𝕸𝖊𝖒𝖔𝖎𝖗𝖘 𝖔𝖋 𝖆 𝕸𝖆𝖉𝖒𝖆𝖓

[𝘿𝙚𝙖𝙙 𝙈𝙖𝙣]

 

     Simply stunning. Some women are born with that natural movie magic. It was like an angel had walked into this rundown bar in this god-forsaken little town to smite down the demons that inherited it after midnight.

   The catastrophic clamor calmed. I could only pull my gaze away to notice that among me — every other pathetic patron here was in awe as well. All basking in her little gift of hell. 

  She was dressed her best in this bright ballroom gown and high heels to match. White gold wrapped her wrists and ankles in these dainty chains that complimented her caramel-coffee complexion. Her hair was pinned back, styled as tedious as the makeup she wore. Lips were painted a dark red like red wine held up into the light or like half-dried blood that put me on edge. Nothing, though, could steal away those cat-like eyes that sat perfectly in the center of her diamond-shaped profile. 

   I snickered, watching some broad 'bow her lover boy in the ribs. Someone was rightfully jealous. My grin seemed to carry with me as my eyes landed back on her. Her eyes hit mine and my heart grew cold, my breath lodged somewhere in my throat. 

  She smiled and looked down at her purse. A few black frays escaped her ear, counseling my reward. It's impolite to stare, but I couldn't help but hang on a few seconds longer— waiting to see if they dared challenge me a second time.

    They did. 

  With it came the cute, sinful grin. She came across bashful, and that's when I realized my teeth were tugging on the loop of my pierced labret. Honestly, I'm surprised I didn't rip it right out. It's a manner I can't control, the very thought of her doing it for me puts me in a cold sweat. If that's the price for the look in my eyes, so be it.

  That's when I noticed she wasn't alone. Of course, a Cuban coqui such as her wouldn't come alone— though I admit with two other fellas almost as tall and a little more fit was rather intimidating. It's been a while since I've gotten into a worthy scuffle — and though I'm sure I've got more experience in my knuckles I don't have her in my corner. Amazing the fire a woman can give a man. They truly are the adrenaline in our veins. 

  Particularly one fellow, standing six foot and some change, with long raven-like hair tied into a ponytail, and wore the fuck out of his white guayabera. He was drawing most of the attention from the ladies. As handsome as he was, it was easy to assume they were a couple. 

  The other, a doughy dick, I assumed was their comedic third wheel. He was your stereotypical Cubano, a fat, funny fuck-wit in a fedora that matched some cheap checkered suit to mask his plump stomach. I've fought bigger boys, and though some can't hit worth a lick others are like boxing a bull. That's the thing about fat guys — they hide their muscle. 

  My gut tells me I can take him with my eyes closed, but Rico is different. You can look into a man's eyes and know they've been to prison. It is a place I know plenty. His eyes met mine once and his unconcerned countenance never wavered. We size each other, both reading the other's tattoos. He didn't seem to be in a gang, nor had I, but we both checked. 

   Neither had an interest in the sanguine senorita. Their attention was fixed solely on the pool tables. By the look in their eyes, they had come to play. Pool sharks. They'll hustle their free drinks through the night. I've not seen them before, but they will play hell against our barroom hero, Mike. It was all he ever lived for— always here when I'd pass by on my way to work. 

  I watch them gather at the tables, Mike has that look when a predator locks eyes for its next kill. In some ways, I'm envious of his career. With the stack of cash rolled up into a rubber band was nearing a few grand and all was made from the misfortunate miscalculations of a man who should have gone pro. 

  More money hit the green felt. I wanted to take my phone and capture a clever image to post on Pinterest. People go crazy for these types of aesthetics but knowing Mike, they probably wouldn't get it. Instead, I leave my lonely table to head towards the bar. It's time for another whiskey sour. 

  Dani is running the booth. For someone so pint-sized, she was fun. Irish blood, with these silver witchy eyes. People love giving her hell for her petite size, standing maybe four foot and a half. She looks like a freshman in high school running the bar. Anytime she asks for someone's ID it is the same routine. Never a need to stick up for her, she's a firecracker. A nod and a whistle lets me know when she's in trouble and I get to do what I love most, forcing some punk out the door for a free drink. 

  She knows why I'm here. 

  We had a small fling once, but I'm never one for a dominatrix. The things I endured to see her put on her little show, all dressed in a latex one-piece that I see every time she gives me those enchanting eyes. Her fetish was the full control of giants. It's always awkward talking to someone who rode you like a fucking horse galloping on all fours for her amusement. It was embarrassing, despite the cute chuckles that escaped her lips while bridling me with her crop.

  A little sadistic shit; she wrapped my head in a plastic bag and warned me if I tore a hole out that I wouldn't get my reward. There was a thrill in the unknown as my vision was replaced with sensual silhouettes of her. She struck me with her crop, but I gave her nothing. All I could focus on was the plastic inhaling and exhaling and the taste of my carbon footprint. 

