Bending The Rules, Blurring The Lines.

[Silvert0ngue]

Close for myself and Apollo Wilde​

Name: Connel O'Shae
Occupation: Police Lieutenant
Age: 26
Origin: Irish-American Imigrant
Appearance: 6'4 200 lbs, blue eyes, red hair, pale skin.

“O’Shea, get in here!” He hopped up from his desk and walked into Captain Leary’s office. The aged older man was heavy set, and showed his years of working behind a desk rather than being in the field. He looked like he had been stuffed into his shirt, and slacks, rather than them actually fitting the pear shaped Irishman.

“Sir?” Connal asked in a deep, quiet tone of voice. He was not trying to tiptoe, or grovel, this was just often how he spoke. When not having to put on an air of authority, he was a soft spoken man with an imposing presence. His mother had always told him that he had a “hundred mile stare” and that he had to make a concerted effort not to stare a hole in someone. He didn’t understand what she meant, but he had noticed that his gaze tended to unsettle most people. Perhaps it was because it was paired with that soft voice that could easily be mistaken for a threatening tone, and his broad frame.

“Close the door!” The older man barked, and Connal obeyed instantly by gently closing the door. The older man drew the blinds, as he always did when he was about to light someone up for screwing something up, but this was not one of those times. He had never found a reason to berate the young officer. He had an exemplary record, and showed good judgement, loyalty, and always took the straight and narrow path. That was exactly why he was in this office, and this staged dress down was taking place.

“I have another speak easy for you boy.” The older man’s voice was grim. Something was different about this assignment.

“Another sir? They are popping up quicker than I can handle them. I’m going to need help at this rate. There is not enough hours in the day.” That unsettling star fixed on his commanding officer, but didn’t effect him.

“I know son, I can’t offer you any help right now. Pretty much every officer on the force is being paid by someone. You are the only one who can do this, so we will take them as we can. If I can trust someone else, I’ll bring them in, but right now doing so will just get you killed boy. I can’t afford that.” The older man spat into a brass container sitting near his desk. A murky substance sloshed out and hit the side, then wetly dropped into the bucket.

The young officer tried not to grimace, he couldn’t understand such a disgusting habit, but he never questioned the old man’s wisdom, that was what mattered here, not his vices. “Alright, what’s the story then?”

It was that simple, he was ready to go. Those blue eyes reflected steel in his core, steel that was tested every time he took one of these places down. “This is a big one, kid. You need to be careful. Your mother will tie me up by my ears if you get hurt. This isn’t just a boozer. Reefer, prostitution, we here there is even some co-mingling.”

He understood the score, but he couldn’t understand the hatred that everyone had for the black folk. He certainly didn’t have a personal score to settle with them, but it was against the law, and that meant it was something he had to enforce. He felt the weight of the task ahead of him. He didn’t agree with the laws preventing blacks and whites from having relations, but that didn’t really matter.

“Okay, give me the details.”
--------------------

It was night fall by the time he left the tiny apartment he shared with his family. Mother, father, two brothers and a sister all packed into such a small space. Still it was not an arrangement of necessity, their house was always filled with love and life. Just before he left, his sister had been performing a song she was going to be singing this Sunday in church. He interrupted her song only briefly to kiss her on the forehead. His brothers waved him out the door, but his father stopped him. If he had a hard stare, his father had one made of granite. He handed the young man a leather knife that was designed to be strapped to his calf, beneath his pant leg. “I know you are always smart, but it never hurts to have some steel close at hand.” He tried to pass it back to his father, tried to protest, but the two fought a war of wills without ever uttering another word. The young man took it with a nod. The gesture was not lost on him. His father had worn this blade for thirty years, working the dangerous docks district down near the harbor. “Thank you” the soft lilting voice of his son returned.

With that he stepped out of the apartment and made his way through the stained halls toward the front door. He stood out in this place, dressed as he was. A fine brown suit, the hat to match. He adjusted the bow tie at his throat, and smoothed his hand over the vest along his chest that sat neatly over the light blue shirt, picked out specifically because they matched his eyes. His brown shoes clicked against the stone steps as he exited the complex. The place oddly enough wasn’t terribly far from his home. It was only a short walk and he found himself looking at an old church. He felt his blood heat up with rage, and his fair features showed his anger. He knew he had to compose himself before stepping any closer. Taking a deep breath, counting to ten he knocked on the boarded up door. No answer came, but he could hear foot steps. A brief exchange, and a pass code later and he was granted entrance. The man behind the door was even bigger than he was, and not nearly as well dressed. Just a rumpled shirt, a pair of slacks, and suspenders, and none of it matched. He was tucking what looked like a military grade shot gun behind his back. He added illegal weapons possession to the list in his head as he made his way into the abandoned church. To his surprise the altar moved aside, and led to some solid stone stairs. It looked as if it may have once been part of the underground rail road, and had since been converted into a den of sin. The smell of smoke wafted up from the stair well, as did the sound of music and laughter. He stepped in and began looking around. At six foot four, and a solid two hundred pounds the crowd parted for him easily.

He continued casing the place, looking for exits, and potential heavies that might cause his problem. It was just then that a lone female voice held a beautiful note at the end of a song. His eyes were drawn to the stage and he froze in his tracks. Who was she?

