Derry, Northern Ireland

Derry, Northern Ireland
A book I'm working on is set in this town.

Friday, November 1, 2013

Carli Kills -- opening

The moment she appeared at the entrance, every guy in the bar noticed. Curls of spun gold barely subdued by the minimal lighting. Legs all the way to the floor. Tits made in heaven. Low top in just the right shade of red to make her eyes gleam like emeralds. Jeans fitted like a second skin, matched by a jacket that was too light for the chilly desert air. A curve to her hips that was a hundred times more than sensual. She was like a queen surveying her realm, and not liking what she saw.

No surprise, there. Shadow Bar was one of those biker joints made of dark corners, hubcaps and license plates on the walls, neon beer logos that flickered, cracked tile to walk on, creaky ceiling fans fighting to keep the breeze going, and patrons who’d never heard it was illegal to smoke anything inside, no matter what kind of weed was rolled in their papers. Of course, these were the types into work boots and leather bustiers and naked arms and knives on their belts and shots sitting beside their beers. The men were mostly shaved bald; the women, halfway; and most of the hair left over was colored more glaring than natural. Plus, the ratio of tattoos to unmarked flesh was damn near ten to one, and the only jewelry was pierced through noses, lips, ears and eyebrows.

She sighed like she’d seen it all before and prowled into the room, sharp-toe boots with Spanish heels clicking on the tile, stopping just long enough for the bartender to check her ID and drop a long-neck before striding across to the pool tables. She pulled off the jacket, set up a table then took a cue, all with an ease that screamed, “Come and play, if you dare,” before she leaned down and did a perfect break. Even men without a drop of blood left in their veins stopped breathing at the sight of her perfect ass, and even those chicks not into jealously swatted their boys, pissed as hell.

Word got around, thanks to the bartender -- the name on the driver’s license was Anastasia Velasco. Lived near the college. Twenty-three. Taurus. Every guy in the room felt he knew her, and wanted to know her even better. But only a couple of guys were loners, that night. One, who fancied himself a super dick, offered to play, but she shrugged him off. Another was shot down without even so much as a glance from her.

Then a chunky bearded dude swaggered up, waited till she bent over the table to smack a ball, and pushed his crotch against her butt, giggling like an idiot. A few other patrons, male and female, joined his laughter.

All she did was rise and turn to him, her gaze cool and calm and unquestioning.

“More o’ that right here, sweetcheeks,” chuckled the chunk as he grabbed his crotch.

“He’s just your style, honey,” laughed a pierced-up female type.

Another held up her pinkie and sneered, "Real big, yeah, really."

The woman just mingled her fingers in the chunk’s beard, drew him close and whispered loud enough for the whole bar to hear, “I’m not into cunts.” Then she shoved him away.

He stiffened, angry, but before he could even formulate the thought of trying to think about doing anything in response, she jammed her cue on his instep at just enough of an angle to hurt without breaking it. He yelped and hopped back and fell on his ass, his beer spilling everywhere.

Now the whole bar laughed.

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