  I had to give it to her, it was well worth the reward feeling both her hands stroking me while on all fours like I was some prized horse with the seed of a thoroughbred. She complimented my cock, fondled my balls in her small hand. It was hard to hold myself up, feeling my elbows and knees cave to her aftercare. From this position, I felt milked dry. The more she rubbed my nuts the more I came everywhere on the floor. I swear, my orgasm felt like it lasted for ten solid minutes. 

  Yes, I still remember it like yesterday. What a strange sensation to look at the tainted smile from a woman who has seen you at your most degrading, still smiling. If I wanted to, I knew I could relive the moment. Though, she was wild. The type of wild that would be a crime to tame. Some things are better enjoyed once, but it was a lie to say my cock didn't stir as she shook the contents in the mixer with both hands. 

  Dani put my whiskey sour down and gave me an on-the-house wink. She always was a witchy little thing— reading the sorrow pinning in my heart. I never was one to mask my emotions. I brought the glass up to the light, admiring the cloudy mixture of sweet and sour mix swirling with the spirit of Jack Daniels. Nobody made them better than her so I offered her a toast. 

   She nodded to the end of the bar and grinned. I glanced to see that sweet Spanish showstopper staring right at me. The whiskey hadn't even hit my lips but I felt the warmth envelop me. It seemed like a few younger bucks were badgering her but she wasn't paying them any mind. Her lips parted and I swore I caught the glimpse of her tongue trailing behind her burgundy lips, careful not to ruin her lipstick. 

   Two Coronas with lime, and a Modelo with an orange slice for its garnish, all of which were draft. Caleb poured them perfectly— the bar's brewmaster — leaving a perfect inch of foam at the top. I figured the Modelo was hers, but I didn't see them usually with a slice of orange, much less a blood orange. She dressed it at the table, flinging it like a frisbee as Caleb aimed the trash bin. She took a small sip after paying and I'd done anything to have been that glass— sporting those sanguine stains on my collar. 

  You always can tell those who worked in food service. She pushed the glasses together, shaking her head when what I assumed was Caleb offering her a caddy. With both hands, she bundled the salted-brim glasses tightly together and spun elegantly on her heel without any concern of spilling or dropping them on her way back to the pool tables. I think Dani noticed this, too. They were starving for help. The tips this girl would make on this steady Sunday night— almost everyone at the bar watched her waltz away, her alluring, ample, lovely Latina ass in succulent sway. 

   Like a lost puppy, I follow after her. I feel the world trying to get in my way. This is how destiny reveals itself. Dancers bumping into me, drunks not paying attention, but I don't see them. No, I only see her as I move through the hoard. I slam the whiskey, feeling desperate for some liquid courage, placing the empty glass on a random table occupied by other newcomers. They said something to me but I didn't care. I'd smash it in their face if they dared stop me while on the hunt. 

   Thankfully, I didn't trip. 

    Mike wasn't doing so hot with Rico breaking and running the table on him. But then again, all Mike needed was his chance. One wrong move and it'll all be over. I suspect the bigger boy is bumping into the table on purpose. That shit may fly in other bars but not here— not with Mike. I couldn't tell if he was sandbagging yet or not. Sometimes you have to lose a little before going all-in. 

  My nerves get the best of me and I find myself passing right by her to go out on the patio. Her smell followed after me— one I knew well: seven summers. I basked in all its bouquets. The notes of Cuban cigars, vanilla, coconut, pear, lavender, praline, and bergamot are bound beautifully in a time capsule I never wanted to leave. It left my heart breaking as the smell of spilled beer wafted with the outside wind. 

  Outside, I take a seat and endure the torture of watching her through the glass. She had a beautiful smile. I felt ashamed I wasn't there to hear her lovely laugh but it seemed to warm up the hearts around her, even getting Mike to laugh — and trust me, this is no easy task. Perhaps it was the shot of alcohol or this pinning heartache in my chest, but self-preservation hit me hard. What am I doing? She is out of my league. But then my brain reminds me: so was Dani. So was the girl who brought me here on this lonesome day. 

  To collect myself, I pull out my phone. The cute Cubanita brought a whirlwind of words that just kept hitting me. Some people have that gift to inspire you and fill your head with poetry in motion. I knew if I didn't jot it down now I'd never get it back. It wasn't the best poetry in the world, but the rhymes kept coming to me in waves:

 Her lips pursed a well-timed curse. To make things worse, her Hispanic accent softly serenaded sentences like a poetic verse. So adverse, almost as if they were rehearsed. The way her heels click reminds me of a nurse. If I'm not careful, I may very well wind up in a hearse…

 Stupid now — I know — but with some tweaks and edits I might make something out of this yet. Poetry is and always will be my passion. As dark and cold as I am, I am hopeless when it comes to romantic things. Grow up with nothing and you'll see all the little things we get for free as something. The rain, the soft song of birds, the scent of vast flora. These are the things I enjoy most. And though free, I've learned nobody can take them away from me. They— like my literal words— will always be. 

  An hour ticked by and I almost forgot about the woman and her pleasant little gifts. It was certainly a shock to see her step outside and bring a smoke up to her lips. We made eye contact when she started to approach me looking to bum a light. Oh, goodness, what a night…