 

[Apollo Wilde]

When Johnny had told her that up North would be her ticket to the high life and glamor, she’d leapt on it. Salivated at the idea of shaking the red dust of one horse town Opelousas, Louisiana off of her feet and actually bein’ someone instead of another face in a crowd of ‘em. Something she dreamed of when she tried to sleep at night with one sister’s feet in her face and another’s bony elbows jamming into her ribs. Singing was about all she had, growing up. Started in the church, like so many others, and sometimes, when she could, she’d sneak out to the juke joints to see how the ladies with real careers did it, and when she got a minute to herself (largely by sneaking out to the woods), she’d practice over and over, start making her own stuff up.

What she hadn’t expected when she got there was a city twice as dirty as the country, with three times the people and not even a fraction of the space. People all on top of one of another, dirty air, dirty streets, and no money to be gotten anywhere. Well, whatever little she managed to pull in cleaning houses went straight into Johnny’s arm. When he was clean, though, he was somethin’ – could dance better than anyone else she’d met, and ran numbers at the Black and Tan. It was his runnin’ numbers that allowed her to even get into the club – most folks laughed at her accent, called her a “little country chicken,” “Johnny’s shadow.”

However, in her short amount of time of being “little country chicken,” she’d made friends with the cooks, the bouncers, the working girls, winning everyone over with her sweet nature and her sharp, honest tongue. She’d keep a secret better than Fort Knox, knew everyone’s business, gave solid advice, knew how to get blood out of a white shirt, and could press hair better than half of the salons in town. It also didn’t hurt that she had a bottomless supply of reefer that she sold at a reasonable price – but where she’d get you was selling her food afterwards when you got hungry.

When it became clear that Johnny was more invested in some of the ladies with looser morals and not so much in trying to get her a singing gig, she’d marched right up to the owner herself, flopped herself down on his desk, and sugar sweet, sang “Ain’t Misbehavin’.”

She started singing the next night, the working girls being kind enough to lend her a half-way decent dress until she saved up the scratch to get her own.

And, once she got home, threw Johnny out on his ass. Him and that witch he had the audacity to bring back to her place. It was HER place; she’d scrimped and saved and scrubbed a lot of white people’s floors and picked a hell of a lot of cotton and did some things she wasn’t too proud of (but never selling herself, ain’t no way, no how), but she got the money and invested in making it a home. With him gone (good and gone – the neighbors had quite the something to talk about the next day. Folks swore up and down they’d never heard such a level of profanity coming from one woman before and probably never would hear it again, and did you see the way she pulled that knife on him?), she’d laid back on her newly made bed, lit a joint, and took a long drag of it.

And that was how Genevieve Devereaux, sometimes “Ginny”, but most times “Chick”, became the headliner at the Black and Tan.

That night, she’d just finished up one of her staples, “Ain’t Misbehavin’,” and as the last note died down, she turned a baleful eye to the clarinet player. Though she didn’t have a professionally trained ear, she could hear a flat note a mile away. The look she shot him screamed, “You and I are gonna have words later, and they ain’t gonna be nice,” and, under the smoke wreathed lights, he swallowed. The other band members shared a chuckle at his expense. For all of her country sweetness, it was known that Chick could be a downright bitch when it came to her music. As much as it caused issue when she first started, when word got out about the new singer at the Black and Tan, the business had picked up. More white faces mingled in with the brown, and that meant more money for everyone. Regardless of what the real world felt, inside of those doors, the only color that mattered was green. Looking out into the crowd, Ginny could hardly stop the sultry smirk that came to her red painted lips – that was Rose, over on that man’s lap – he looked like he had money. Rose the Nose (so called for her uncanny ability to pick out the richest man in the room) looked like she was going to clean up well tonight. Looked like the regulars out there – maybe a few new faces. Some awkward looking white folks; must be new. Like they weren’t sure what they should be doing.

“Well, well,” she purred, leaning back against the piano. “I see some new faces in here with the old, a brand spankin’ new rainbow under this cloudy sky,” she gestured to the thick smoke over head. Even in the dim lights, the sequins of her red dress were sparks of flame, hugging her voluptuous figure. Being a country girl, she’d missed out on the Clara Bow look of the 1920s, and, as it was, it looked like that red dress was having a hell of a time trying to contain all that she had. Unabashedly busty, narrow waist, rounded rear that looked like it’d been drawn on, she was a study in contrasts - what folks would call in later decades “built like a brick house.” Her skin was a smooth sepia, not a speck of sweat to be seen, and her black wig was a set of immaculate curls. “Well, if you are new, then I should introduce myself, shouldn’t I, fellas?”

Some hoots and hollers from the band, from the regulars, and she laughed. “My name is Genevieve Devereaux, and if that’s too much of a mouthful for you, well, then, I suppose we can’t get more acquainted than that, as I’m more than a mouthful type of girl,” and she folded her arms neatly under her breasts, making them bulge more against her dress. Coupled with the sly wink she gave, the innuendo was clear. “But folks that can’t handle all of it call me ‘Ginny.’” She scanned the crowd, and her eyes settled on Connal. Hard not to miss him; even in a club of large folks, he stood out. “Ain’t you a tall drink of water out there. Fats, look at this guy,” and she gestured to Connal. “You gonna be here for a while, sugar? I think you and I need to get better acquainted!” A ripple of laughter echoed from the club, and she smiled, shooting him a kind wink.

