Chapter 1 -- The Lady in Black
It was bitterly cold outside, and I welcomed the warmth of the room as I walked in. The howling wind insisted on keeping the door open, and it took some effort to get it closed. I was on travel for my company, would be for several weeks, and so I had the evenings and nights pretty much to myself.
The bar was one of those combined bar / restaurant places that seem to spring up on the corners of shopping malls, freeway exits, and near airports of big cities to attract the business travelers. Even though there are a handful of names on the outside, they're pretty much all the same on the inside. At any rate, it was a warm, comfortable place to go for a quiet beer or two. The howl of the wind outside stirred my creative spirit, and I was looking forward to some thoughtful reflection, some writing, and some good beer.
I found a quiet table, a tall one in a small island of light, that looked to be the perfect place to sit and write. I got comfortable, ordered a tall glass of my favorite beer, and started to think. It wasn't too long before I found a place to start, but just as I put pen to paper, I became aware of a change in the room. I tried to ignore it at first, thinking it had simply been someone coming in or going out and letting the chill from outside into the room. As my concentration waned, I realized it was more than that. Something had caught the attention of pretty much everyone in the bar. I put down my pen, looked up, and immediately saw the reason.
A woman had come into the bar and instantly captured everyone's attention. It was the sudden lack of the conversation noise that had grabbed me, and I could see why: pretty much no one was talking; all their attention was on the woman. I could see why that was, too, because I was among the crowd.
"Hot" does not begin to describe her, just as "hot and bothered" does not begin to describe the state in which I was quickly finding myself. I watched in rapt fascination as she took off her long black overcoat and draped it over the back of a chair at an empty table. From head to toe she was dressed in black.
She stood at her table, her dark hair framing her angular face. A snug-fitting black blouse hugged her form under a short leather jacket. A short leather skirt hugged her hips. The black boots she wore reached to her knees, leaving a luscious amount of leg still exposed. She wore black leather gloves, too, which I noticed when she moved her hands to push her hair back from her face as the barmaid came up to her table.
I watched her interact with the barmaid, and everything about her spoke of confidence, poise, and class. In fact, her manner of dress was (aside from incredibly hot & sexy) classy and stylish. I wondered if she always dressed this way, or whether she was had simply gone out this evening in search of a partner, maybe "on the prowl" or something. Who or what was she looking for? I wanted to know more about her. She was the stuff my fantasies were made of, and oh, how hot they were.
Unfortunately as I looked around the bar, I saw I wasn't the only one. Seemed like every damned guy in the place had the same idea, and the same goal in mind, namely, to score with this woman. The unaccompanied ones were pretty much openly staring, and those there with female companions were catching more-or-less surreptitious longing glances when and where they could. Most of the women were looking none too pleased, I noticed with some amusement.
Amusement or not, I knew as I watched her I wouldn't have a chance. It'd only be the great memory and fantastic mental image of her and what we might get up to together that'd stoke up the solo fire later. It didn't help that as I watched, some single guy came up to her table and started to talk with her. However, from the way she held her head, to the way she sat up straight in her chair, suggested that he was about to be summarily dismissed. His rejection and dismissal was confirmed shortly as I watched him walk back to the bar and his buddies, his head a little lower than he'd started.
Well, damn the bad luck,
I thought, on the one hand sorry for the guy but on the other secretly pleased that he'd been shot down. Even though I had a feeling that the open staring and mindless chatter were what cost the others their chance, I did not want to take my eyes from her., but I shifted my gaze away from her and let my imagination run free. As it happened, that was to be my success. Not knowing it at the time though, I continued to sit and stare idly into the middle distance.
After a while my focus shifted back to the Woman in Black, who I noticed had apparently just rebuffed an offer of a drink from someone.
Aannnd... you're OUT!
I thought, laughing inwardly.
Guess we know who's leading in this game, don't we?
I gazed at the woman a while longer, took a sip of beer, and picked up my pen. I took another glance at her, and happened to catch her eye. I smiled politely and nodded, and got the same in return.
That's nice,
I thought, taking my victories where I could get them. I rested my forehead on one hand and began writing with the other. It was now not a reflection on the day's events and the cold weather and working conditions out there, but building the outline of a tale involving the woman who now so filled my vision, my imagination, my mind's eye. The more I wrote, the more the imaginary scene came into focus and took shape. Every once in a while I'd raise my head to look at her, and once or twice caught her watching me, which had the effect of urging on the writing. The barmaid came along, and I ordered another pint without much thought and without looking up at her.
"Want to wait on that?" she asked.
My first thought was
No, actually I wouldn't,
since I'd just begun to feel the stir of erotic muse, and I felt like another beer would help it along just fine.
"Hang on a moment," I said without looking up. I kept writing, my mind still on the newcomer in the bar. I read over what I'd just written and put down my pen. I looked up at her; she was quite pretty. "I'd like another pint of the same," I answered. "But tell me why I should wait."
"Well, for starters," she began, leaning an elbow on my table, "that nice lady over there just offered to buy you one."
I stared at her, mouth agape. She instantly had all my attention. I looked in the direction she'd nodded. My patroness was none other than Ms. Black Leather!
She
had bought
me
a beer? I gathered my wits and raise my empty glass in silent toast. "Thank you," I spoke in a barely audible whisper. She nodded, smiling slightly.
