fic: get into my car, got a bad desire (1/2)
And he would never refuse a lady.
~
She’s never done anything like this before. She’d been sitting at the bar in her little black dress (everybody should have one, her mother says, the sun gleaming off her scalp), looking terribly out of place, and not feeling it. He walked in, smelling of abandon and motor oil, recklessness and wind.
He buys her a drink, looking like he’s famished.
“Take me away.” She says, and he does.
Of course he does, she didn’t expect anything else.
~
It’s the dingiest dive he’s found and she’s calmly sitting there, in a pink little sundress he wants to rip off her, looking perfectly at home. Her Mary Jane heels tapped an inaudible beat on the dirty floor.
“Gotta hand it to you, princess. I thought you’d have caught the first bus home by now.” The cold beer’s numbing his hand and he reaches for a cigarette.
“What makes you say that?” Clear voice, even her pronunciation’s perfect. She looks at him with a raised eyebrow, the greasy hamburger barely nibbled sitting in front of her.
“Know the type, ‘s all.”
“Is that so?” She smiles at his cocky tone, and for a moment looks like she’ll eat him alive.
~
She almost tears his back to ribbons, on the first night, and he realises she isn’t some wanna-be Debbie, experienced behind the bleachers and wearing white on Sundays.
She falls like sand through his fingers and he doesn’t know what to do with a girl like that.
~
She was lying in the back seat, feet hanging out of the window.
He’s finishes the stale beer before throwing the bottle away and climbing in the car again.
“Let’s go.” She slides her long legs inside (and god does he want them wrapped around him) and leans forward. An arm reaches around his throat and the frames of her sunglasses feel cool when they brush against the skin.
“Where to next?” She breathes in his ear and there’s goose bumps he can’t blame on the heat.
~
Most eyes turn to her when she enters a room. It’s nobody’s fault, really, not even her own. She must have been a queen in a past life, he thinks, one that made men die for her without even trying.
“Don’t you have somebody waiting for you? Looking like you do, there must be somebody.” He wants to get a rise out of her, anything. He usually takes a sick pleasure in ruining blushing school girls and newly-weds, but with her he wants to break the bottle on the floor. He won’t, though. His ma taught him better manners than that.
She traces circles on the spilled beer and replied with a hollow “there used to be”.
“What happened, he ran off with your best friend?” He can’t resist the jab.
“He’s dead.” The smile couldn’t have left his face faster if she had slapped it off. “His funeral had been that morning.”
She slides off the bench, legs closed, like a lady, and walks out of the bar.
He orders another drink, the strongest they have. Shattered little princess in a black dress, and he doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
Part Two
~
She’s never done anything like this before. She’d been sitting at the bar in her little black dress (everybody should have one, her mother says, the sun gleaming off her scalp), looking terribly out of place, and not feeling it. He walked in, smelling of abandon and motor oil, recklessness and wind.
He buys her a drink, looking like he’s famished.
“Take me away.” She says, and he does.
Of course he does, she didn’t expect anything else.
~
It’s the dingiest dive he’s found and she’s calmly sitting there, in a pink little sundress he wants to rip off her, looking perfectly at home. Her Mary Jane heels tapped an inaudible beat on the dirty floor.
“Gotta hand it to you, princess. I thought you’d have caught the first bus home by now.” The cold beer’s numbing his hand and he reaches for a cigarette.
“What makes you say that?” Clear voice, even her pronunciation’s perfect. She looks at him with a raised eyebrow, the greasy hamburger barely nibbled sitting in front of her.
“Know the type, ‘s all.”
“Is that so?” She smiles at his cocky tone, and for a moment looks like she’ll eat him alive.
~
She almost tears his back to ribbons, on the first night, and he realises she isn’t some wanna-be Debbie, experienced behind the bleachers and wearing white on Sundays.
She falls like sand through his fingers and he doesn’t know what to do with a girl like that.
~
She was lying in the back seat, feet hanging out of the window.
He’s finishes the stale beer before throwing the bottle away and climbing in the car again.
“Let’s go.” She slides her long legs inside (and god does he want them wrapped around him) and leans forward. An arm reaches around his throat and the frames of her sunglasses feel cool when they brush against the skin.
“Where to next?” She breathes in his ear and there’s goose bumps he can’t blame on the heat.
~
Most eyes turn to her when she enters a room. It’s nobody’s fault, really, not even her own. She must have been a queen in a past life, he thinks, one that made men die for her without even trying.
“Don’t you have somebody waiting for you? Looking like you do, there must be somebody.” He wants to get a rise out of her, anything. He usually takes a sick pleasure in ruining blushing school girls and newly-weds, but with her he wants to break the bottle on the floor. He won’t, though. His ma taught him better manners than that.
She traces circles on the spilled beer and replied with a hollow “there used to be”.
“What happened, he ran off with your best friend?” He can’t resist the jab.
“He’s dead.” The smile couldn’t have left his face faster if she had slapped it off. “His funeral had been that morning.”
She slides off the bench, legs closed, like a lady, and walks out of the bar.
He orders another drink, the strongest they have. Shattered little princess in a black dress, and he doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
Part Two