Crossing her legs primly at the ankle as she leaned against the piano, she looked at the player, a heavier set black man with skin the color of maple and a thin black mustache.

“Say, Fats, you know what happened to me the other night?” She leaned over to him, copping the look of someone that had been wronged. “I finally left that crumb bum.”

“Took ya long enough, Ginny,” and he delicately played a few stray notes, linking them together as an introduction.

“Y’know what the biggest problem was? He was just so goddamned mean to me!” And the song started, with a rush of applause. The regulars, familiar with her act, knew what song she was about to sing. Launching into “Mean to Me,” she sauntered across the narrow stage, before winding her way down into the crowd. And good to her word, she stopped by Connal’s table, treated him to a gentle squeeze of his massive shoulder, before she moved her way back up to the stage to end the song. Brushing past him, she’d smell sweetly of candy perfume, beneath that, still, the lingering smell of baked goods.

Back on the stage, she gave a little bow. “Me and the band here, we’re gonna take five – but don’t you go nowhere!”

Moving off the stage, she slipped down to the back, stood to one side as the replacement band filed in. Two in house bands seemed like an extravagance, but it made sure that the Black and Tan always had music going. And with her boys taking a break (and she really didn’t feel like getting into it with Harry and his damn flat clarinet), she figured she’d stop off, do some mingling in the crowd (folks loved it), grab herself something to drink. And, without the slightest hint of reservation, she sashayed back to Connal’s table, and making herself at home, sat down across from him, crossing her legs in a slow, deliberate gesture. “So, big fella, got a name to go with all those muscles or you want me to make one up for you?” She leaned over, placing a cigarette between those ruby lips, waiting for him to light it for her.

 

[Silvert0ngue]

His eyes were focused on her for a long moment, and that allowed him to see the look she shot the clarinet player. He had heard it too, and he couldn’t help but chuckle to himself as she dressed him down with a look.

When the song ended she took a look out at the crowd. He watched and listened as she played the crowd. He had to admit, she had them eating out of the palm of her ebony hand. With that sinful smooth voice, her natural charisma, and an adequate flow of booze and reefer, the combination was deadly. Those curves of hers didn’t hurt either. He could feel her drawing him in already, and that was alarming for a nice long list of reasons.

Then she locked her eyes on him, and addressed him directly. She exclaimed at his figure, and it took a bit of discipline on his part to do little more than smirk. He hated these jobs, because he wasn’t the type of person who liked large social gatherings. He had to train himself to be a different man in these little illegal hot spots. He had to exude confidence, when all he wanted to do was leave, and take a bath to wash the smell off of him. As the laughter died down to her question, he called back in a loud, booming voice, heavy with his lilting brogue . “Good things are worth the wait!” Plucking at the brim of his hat, he tipped it to her, and then she began to lead back into a song.

The crowd regulars erupted into a roar. The noise was almost enough to drown out the music. Many of those around got up and began to dance. That only made what happened next all that more impressive. Somehow ‘Ginny’ managed to saunter her way through the chaos toward him. It was like she had her finger on the pulse of the crowd, and the other hand controlled the pace. She managed to sway past three men who tried to get too grabby, and she shifted just at the right second.

As she approached him he locked eyes with hers. Those sky blue eyes stared into the caramel pools coming closer to him with that stare that melted more than a few good ol’ Irish lasses. Combined with a hint of a smile that came unbidden to his lips, most girls were already planning the wedding; and wedding night. Not her though, she swayed toward him, singing her heart out.

His eyes never left hers. Perhaps that would stand out to her, the fact that instead of drinking in that dress, he was looking into her eyes. As she neared him, the hair on the back of his neck stood on end, he was finally forced to break that eye contact as she swung around and gripped the thick muscle beneath his coat. He replied to her squeeze with a deep, low rumble of pleasure. It wasn’t sexual, it wasn’t raspy, or breathy; a simple offer of appreciation for that simple caress. There was a good chance in all the chaos she missed it. When she made her way back up the stage he took the time to look around. A scan around the room found several working girls, they seemed to run the gamut. He recognized one of the girls as a matter of fact, she went to his church, and suddenly this became a serious problem. She knew who he was, that he was a cop. He turned enough so that his face was not clearly visible to her. He hoped she was too busy with her John to notice him.

His eyes stayed glued to her for most of the rest of the song. His eyes rarely drifted beneath her neck, but with the way she moved to the music he found himself looking regardless of his intention. She drew his eyes with that sequined dress. He was glad that he was sitting down at a table. He felt the thin fabric suddenly grow taught as his body responded to her.

The set ended, and she made her way down to his table. Again she drew his eyes with a slow, deliberate crossing of those long dark legs of hers. His eyes bounced back up, and he felt a crackle of energy shoot down his spine. He had never met a woman like her before. Oh he had met plenty of stubborn women, that was pretty much every woman he had ever met that came over on the boats. This was something entirely new though. The way she wielded her sexuality unashamed, but never overtly flaunting it like the working girls did. It was a potent experience he didn’t quite know how to handle. Her words gave him a focus, as did her actions.