Suddenly I found myself with dry mouth and sweaty palms, as well as that strange-but-nice "butterflies in the stomach" sort of feeling. I looked back at my barmaid. She seemed to be enjoying the whole scene; her eyes narrowed slightly and the hint of a smile graced her lips.
"Take that as a yes?" she said.
"Sure. Bring me the same. Black," I said. "To match her outfit," I added, raising my glass to Ms. Black Leather. "Tell her that too, if you would."
"Tell her...?"
"Tell her this," I said, reaching back in my memory, reaching back to my Navy days.
The Officer of the Deck sends his respects, and reports the noon position.
"Yes. Tell her that the gentleman sends his respects, and says that the black beer will go well with her stunning black leather," I answered. "And many thanks, too," I added. I chanced a sideways glance at my anonymous friend, and had the impression that she was intensely interested in the conversation at my table.
"Black it is," my barmaid friend said. "Good luck."
Good luck? I wasn't gambling, but I appreciated her sentiment all the same. On the other hand, it looked like I might be on the road to winning something. I'd certainly won the lady's attention.
I took the opportunity to indulge in a more careful perusal of my benefactor. The subdued light of the bar and the light above her table lent additional eroticism to her black leather. I could hold my head one way and see certain highlights, and from another angle, see others. The shadows enhanced her mystery, and I was thrilled to be the subject of her attention.
We caught each others' eyes and exchanged another nod. As she reached for her glass I noticed she still wore her gloves. The "butterflies" in my stomach either did a pirouette, or else my pulse skipped a beat. I suddenly remembered a particularly hot young woman in a psychology class in college.
That young woman, I remembered, had a face and a pair of boobs and a figure to die for. She apparently had some thing or attraction or fascination about gloves. The semester started in late August and the weather was still warm. But regardless of the weather, every single day I'd see her come into the lecture hall with her gloves on. It was an early-morning class, so maybe she drove and wore the gloves for driving. Anyway, I did enjoy watching her carefully take them off and lay them on the desk beside her. She clearly wore them often, as they held the shape of her hands. Then she'd take this incredibly sexy stretch: arms out to her sides, palms up, then she'd arch backwards, all the way to her neck, and nearly always there I was in the back row, watching the whole show. I know she knew I was her, and that I enjoyed her little exhibition, but I never followed up on anything with her. Never even learned her name. Anyway, she certainly did something for me in the way of making leather gloves something sexy.
Ms. Black Leather still wore hers. The sleeves of her short leather jacket came to her wrists, so that from finger tip to shoulder she was in leather. Underneath, from neckline to waist seemed to be silk or satin. Elegant, classy, and sexy. I sat back, hoping that I was going to get to know her better, and simply enjoyed watching her. Poise, confidence, and raw, unbridled lustful sex... I thought of where my thoughts had carried me, considered the present, and took up my pen again. Thoughts and ideas came faster than I could write. My attention was divided among Ms Black Leather, the barmaid, and my writing.
As for the barmaid, where had she gone?
Ah, excellent.
There she was behind the bar waiting for the tap to clear to draw a glass.
Poetry in motion,
I thought as I watched the black gold flow down the inside of the glass. Soon she was done. I watched her step out from behind the bar, and make her way to my new friend's table.
I watched with interest as she stopped next to my patroness, and wondered what passed between them. They had a brief interchange, and then she was on the way to my table with my glass. I closed my pen and notebook.
"The Lady returns your compliments, Sir, and wishes you drink to good health." With that, she set down the glass and vanished. I raised the glass to my lips, savoring the great thick head. Never had a beer tasted so fine.
Not completely surprised, but very pleased, the black Guinness was soon followed by the woman in the snug-fitting black leather.
"I like your taste," she said simply, standing across the table from me.
I was just about on fire, but I wasn't about to let on, and I felt I couldn't dare. "Many thanks for the beer," I said, nodding to her. "You are dressed very nicely." Exquisitely, in fact: the leather skirt just over her knees, the tall boots, the black gloves, the bolero jacket, the black silk blouse underneath.
"Thank you. You're nicely dressed as well."
I wasn't about to admit how she affected me. I tried like mad to calm the butterflies, to be smooth and calm. I had no idea how she'd chosen me out of the group of Neanderthals and I really did not want to wreck this.
Don't blow it,
I told myself. I had something of a record of speaking before I thought, which had cost me a few relationships in the past.
"Jackie," she said simply as she took a glove off. She extended a bare hand to me, which I took in both hands, squeezed slightly, and released. "Short for Jacqueline, which is a mouthful. You?"
She began to pull her other glove off, then carefully laid them on the table and smoothed them out. I had an impression that after her travels and after the nonsense she'd recently deflected in the bar, that she felt like she'd finally arrived at her destination. "May I join you?"
"Please do," I answered. She smoothed her skirt and sat across from me. I could just see her boots without obviously staring as she sat sideways on her chair. "Mick," I said, "short for Michael, which is a syllable less than yours, and not so much of a mouthful."
"So it is," she said. "But that's a nice name, too." She placed her hands on the table, one atop the other on her gloves.
I wondered if she was as nervous as I was. "But a big mouthful, you say? How big is big?" There I went: speaking before thinking again.
