novel and there he was, just staring at her, as he had that day in the drugstore.
"You're still the prettiest," he'd whispered, walking forward, again backing her until there was a wall behind her.
This time, she hadn't been afraid. Not in the same way. More afraid that he wouldn't kiss her.
And yet how had that, and the ensuing flighty romance that followed, filled with secret meetings and whispered words; notes and hurried interludes when her mother wasn't looking...how had that segued into this?
She again tugged at the dress, fearing that her...derriere would rip the fabric back there.
It really didn't fit.
Not the way it should.
She bit her lip, looking at the magazine on the bed; on the cover was a boyish looking girl with a blunt haircut; stick thin, elegant in a lazy way, looking the exact opposite of Melinda.
Yet they were wearing the same dress. Nearly the same dress.
It was called a flapper dress, Melinda thought. Lace, ish, and strands of beads instead of fabric for the last foot or so of fabric. It was the very newest style.
Melinda would almost rather cut her hair, though something like that would be a lot harder to hide from her mother.
She inhaled, and finally placed the finishing touch on the outfit: a headband that wrapped around her head and had feathers attached to it, which hung over her face.
She looked ridiculous. Her flattened breasts, the way the dress just didn't fit, the curves of her hips almost ripping it...
But Kevin had bought it for her, insisting she wear it tonight.
Tonight.
That was even more terrifying.
He'd needed the money, he said.
She wondered why that meant she was the one working.
The club was smoky, terrifying and if Melinda was caught inside she'd be arrested. Prohibition promised that, she reflected, watching the liberal amounts of alcohol everywhere in sight.
The bartender caught her eye as she passed, perhaps sensing how terrified she was, and their gazes seemed to catch and hold.
But she kept walking, letting Kevin lead her forward.
Blue eyes followed their progress.
Melinda chanced one more glance, over her shoulder.
He was still watching. Still watching and just about Kevin's opposite in every way possible. Tall, very much so. Muscled. Tan. Dark haired; that was the only similarity.
And he had blue eyes. So blue and light.
Melinda inhaled, and Kevin pushed her towards the stage. "I'll play," he whispered.
She sighed, tried to breathe.
Kevin started one of the new jazz hits, one that he'd had her memorize; something that had necessitated her spending dime upon dime at the record store to get the man there to play it over and over again, because her mother would never allow it in her household. They didn't even have a record player. Her mother said it was the expense but Melinda knew that that was only part of it...barely half of it.
The club was watching. Melinda felt the eyes of every man in the place upon her, from the proprietor (someone Kevin had pointed out) to the lowest serf.
To the bartender.
His arms were rippling as he wiped the counter.
Melinda began to move, dancing a little back and forth like the dancers did in the new movies.
And she opened her mouth and sang.
The song she didn't like. It was crude and silly. It required a lot of hand gestures that Kevin had had to explain to her, and that almost made her blush if she hadn't practiced this a hundred times in her mirror to make sure that she wouldn't.
The crowd actually paid attention. She heard several whistles and her audience was slowly straightening from slumped over shoulders to very alert and wide awake.
The combination of obvious woman-child and the allure that she was forcing had the desired effect. Melinda doubted anyone cared if Kevin was even playing.
For his sake, she tried even harder, twirling more, the strands of her skirts whipping around her legs; beads hitting hard and making her wince.
And the song was over. That was meant to be it. That was all Kevin had told her.
She stared out at the crowd.
And the piano started again.
Melinda met Kevin's gaze, madly shaking her head, but he was pounding on, nodding furiously at her.
It was the same song.
"Do it again," he hissed.
And she did.
More people came in, obviously not expecting the performance, but not protesting.
As the evening wore on, Melinda grew more and more uncomfortable as the men's eyes never left her body. As they grew more drunk. As they started to whistle louder and shout things that made her ears turn red.
And finally, Kevin stood up, bowed. "Thank you for coming," he said. "But I'm done for the night."
Melinda, dazed, stumbled off the stage when he gestured.