He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a lighter. It had light engraving on it, but had the look of age. That did not mean it wasn’t well cared for, but likely an heirloom. He stuffed the lighter back in his pocket and pulled off his hat; setting it down on the table out of pure habit. He started to chastise himself for endangering his cover, but then realized that the sign of respect could just as easily been a smooth attempt to win her favor.

The music came alive just as he was about to answer her, forcing him to speak up. “Aye, I’ve got a name. I’m curious to see what you would’ve come up with, but since you’ve already introduced yourself Miss Genevieve Devereaux, the name is Connel O’Shae. Pleasure to meet you.”

That gaze of his finally softened, and meandered away from her eyes, lest he make her feel uncomfortable. He idly played with his glass, taking a light pull of the dark liquid. He paused a moment, then spoke again in that unwavering brogue. “I’m nae sure who has more of an accent. Maybe we could make a game of it.” He offered her a warm, deep chuckle. His eyes sparkled with the laughter as they caught hers once more. “You have quite a talent there lass. Though I think your clarinet player might need to change his reed. He missed a few notes, and you don’t seem like the type to put up with foolishness.”

 

[Apollo Wilde]

You didn’t get this far in the Black and Tan without knowing who was who, and who was potentially trouble. A large Irishman in the middle of a black club? Please. She wasn’t sure who he thought he was fooling, but it certainly wasn’t her. As shady as her behavior was, she’d stayed blissfully free of the law, and intended to keep it that way.

She leaned forward, carefully pillowing her breasts against the table. The straps of the dress, this close, looked to be mere pieces of thread. Whatever was holding it up had to be a combination of a wish, a prayer, and something decidedly unholy. Cut low in the front across her chest and low in the back, nearly to the curve of her rear, it was slit high in the front, constantly displaying her smooth thigh and leg on the right. Once the tip of the cigarette glowed cherry orange, she smiled at him, her eyes meeting his.

Leaning back, she took in a long inhale, her nostrils flaring ever so slightly before she blew the smoke out, a long exhale through pursed lips, sending it in a curving stream overhead. This close, through the dark and the smoke, the haze and comfortable blanket of laughter and shoes scuffling, it was a bit easier to see her. Each table was topped with a well-worn candle, flickering in a glass bowl. The warm light flirted with the spangles on her dress, dotted her face with freckles of light. Sweat lined her temples now, bleeding from under her wig, showing streaks of a slightly lighter complexion under the thick pancake makeup. Her eyes were large, and a deep, rich brown, ringed in hoops of black and doe lashes, eyebrows carefully drawn into smooth arcs. Her face lacked the rounded sweetness of the passing 1920s sweetheart, and there was something predatory in the angle of her chin, a hardness around her mouth that on another woman would be threatening instead of inviting. Faux diamond chandelier earrings, a large faux pearl pin grasping a spray of downy white feathers in her dark curls. Rings on her finger – from the distance, they looked to be gold, speckled with diamonds and rubies. All faux – paste, glass. Even if she had the money, she figured she could spend it on something better.

Sweat collected at the hollow of her throat, trailed lazily down between her breasts, across her collarbone. She was careful to blow the smoke out of the side of her mouth, away from him. There was at least one cigarette girl on hand at the Black and Tan – Violet was the girl working tonight. A skinny thing with enough knees to start a forest fire, but got what she wanted on account of being high yellow. Personally, Ginny thought that the girl was a step away from being flat out shiftless, but at least she could keep the ashtrays empty.

She chuckled when he mentioned her accent, though a bit of her got riled up. She’d worked damn hard on doing her best to erase the worst of the South from her voice, but apparently some things just didn’t want to be gotten rid of. A flash of white teeth, made all the whiter for being set in her dark skin and against the deep red of her mouth, and she looked up at him, and, this time, carefully, calculated, blew smoke in his face. If it’d been anyone else, the gesture would have been enough to start a fight. With her, even the smoke seemed to caress his face, slip across his cheeks. “And what kind of game might you be suggestin’, Hands?” A shift against the table, pillowing her breasts against the top of it. She’d deliberately ignore the comment about Harry’s clarinet. What she knew – and what he didn’t need to know- was that Harry had a problem with the pipe. It hadn’t been the first time he’d come in, still reeking of the opium den, and it was about to be the last if she had anything to say about it. Musicians could be hard to come by, but now, with the notoriety she’d built up, she could have her pick. Besides, the rest of the band was getting mighty sick of his shit as well.

Taking a final long drag, she sighed; stubbed it out in the empty ash tray on the table. Idly blew a smoke ring, letting the smoke slip over her tongue.

“You could stare a train down with those eyes,” she purred, allowing herself a proprietary lean back. At this distance, she could let her body do the talking, and better size him up. She hadn’t gotten a good look before in passing. Her eyes unabashedly followed him, from the top of his red hair down to the shoes on his feet. And she took her time with it, letting her eyes settle at her points of interest. The broad shoulders. The strain of his pectorals. For an inordinate amount of time, she focused on his hands. “Mm. Those hands got possibilities written all over ‘em. You could play me like a fiddle.” It was a compliment, suggestion, and request, all in one. “This your first time?” Another cross of her legs under the table, a slight nudge of her foot against his calf. Her dark stockings were silk, and the gesture flashed a hint of garter; ebony and trimmed with gold against her skin, making it look like cream on the top of a cup of hot chocolate.

