She can end it with only two words.
Please read the Standard Disclaimer on Alextasy’s Biography page
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This is my ninth stop on a tour of twenty cities. Not all of them are what I would call cities. Some, like this one, are just pit stops on the highway of life–do the gig, chow down, gas up, take a quick breather, then hit the road again. If the stars are aligned, the breather smells prettier than me.
I’m a writer with a new book and my contract says I’m supposed to push it. The stuff I write about is the stuff I know. Bloody battles, lost brothers, undying friendships, dying marriages. Somewhere in the mélange I’ll stir in a theme. The futility of war. The cruelty of the human animal. The essential purity of the human soul.
Not that I believe any of that crap. War is a sad necessity. It settles the immediate conflict without fixing the ugly human paradox that caused it–every man, woman and child on this tiny, spinning marble is equally cruel and pure of heart. Both my ex-wives swore they loved me, yet that didn’t stop them from breaking their solemn promises so they could satisfy their craving for strange dick. Even the cowards who lured us to a destitute village then detonated the woman in the center of a ring of children believed in the righteousness of their cause.
After signing eight copies of my book for the six fans at the chain bookstore, I drive the rental car chain sedan to the chain motel that looks and smells like all the other chain motels on the tour. Next door is a mall that is also strikingly similar to the one I was at yesterday. I think it’s part of the same chain. I wander over to the chain restaurant connected to the mall for an early dinner.
The waitress is polite, but I’m just another customer. This is my third published novel. They pay the bills, but my face isn’t well known. Anonymity is fine with me. I can come and go without people mobbing me or trying to get their claws into my money or my soul.
I’ve always enjoyed walking, even before the Army taught me how to do it right. After the mostly flavorless meal I make a circuit through the mall. The chain bookstore–not the same chain as the one I was in earlier today–has my latest paperback on a prominent end-cap alongside James Higgins. I’m moving up in the world.
Strolling back across the mall parking lot, I notice a small bar tucked into a side road behind the hotel. I didn’t see it when I drove in. The logo on the lighted sign isn’t from one of those fern-bar chains. No Harleys or rusted pickups in sight, so I guess it’s safe enough. I veer off to give it a recon.
Inside, it looks like I’ve stumbled across that rare gem, a local watering hole. The hardwood decor is upscale with subdued lighting. A Steinway baby grand sits by a postage-stamp dance floor, but it’s early and the pianist hasn’t shown up yet.
The after-work crowd will start wandering in soon. Several of the tables are occupied. On the near side of the U-shaped bar, a couple with starry eyes is holding hands. On the far side, an attractive single woman sips from a martini glass.
My feet follow my little brain to the far side.
The woman is not a bombshell, but she’s well dressed and pleasing to the eye. The scent of her perfume is delicate. Judging by the rings, I’m guessing a housewife waiting for hubby. I take the stool next to her anyway. I can be an arrogant, controlling bastard. After the crap I’ve been through it occasionally suits my mood to jog people out of their comfort zones. This is one of those occasions. If her husband asks me to move, I will. But he’s gonna have to ask nice.
Spying a decent bourbon on the top shelf, I order a double with a splash, no ice. The woman is sipping at a martini with an olive. She ignores me, staring across the bar. That’s good. If she’s expecting someone she would either say so or at least give me a dirty look. Thankfully, she’s not flirty, either. A married woman on the prowl kindles residual anger from both divorces.
Sometimes, however, a married woman at a bar is just looking for a drink and a little conversation. I’ve come across a few of those. I’m no horn-dog. If that’s as far as it goes there will be no complaints from me. It’s hard to find decent company on the road that looks and smells as nice as this one does.
So, I ignore her too. I figure she’ll let me know soon enough if she’s interested in anything else.
It takes most of a minute. The bartender sets my drink in front of me. From the corner of my eye, I watch her head turn, peering first down toward my glass then up for a longer look at me.
You won’t find a man like me on the pages of GQ. My cheeks still show the remnants of teen acne. More recent scars make my scraggly beard look patchy. I don’t have penetrating blue eyes or perfect white teeth. My suit isn’t Armani, and my shoes aren’t Ferragamos.
“Nice to find a man who knows how to drink his bourbon,” the woman says.
The smooth, alto tone is sultry enough to melt ice cream. I’m in trouble. Before I respond I have to take a slow sip from my tumbler to give my heart rate time to cool down.
