This one is a bit different. Just an echo of ideas brewing in my brain these days.
The day is as sodding cocked up as they make them. The first Jameson slides down your throat like there is no tomorrow. To be honest it would be great if there were no bloody tomorrow. Tomorrow you will have to go back to work, and your lovely colleague will be wandering the office wearing that wonderful shiner you gave the pillock couple hours ago. The prick deserved it, and even apologised afterwards, and there will be no harassment claim, but his moping pathetic self will be definitely getting on your nerves.
The busty bartender and, as you know, the owner of the pub throws the second drink your way without asking. You lift it to salute her, and it slides down just as smoothly. They don't call it water of life for nothing… The tension in the shoulders starts uncoiling, and you send the third one the same way. The first button on the jacket is popped, and you shimmy the shoulders. Sod the day, sod the work, sod the…
"Do you sing? Something tells me you do." The bartender stops in front of you and gives your chest a measuring look. You return the favour. Damn, those are glorious tits, but you know she doesn't swing this way. You asked the first time you saw her.
"Occasionally," you answer and tap the glass with your finger.
"I have a mic, and you need to let it all out, love."
Oh fuck it. You do love to sing.
They only have Etta James in the catalogue, but you don't mind. Your voice is rad for jazz and blues. "Tough Lover" and then "Make Love to You." Your jacket is gone some time after 'he is so tough he can make Venus come alive.' People are clapping, and there are approving woohoo's. Damn right, you are good! You are also pissed off, and it truly adds up to the lung capacity. And Thea the Bartender did have every reason to check out the chest. You might have been born a beanstalk but Mother Nature was generous width wise. The tight white shirt does half of the work probably.
Since you need to 'let it all out,' mid "Pretty Good Love" you pull the elastic out of the ponytail. The relief from the feeling of the hair scattering on your shoulders makes you emit what they call a throaty moan, which makes couple of people shift in the audience, but you are not here for a pull.
Of which you have to inform all those who saunter towards you when you take a break and give well deserved attention to your fifth drink. You are polite with the first five attendees, since they mind their manners, but then all scum decides to try, and you have to be slightly ruder with the sixth. The seventh received a knee in the bollocks, security drags him out, the bartender pours your sixth on the house. Damn your metabolism, you really could use some intoxication now.
"Pushover" earns you loud applause, and then since you are slightly more chill now, Dame Etta always makes you de-stress a wee bit, and the drinks have started softening up your edge, you finally notice couple faces by the tables.
And you regret it immediately.
She looks like a fae. High cheekbones, radiant pale skin, with bright orange freckles. Bright ginger hair is cut short, pixie cut, little curls are coiling at the back of the long elegant neck, and she has the sexiest shoulders you have seen. She is telling something to the bloke she is with, and her small hands are flailing. You have a thing for beautiful hands, and these are mind blowing. The fingers are super long, whole bunch of boho rings on them, nails short and black, what's there not to love? The bloke is clearly chatting her up, and she is laughing, dropping the head back. The laughter is unrestrained, and you jump off the stage.
Fuck it, the day has been cocked up from the start.
She turns and is clapping since everyone else does, and then she looks up and is watching you come up to their table. Wow, these are the most mental eyes you have ever seen! Cat like, but very narrow, almost Asian looking. There is black eyeliner, and these lashes really didn't need any mascara.
At the background Thea the Bartender starts "Trust in Me." She has a properly sexy voice, and the song is ace, and the day has been cocked up and a rejection would be just a cherry on the top, yeah?
"Can I have this dance?" You stretch your hand to the little ginger, and she blinks couple times. The turn-up nose twitches, and then the aforementioned hand lies on your palm.
She turns out to be ickle, but you could have guessed. The top of her head doesn't reach your shoulder, but somehow dancing with her works. You are having half a thought to shake off your shoes, when she chews on her bottom lip, you are having very inappropriate thoughts right now, and then she gives you a doe-eyed look, "I'm Wren."
"Jen. Jen Thorington." You don't know why you are being so formal.
"Bond? James Bond?" She asks and emits a small giggle. You give her a cocked eyebrow look. You know it looks good. The question is whether it looks good to her. "It's actually Guinevere. My parents were toff." You don't know why you are telling her this. You never tell anyone this. You must be bladdered.
"I'm still just Wren," she smiles to you widely. "And you honestly should take off these stilettos if you are planning to kiss me."
You are staring at her, and suddenly she starts marching back to her table. Pulling you after her by the hand.
She grabs her clutch from the table and throws a friendly smile to the bloke who was watching you two dance like a hawk.
"Sorry, Auggie, I need to go. I'll ring you." She is pulling some cash out of her clutch and throws it on the table.
"She probably won't," you add, and your little ginger gently swats your arm with her clutch.
"Don't be mean, Thorington. He is just a mate."
You might love her calling you Thorington. You let her lead you out of the pub, it's nippy outside, and you pull your jacket back on. She throws a look at your shoes again.
"Seriously, the stilettos will have to go. You are tall as it is." You look at the tinsy flats on her feet. What is it, size two or something?
"Or you could start wearing some yourself," you purr and pull her into yourself. She is lithe, strong, fluid and smells like lilacs.
"Don't tell me what to do, Thorington. I like to be on top."
Fine with you.
A/N: Eva Green, my dearies, if you need a visual. There is a board on my Pinterest page. Nick: kkolmakov.