 

[Silvert0ngue]

Getting this close to her did not dampen the electricity he felt racing through his body. Though the image of perfection was shattered now that she was within arms reach, that did not diminish her presence. Somehow it made her more inviting. The sweat that dotted and streaked across her dark skin was highlighted in the candle light, it made her seem to glow in all the right places. As she let her breasts rest against the table his eyes latched onto their fullness without his minds permission.

It took effort to snap his gaze back to her face, and when he did he found her smiling around the cigarette and staring into his eyes. He felt heat unfurl through his groin and shoot out in every direction, and not because of the overbearing heat of atmosphere, no this was all due to the woman in front of him. He had never met anyone like her before, at least anyone worth sparing a second glance. He had little doubt she could have a razor tongue just like near every girl his mother tried to put in front of him. However with this woman there was an aura of power behind her eyes. Something told him that she could back up any sharp words that came his way. That made him smile.

He loosened the tension in his shoulders and let his back rest against the chair lattice. She was sizing him up, and he put those large hands she would find so enthralling wide on the table top. From this distance she could see not only how large his hands were, but the power hidden within them. The tendons and muscles were clearly visible as he rested them on the table top. His thick fingers were clearly no stranger to hard work, and they were thick with muscle. His right ring finger was just a hint crooked from a break that never quite got set right. His fair skin made it easy to see the crimson hairs that trickled from beneath his sleeves and crept a small distance along the back of his hands.

Her chuckle was warm and sultry, as was everything she did, but when she smiled there was just a hint of bite to it. Perhaps he had touched on a sore spot? His intention was not to offend, but perhaps she thought he was making light of her. She blow smoke into his face, and he managed to school his reaction; almost. Those eyes of his gave away a slight flash of irritation, but he smiled regardless, as her words took his focus. “Well I haven’t made it that far yet, but something that results in both of us coming out a winner.”

Hands hmmm? That wasn’t bad. He had certainly been called worse than that before.

“Well I cannae say that I’ve tried, but I have been told that they make an impact. Some people seem to be uncomfortable in them, but not you.” His tone suggested that this was high praise. He let her take her look at him, and then when she spoke again it was his turn to chuckle. “Oh? Sounds like the sort of thing I’d enjoy, repeatedly.” His words were few, but the tone in his voice, and the heat in his eyes said what his words didn’t need to. He would be quite interested in making her sing a tune not fit for the club. Something better suited for their ears alone. When she asked if he was here for the first time he flashed her a crooked grin. “Aye, lass. I’ve been to a few other places, but I wanted a change of scenery. I heard good things about the Black and Tan. Now I know why. You light this place up in a way that these never could.” To emphasize his point he scooped up the candle that stood between them and put it in the palm of his hand. The thick callouses on his hands shielded him from the heat, and the candle looked tiny in his bear like paw. He set it down gently, and smiled at her. “I’m sure you hear it all th’ time, but you have a real gift there.”

Was that sincerity? Sure was. It wasn’t just a pick up line to try and see what her dress looked like bundled up on the floor, he meant what he said to her. “I admire that. I have all the musical talent of a half dead bull. God blessed me in different ways.” There was just a hint there that he may not be talking about his broad shoulders. His eyes glittered in the candle light, a whisper of a smile on his lips.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

“I’m guessin’ th’ Good Lord saw fit to give you the gift of size.” Stating a clear observation, and a lustful hope that she didn’t try to disguise.

She’d caught the desirous look in his eye; reflected it back to him, magnified, with her own. She could sit and play the game with the best of them, but she was intrigued. More than likely he was trouble; he looked it, smelled it, sounded it. His compliment went unresponded to. Not that she hadn’t appreciated it, but there was more to his being there than just hearing her sing. She could feel it in her gut – where the feeling of caution was warring with the thrill that tickled her womanhood. Mm. For a brief moment, she allowed herself to get lost in the visual of those large hands on key parts of her anatomy.

Though she was no stranger to lustful glances (she dealt with them all night, every night), the intensity of his was causing her to have problems swallowing. She had to get it together. With another languid crossing and uncrossing of her legs, she knew it was time to move on. Stealing a quick glance behind her, around the room, she saw her band members making their way back to the “stage”, though the small band that was on now was still mid-song. The working girls were out on the floor; some paired up, some still stalking the edge, looking for a potential mark. Over his head, she’d caught more than one girl giving him the eye, trying to size up if he’d be worthy prey. A return, predatory smile from Ginny was enough to let them know that she’d staked her claim – at least for now.

“Well, then, it’s been a pleasure, Mr. O’Shae, but I’ve got to get back to my trade,” she gave him a coy smile, stood. “Glad you decided to come ‘round and listen to me sing. Don’t be a stranger, now,” and she turned to leave, a deliberate swing in her hips, daring him to stare at the graceful curve of her back, the ampleness of her rear. Something unholy about that dress, indeed. If she’d gave him a parting touch, she knew she wouldn’t leave. Not until she’d had him. The thought of discreetly moving to sit in his lap and ride him until she screamed bloody murder, even in the middle of the crowded club, without giving two shits of what anyone else thought was tempting, too tempting for her to risk even looking behind her.