"I just need to get my money from Crestbull," he hissed, gripping her arm in his. "Go sit at the bar for a moment. I'll be right back."
He then hurried over to one of the richer looking men, and was led to a back room.
Melinda was left all alone in a sea of desperate men, who all seemed distinctly dangerous.
She edged towards the bar, wishing she had a purse to hold, since suddenly she didn't know what to do with her arms so that they wouldn't brush against the men in the room (it was so crowded now) and make them think she did it intentionally.
Oh goodness.
And then there was a hand on her shoulder. "Come over to the bar," a voice said, deep enough to send a shiver down her spine. "That's what Kevin said, yes?"
"Yes," Melinda whispered, turning around, somehow knowing who'd be standing in front of her.
It was the blue eyed bartender, just as tall and handsome as he'd looked behind the counter as standing in front of it.
She hesitated to follow him, as the crowd was still too thick. He gave her a smile, as if trying to say he understood her dilemma, and slipped an arm loosely around her shoulders, navigating the crowd for her and pulling her to the counter.
He settled her on the farthest stool, slipping back behind the bar. "Do you want something to drink?" He asked.
"Oh, I don't know," she said, flushing. "Do you have lemonade?"
His lips curved into a brilliant smile. "Do you mean that?" He asked, leaning closer to be heard over the crowd.
"Yes," she whispered, ducking her head.
His eyes darkened at her sincerity, clouding, and he looked over to the door where Kevin had disappeared. "He's not doing this to you, is he?" He murmured.
"What?" Melinda asked, whipping her head up.
He had a rueful look on his face, and shook his head. "Never mind," he said. "No, miss...?"
"Gordon," she said, meaning to only give her last name.
"Funny name for a girl," he said, eyes meeting hers.
"Melinda," she confessed. "Melinda Gordon."
His eyes ducked away from her. "I don't have any lemonade, Miss Gordon," he said, dragging a rag over the spotless bar. "Unfortunately."
"Then never mind," she said, crossing her arms.
"I'm Jim," he said a moment later, and she looked up at him. "We might be seeing a lot of each other."
She opened her mouth to protest, to say that she'd never see him again...but something, the greed in Kevin's eyes, made her stop.
It made her feel guilty, to doubt Kevin like this.
And yet she knew that only trouble would follow this.
Kevin came stumbling from the back room, clutching a handful of bills. He came blissfully across the room. "Hey, Melinda, come on," he shouted. "I got the money. Thanks, Jim, as always."
She didn't miss the anger in Jim's gaze when he looked at Kevin, nor how Kevin was completely oblivious. He yanked Melinda to her feet and dragged her from the room.
He seemed happy, Melinda reflected. That had to be a good thing.
He led her to his car. "You looked good tonight," he commented. "You finally wore one of the new flapper dresses. I liked it, Melinda."
"Did you?" Melinda asked.
"I don't know what you did, up top," he said, gaze shooting to her chest. "But it's good that you look more modern now."
She almost stopped walking. "I thought I was the prettiest girl you knew," she managed to whisper. "Why would you want me to change?"
He didn't hear as he walked around to the other side of the car.
"Get in," he said impatiently.
She hurried to comply.
He drove them to her house, but stopped before the turn. The night was dark.
He turned in his seat and leaned over. His lips brushed against hers, and her lips tingled from the romance of the moment.
"Oh, god, Melinda," he said, running one hand up her thigh.
She jerked in response but he merely pressed his hand harder.
"Let me," he gasped, his hands moving everywhere, pressing her against the seat. "If you love me. You do love me, don't you, Melinda?"
The words were accusing.
"Of course," she stumbled.
"Then it's my right," he said.
He hiked her skirt up, pulled his trousers down.
She swallowed.
"Don't worry, I have this," he said, pulling something over his...appendage. "I won't make you pregnant. God knows I don't need a kid."
So that's what this was, Melinda reflected dully as he entered her, trying not to wince from the pain. She wondered why any girl would want this.