Sea Legs: Chapter 3

faa-slide_03

My friend and writing partner K’lee was good enough to write a synopsis of the tale so far, and it’s available at https://obzervashunal.com/2016/06/29/a-sea-legs-synopsis-whats-it-all-about. It’s an ongoing story that’s open to anyone who wants to jump in. We still don’t know where it’s going, but that’s half the fun. Add a few sentences or paragraphs in our respective comments, along with your name and site address, and you’re in! (Photo by K’lee)

***

She’s crazy. I knew it the day I met her. I mean, what kind of woman gives a schmo like me a hundred thousand bucks to go out and find women to be ‘nice’ to their husbands. Yeah, funny how I said husbands, ’cause I’ve done this crap twice now. Two husbands, two divorces, and now she’s got this Mr. Carlisle with his fancy Brownie and not so fancy Buick, heading over to the Mondrian to catch –
I could tell him; warn him. Get him to see he’s being played like a fiddle with one loose string. But, then what? He’d start asking me all kinds of questions and I’m already in too deep, taken too much of Mattie’s moolah to get out now. He might be the kind of private dick to go right back to the source and tell her what I-
I just gotta stick it out; this one last job, then I’m out the door.  I’ll tell Mattie she can keep her money. No amount is worth all this stress,, the danger. Hell, I wanna be here to see my kids grow up, get into good schools, marry, have good lives. and I won’t if I keep playing with the fire that is Mathilda Von Sette.  (K’leehttps://obzervashunal.com)

***

You might be surprised how many men walk the streets, broken down to their bones. They carry their skin like useless baggage, their hearts crumpled, their heads a stew of dwindling bank balances and confused cravings.

Some call them gold-diggers, or the old stand-by, femmes fatales. Those words don’t do them justice. They’re women who drink the marrow out of men for pleasure and then toss away the rinds. Every man’s known at least one; they know how to field-dress a man’s self-respect and reputation, and they know where to bury the hide.

I was looking at one now, but I knew it. They’re not always beautiful, but they’re cunning and have at least one attribute that some men can’t live without: long silky legs, or full lips, a smile that melts the grip on your wallet. Or a voice like the devil’s mistress, a rush of smoke and honey. That was her: Corrine. Lorre was a dead man before he unbuttoned his collar for her, but the chump didn’t know it. They never do.

She arched her eyebrows when I offered her a smoke. My own heart thudded a little when I chased it with my Zippo, mesmerized by the curl of her lip.

I don’t dance, sailor,” she said. “You don’t look like you know the right steps. Not in those shoes.” She laughed.

I can foxtrot,” I said. “And I do that really well.”

Well bully for you. Thanks for the smoke, mac, but I’m waiting on a friend.”

A dancer, I bet.”

That’s none of your never-mind. You need to hit the bricks before he gets here. He’s temperamental about the company I keep.”

I’m a big boy,” I said. “I can take care of myself.” I looked into her eyes, and they were diamond chips, polished and blue. “What kind of a chimp makes a lady wait around for a ride? Your friend a cabby? I’ll tip him a fin to get lost. I can give you a lift. Might not be a Cadillac, but it’s got wheels.”

I don’t think so, sailor.”

I shrugged. “Your loss, sweetheart.” I flicked my smoke towards the gutter. “Another time, maybe.”

I doubt it,” she said.

I don’t,” I said, and padded off liked a cat. (Steve)

To be continued….

Advertisements

8 thoughts on “Sea Legs: Chapter 3

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s