Back home, she’d grown up listening to stories about getting the Eye put on you. It was usually a bad thing – your cows wouldn’t milk, your crops wouldn’t grow, your man would leave you and your babies would have the Colic. For the most part, anyway. Her great grandma had said that a man could put the Eye on you; make you dance like a puppet on his strings. Make you feel things that even the Devil would blush to write. “And when you find that man, baby, you stick to him,” her great-grandma had said with a deep, bawdy laugh. At the time, Ginny had no idea of what she was talking about – just that M’Dear (as she was called) apparently in her lifetime had been married since she was 15 to the same man and between them they’d had close to 20 kids. Now, she thought, with a wry grin, she thought she had a very good idea.

And, without preamble, she turned back to him, in a long sway of those hips. “Mr. O’Shae, I think you put the Eye on me.” She sashayed back to him, ignoring that scream of terror in her stomach that came from getting too close to a dangerous, unknown man, settled herself comfortably in his lap, wrapped her arms around his neck, and kissed him for all she was worth. It was like touching a live wire; the thrill started from the roots of her hair and curled her toes in her heels, and she was overcome with the utterly primal desire to rip every last stich of cloth free from his body and hers, and take him until she couldn’t physically handle him anymore and then some more past that.

Long moments later, pulling away from him, delicately dabbing at the streaks of red she’d left on his mouth, she grinned, letting a hand rest on the firm muscle of his thigh. “Don’t be a stranger at all.”

 

[Silvert0ngue]

“I’m guessin’ th’ Good Lord saw fit to give you the gift of size.”

The way she spoke those words made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. Oh, she was not being subtle at the moment, and that just drew him in all the more. No sweet smiles that hid lustful thoughts, just a frankness and force of thought and intent that made it clear as spring water what she wanted.

She was not the only one who felt danger spring up all around. It was like having fire on all four sides, no where to go, but having the unquenchable desire to embrace the flames. A destructive, and irresistible desire to concede to an act that would surely lead to destruction. Those eyes of hers were practically already fucking him, and the thin slacks didn’t do much to hide the effect of her gaze. Thanks to the darkness however they did not have to.

She started to disembark, giving a sinful sway of those ample hips. Her dark skin glistened with the candle light and a light sheen of sweat. He was not looking around at anyone else, ever since she had caught his eyes, they had not wandered anywhere else. Plenty of girls had been trying to catch the large Irishman’s gaze, but his eyes were only for her. “I wouldnae dream of it, Miss Devereaux. I don’t plan to go anywhere until your trade is done. Then we will see.”

The truth of his words was hard. He honestly had no desire to leave any time soon. The job he had been sent to do had quickly fled in lieu of the overwhelming presence of this dark skinned Goddess. A trickle of guilt made his stomach turn over as he realized that he was deceiving her, and generally felt bad for it. The situation was plenty cloudy, worse even than the air inside the Black and Tan.

“Mr. O’Shae, I think you put the Eye on me.”

He raised a brow and let out a deep laugh. There was a similarity on their culture about the stigma of “the Eye”. It brought nothing but misfortune, was consistently thought of as some sort of supernatural curse. It was thought only to be wielded by those who had given themselves over to darkness. Usually something wielded by a woman, a witch of some power.

She turned toward him and closed the distance with a few long sensual sways of her hips. It drew his attention, before his eyes locked on hers once more. She dropped herself delicately into his lap and pressed her lips against his. He fumbled in his shock, just numbly pressing his lips against hers. Then with a low growl in his throat he used those large hands she was so fond of. One hand settled dangerously low on the small of her back, and hips. The other pressing against and grasping the back of her neck. The thick callouses on his hands, the hardness of his muscles spoke honestly about the hard life he led. The sensation of untapped strength in his touch made it clear that he could take more without leaving her much of a choice, and for the duration of that kiss he crushed her smaller, curvaceous frame against him with avarice and need. His lips turned out to be graceful sparing partners once the surprise wore off. Perhaps the most telling thing however was that from the moment she settled into his lap he was already mostly hard, and every second she remained he grew harder. It seemed her estimation of his gift of size was more accurate than she may, or may not have known, and it was in direct proportion to how close she was willing to get to him.

As she pulled away, he held of for just a brief moment. Every instinct said to pull her back in, to rip and tear at clothing until nothing but flesh, sweat, and pleasure remained. The look in his eyes was pure fire. It took effort to collect himself, and most men would not have let her leave. He was not most men. As she dabbed at the red streaks, he kissed a single fingertip, and met her gaze. He released her slowly and let her go with not even so much as a parting swat. He was busy composing himself when she spoke and all he could whisper was “Yes Ma’am.” It came it with more of a lilt than she had heard before. She was not the only one who had tried to remove traces of an accent.

One thing was made abundantly clear as her eyes left him for the stage. She had just awoken a sleeping bear, a very hungry, barely restrained beast.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

The music was a dull thudding, nearly drowned out by the rush of blood in her ears. For a moment, she wondered if she was walking in a straight line. His initial brief hesitation had been a mere hiccup for what followed afterwards.

She’d never had a closed mouth kiss that left her seeing stars.

Stars, planets, hell, the whole goddamn galaxy.