With the most poised look I can muster, I turn to her. “Nice to see a woman who knows how to hold her martini.”
Her thumb and fingertips are grasping the cocktail low on the stem. So many idiots out there cup the bowl because they think it makes them look sophisticated like some F. Scott Fitzgerald character. We all know what happened to them.
“One’s my limit,” she says, making a joke out of it. Her sly smile and the teasing way she twirls her glass back and forth tells me she knows what I meant.
I toss one back at her. “I guess that blows my next line where I offer to buy you another.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” she says. Her lips curl into a coy smile. “With the right offer a girl could be tempted.”
My heart sinks. She’s a delightfully clever woman. We could have traded wits for a while then gone our separate ways. The implied invitation marks her for what she is. I won’t be a party to the dissolution of another marriage.
When she lifts the martini to her juicy red lips again, she faces straight across the room the same as before.
As a soldier in a foreign land, I learned to read nuances of human behavior. When you didn’t understand the language, it was a matter of survival. My survival as a writer depends on my ability to convey details to my readers through subtle gestures. Conversations are riddled with deceptive noise. Body language rarely lies.
Looking over the top of her glass, the conspicuous lifting of her brow is a message to someone.
I resist the urge to follow her gaze. Instead, I study her for a moment. She is certainly attractive. Her jewelry looks like the real thing. I suspect this woman has few wants where money is concerned. A fair guess places her a little younger than me, in her late twenties or maybe thirties.
The woman is an interesting study in contradictions. Her bare legs are shapely. If they were crossed in front, they would have invited a stray hand. Instead, her ankles are locked demurely underneath, tucked into the crossbar of her stool. The champagne-colored designer dress is a conservative style, except for the provocative neckline that displays her porcelain swells in a way that’s clearly meant to draw my eyes. Apart from the lusty red of her lips, her makeup is tasteful. If she’s wearing a bra–which I doubt–it is no more than a shelf.
When I raise my eyes, she’s watching me gawk at her chest. I shrug with a sheepish smile then lift my own tumbler as I swivel on my stool to face across the bar. Taking a long, slow sip gives me the perfect opportunity to search for her accomplice.
A man is staring at me from a cushioned booth near the door. I missed him when I came in. He quickly looks away when he notices I’ve turned in his direction. He appears to be about my size. They are obviously a pair. His posture is confident, and the suit fits him well enough to be tailored. With that angular, clean-shaven face and firm jaw, he has the look of a CEO. A glint of gold on his finger adds weight to my theory.
This changes things. Maybe they’re looking for a three-way. Then again, I’ve heard about men who like to watch. Is that what’s going on here? My arrogance bubbles back to the surface. There may yet be hope for this night.
“I never told you my name.” I extend my hand to the woman. “Jack Galway.”
“Galway,” she repeats, scrunching her brow as we shake. Then she tosses it off. “Pleased to meet you, Jack. I’m Dana Dryer. Maiden name McCleod.”
“Ah, McLeod. Another fine Scottish clan.”
“Aye,” she winks. She has a genuine smile.
My fingers are loose around my drink on the bar. Dana covers my hand with hers. Her index finger draws tiny, titillating figure eights on the back.
“Do you live in this area, Mr. Galway?”
“Just passing through. I’ll be in St. Louis tomorrow.” I tell her.
“I have friends in St. Lou,” she says, swinging her crossed legs around in front.
Her eyes dilate and she draws a startled breath when I lay my hand on her knee. I’m not sure she was prepared for that. I become the surprised one when she uncrosses her legs slow enough to keep my hand in place, then spreads them about six inches apart. An engraved invitation would have been less transparent.
A struggle is going on behind her eyes. It’s almost as though they are pleading with me, ‘Please, don’t…’ even as her body opens itself to me. This scene is becoming more complex by the second.
“How long have you lived in this little burg?” I ask, pretty sure she doesn’t live here either.
My fingers sneak under the hem of her dress to stroke the inside of her knee. She stops teasing my hand and balls her fist.
“We, uh…I live about halfway between here and St. Lou,” she says. Her voice is unsteady and the silky alto is now strained.
“I presume by ‘we’, you mean you and your husband.” My fingertips begin drawing their own little figures on her delicate skin.
“My husband,” she says. She tosses a skittish microsecond glance across the room. “Yes. I’m married. He’s not your concern.”