Harvey stopped the hopeless battle with his eye lids. He let them come crashing down like a curtain closing on a play that’s gone on for too damn long. Dry, cracked lips parted, letting wisps of smoke curl towards the ceiling to fade into the shadows above.
His tired eyes parted with a shock, those blues found themselves locked on the high cut dress that clung to the wavy curves of the fox from the stage, draped over the table with a tempting stare.
Slender fingers pushed past the dark between them, parting the curtain of smoke to pluck the dangling cigarette clinging to his thin lips. She made sure her lips parted slowly, letting her tongue slip just a little with a heated sigh as the stolen cigarette was placed between her lips. She took one slow drag, puffing the smoke in his direction before replacing the stick between his lips without a word.
"Got a name, honey?" Jessica idly shifted her position, if only to show a little bit more of that bronze thigh driving her audience mad. Pursing her lips into a heart shape around his stale tobacco, making no effort to hide the wrinkle-nosed expression that flooded over her face at the taste.
“Harvey, ” He pushed himself up in his seat, bringing his elbow to the rim of the bench seat. His head leaned to one side, letting stray brown strands fall in front of his shamelessly wandering eyes. “Dolls call me ‘Harv’, savvy?” The slurring answer fell flat, the cat was far too in the bottle for suave.
Her body reacted as if on command to his gaze, moving subtly to let the fading light catch the red sequins of her awfully tight dress. Leaning forward, Jack was hit with a flood of senses. The singer smelled of roses, lust, and... danger. "I'm sure, big guy. Tell me, what's a man of the law doing in a place like this?"
She was efficient in keeping up with the flirtatious look about their conversation, reaching out to toy with the sweat-clung brown hair framing his face. Jessica had seen his kind before, cops, detectives, wannabe' gangsters down on their luck and looking for a good time.
She knew the signs well, and he had all of them.
“I’m mortal. What’s mortal but sin, doll?” Hard fingers reached for his tie, still tucked under his vest. He tugged it loose, giving him space to slip the top button of his smoke stained shirt undone. His head swayed to the left, the hair she toyed with curling in her fingers. He said nothing more, letting his eyes rip away from that goddess's bronzed thighs to the barman, nodding for another.
"Lookin' for trouble? This isn't the place to be. We ain't doing nothing illegal here, sugar." She waved the barman over, the towering unit of a middle aged man with an expression too tight to care ambling over with a dusty bottle nestled in one arm. "We'll look after you, -Harv'-" She purred amusedly, hopping from the table to saunter back towards the stage, looking over her shoulder one last time with a long lashed wink.
The sound came as if in slow motion. The instant the barman placed the home brewed liquor upon the table with a dulled thud, a terrible crash came from the kitchen behind the bar; and one thing was for certain, the fox was nowhere to be seen. Patrons looked around in mute surprise, rubbing at their drunken faces with rough hands.
Maybe he didn’t hear it, maybe he didn’t care, but Jack didn’t bother to reach into his jacket. He only moved to pop the cork, fill his glass and make sure he was lost in moonshine. One more shot down, then another just as fast.
With the sudden clarity only good liquor can bring a man, he found himself giving a damn. His hand flashed into his coat, racking back the hammer on the bean-shooter in its holster. He spit his cigarette to the floor, grabbing the bottle by the neck and slipped behind a corner, making the act look as casual as can be.
Just another drunken bird down in the gutter with the rest of the dredges.
When nothing came Jack let himself step back into the main bar, prying eyes and gawkers all looked towards the kitchen. He didn’t even realize the six shot was already free from its holster and ready by the time he hit the scene. “Blow on outta here!” He hissed to a few of the pushier drunks as he shoved past.
He stopped cold at the door, his grip on the bottle loosened while he held the revolver that much tighter. Spread out on the white kitchen floors was the trouble he’d been nagged with all night.
The girl was spread out and open; cut from ear to ear, sliced from throat to stomach and then some. It all rang like a bad movie, red everywhere amongst the black and white, something vague scribbled on the walls.
Harvey gave the girl one more sigh before making his way to the letters written in the girls own blood, gritting his teeth in annoyance: “Eris quod sum”.
Why was nothing ever easy?