And if his hands hadn’t been enough indication of his overall size, what she felt on his lap was promising, to say the very least. Not that it was all about size – but it sure as hell didn’t hurt when it was attached to someone who knew what he was doing. And, clearly, for all of the squeaky-clean air of him, he knew what he was doing. The wobbly lines of her smile settled into her customary smirk, and she shook her head, chuckling to herself. The Eye indeed. Weaving her way through the tables, she met the occasional glare with a “I wish you would say something” look, capped by that ever present, all entirely too pleased with herself smirk. Despite the darkness of the club, her little lip lock hadn’t gone unnoticed. At least the glares seemed to be split fairly evenly – half on her, half on him. Issue was, though, she had enough of a reputation with a blade that people would let her alone. Connor – well, he was fresh meat.

“So what’s up with you and Mr. Charlie over there?” It was a mean little snarl of a comment. From against the wall, untangling himself from the arms of a working girl, he seemed to look like a shadow peeling loose. He was a head or so taller than her, fair-skinned, lean and with a pencil thin mustache over his top lip. From the cut of his suit and the bright flower in his button hole, he was the very image of a man who got what –and who- he wanted.

“Depends on who’s askin’,” she replied back, smooth as silk. She paused in her walk back to the stage, her hands settling on her hips. Taking in the man in front of her, her eye roll was both subtle and exaggerated. “Lawd, I ain’t got the time for your foolishness tonight, Johnny.”

Johnny stepped closer to her, squaring up his shoulders, sticking out his chest. Yeah, he had height on her, but he was as skinny as a rain. Though Ginny wasn’t a big woman by any means, she was considerably more... “substantial”, healthy curves running to arms toned by years of farm work. She wasn’t daunted a lick by his display, and simply shifted her weight to her right foot. He, however, faltered, for a half a second.

“You can’t just go ‘round here kissin’ whoever you want like you some kinda slut!”

“Th’ last time I checked, I ain’t no man’s property, and can’t nobody but the Good Lord Almighty can tell me how to run my life.” The drawl was out in full force, country expressions and familiarity battering through the carefully crafted cadence of the North she’d tried to adopt. Though she hadn’t raised her voice, the full force of the drawl lent her words a honey sweet sharp venom, threatening as a junk yard dog.

Johnny reached forward, fast as lighting, and snatched her by the upper arm, attempting to yank her towards him.

“You better turn me loose before you regret you were forced outta yo’ momma’s cunt.” There was no mistaking the threat in her voice, the tensing of her firm body.

The moment Johnny grabbed her, it was as if someone had pulled the plug on the club. The band stilled, and silent tension hung over the heads of the patrons. Those who were close to the events discreetly slid their chairs back. A few of the working girls, including Rose the Nose, hopped off of the laps of their prospective marks and made a beeline to the back of the club – prime spectating seats. A few of the more intrepid began placing bets.

“Good night, ya’ll,” said a particularly older gentleman, getting to his feet and putting on his hat.

Johnny hauled off and slapped her.

The silence in the club grew so immense that it could be cut with a knife.

From their positions on the side of the stage, Ginny’s bandmates looked on, in varying degrees of worry. Not for her, mind you, but for him. The day she’d thrown Johnny and his “two-bit whore” out of her flat had gone down as one of the greatest events of any of the club member’s notorious histories – and that alone was really saying something. The minute that Johnny had grabbed her, Fats had hissed in dismay and shook his head. The trumpet player’s hands shook on his instrument.

“Bet he’s gonna have a nice funeral,” Harry the bassist said dryly, moving to light a joint.

“If there’s enough o’ him to bury,” Fats replied, shaking his head.

“You always had a mouth on ya,” Johnny snarled, his bloodshot eyes wide, his grip tightening on his arm.

From the impact of the slap, her head had been turned to the right. Her lipstick was smeared, and a bead of blood collected at the corner of her mouth. Cool as ice, she looked at Johnny, touched her tongue to the corner of her mouth. Flexed her right arm in his grasp.

And cross-countered with a hell of a south paw.

The force of her return blow sent him sprawling across a table behind him, falling to the floor in a hail of ashtrays and glass. Wiping the blood from her mouth, she was on him in a minute, a switch blade held at his temple, near his ever widening eyes. “You low life junkie son of a bitch!” she snarled, pressing the point of the blade into the thin skin. “You think you can just lay your hands on me?! You better git right with God, because I’mma ‘bout to send you to him!”

Before she could move any further with the blade, she was yanked off of Johnny by another tough, who did his best to restrain her. Though this man was much larger than her, it was all too obvious that he was terrified to be in his position.

“You got two seconds to turn me loose,” she snarled, whirling to look back at the man. The man seemed torn – he had some loyalty to Johnny, but the idea of being the object of Ginny’s wrath wasn’t the most appealing scenario in the world either. In that moment of hesitation, she slipped out of his grasp, and belted him one too, sending him stumbling backwards, but not off of his feet.

Like throwing a match on a puddle of gasoline, the Black and Tan erupted into a massive fight. Glasses went flying, girls were screaming and running out of the way, the bands packing as fast as they could to get the hell out of dodge. And there was Ginny, in the middle of it, her wig askew, make up smeared.

 

[Silvert0ngue]

His senses were slowly coming back into focus. He thought he might have been on the midst of blacking out, or maybe that was just the intensity of the heat between them. Either way his head was swimming and his vision was dim to a fine point. The center of that point? Her.

He began to notice ugly looks being tossed his way. No one seemed inclined to make a move at this moment however, seeing as he was nearly as tall as most of the standing patrons, while he was sitting down. That did not mean he was not aware of the anger being sent his direction.

He saw Ginny making her way back, only to be intercepted by a skinny little man with a sinister look on his face. Ginny didn’t seem worried, the two exchanged words, and that was when things started to get physical. He grabbed her, and before his feet knew what was happening Connel was on his feet, making his way toward her.

Things devolved into chaos after a moment of silence, he could see the events unfolding from his unique perspective; a foot higher than everyone else. He saw Ginny take down the skinny man and that was when things went from bad to an all out brawl. Two men leapt at him, trying to take him to the murky ground. He flexed his broad shoulders and braced for the impact. Both men crashed hard against him, and had about as much effect as water did crashing against a stone. Both men struck his frame and bounced off. Humiliated and now furious one pulled out a small knife, the other brandished a familiar weapon from his homeland. The lead filled shillelagh was assessed as the bigger threat, as there was some reach to the weapon. The cudgel swung and Connel snatched it out of the air as if it were a child’s toy, and pried it out of the other man’s grip with a twist that resulted in a sickening snap. It was not the weapon that snapped. The bigger man went down clutching at his ruined arm.

The part that scared off the knife wielder was not the display of power, or the willingness to take the bone jarring impact of the shillelagh, it was the complete lack of emotion that the large Irishman displayed in the center of the entropy around him. The man put his hands out, backed away, and faded into the crowd. The crowd gave him a wide berth after that, however he still had to give the club a few swings. He mostly aimed for arms and legs, but he unfortunately caught one man in the skull who went down wetly in a heap. The Irishman was clearing a swath toward Ginny when a wall of Johnny’s thugs stepped between him and Ginny, whom he could no longer see clearly.

They had been embroiled in the conflict between the two, and had not seen him brandish the club with dangerous effect. Five men, all with weapons drawn stood between him, and the club singer. He focused his eyes upon them and said one word quietly into the chaos. “Move.” The word was drowned in the screams of injured, of women, the shattering of glass and snapping of wood. It was not the sound however that gave the men pause, it was the fact that he was standing in the heart of a maelstrom as if he belonged there, without a thought for his personal safety. Most of the folk who slammed into him looked up in horror and bolted immediately. For his part the large police officer didn’t even notice, he just stared a hole in the men. One of them was smart enough to try to do what he was told. One of the other men barked a word at him and he stood his ground, but looked like he wanted to be anywhere else.

There was no room, no patience and no time for a second warning. With quickness surprising in his size he struck the first man across the face. The man would never get up again. He was dead before he, and the teeth that scattered hit the floor. He was already striking out again, knowing that he had to use the surprise and horror to his advantage. Even with a reach weapon and his prowess he was gambling with deadly odds. Twisting with the motion of the strike he came back and dropped another man to a knee by shattering the other. Unfortunately the shillelagh shattered with it. The three men remaining swarmed him, all drawing thin blades. Connel didn’t seem to care. One man raised the blade just in time to take a solid fist to the throat. His hand circled around the wrist that held the blade and even as the man gasped for air while his trachea collapsed Connel grabbed the knife. He twisted it, and spun away from the two men, gripping the poor quality, horribly weighted blade in his hand he hurled it. At this range he was not worried about the balance, he just wanted the effect. It struck one man a glancing blow to the shoulder, hilt first. It slowed him down, and that was enough.

The Irishman kicked out the other man’s knee, it snapped under the force of the kick coming the blow out the side. Had the other man not slowed, that move would have left him exposed, and likely dead. As luck would have it the last capable fighter had a low threshold for pain and was clutching his shoulder, wailing in pain. It was enough time to regain his composure and draw the knife his father had given him before he had left. He closed the gap and struck with lightning speed. Two blows to the chest, a third under the chin. He hunched over, and Connel cast him aside like refuse. Sensing movement he drew the pistol from his belt and fired a round straight up into the air. The sound startled the crowd into a stunned silence. He placed the pistol’s heated barrel against the man whose knee he ruined just as he was about to lunge with his knife. Without ever so much as a snarl he spoke in that quiet lilt. “I dunnae think that wise, boy.”

The blade clattered to the floor and the man tried to back up, but his knee buckled and he cried out in pain, sinking to the floor. Suddenly no one wanted to fight him anymore, odd that. It was then and only then that he was able to wrap a tree trunk like limb around Ginny. “Time to go, lass.” Even now he was aware of her curves, but that did not stop him from focusing on the task at hand. If she came out of her frenzy long enough to see the carnage he had left in his wake, maybe, just maybe she would listen.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

When the club erupted into mass chaos, Ginny managed to keep her focus on one person at a time. Sure, she’d grown up scrapping in the backwoods, but something on this scale, she’d never actually been in the middle of. Maybe watched a time or two, but never in the center of it. The minute the larger man stumbled back and she slipped out of his grip, her switch blade was in hand. Closing the distance between herself and him before he could regain his balance, she deftly sliced off the top two buttons of his vest. He abruptly stopped.

Ginny, eye swollen, lip bleeding, gestured with a flick of her wrist. “You come any closer and you’ll be singing in Zion. Got me?”

The man held up his arms, nodded. “Look, Miz Ginny, I don’t want no trouble. Johnny said-”

“I don’t give a good goddamn what Johnny said. You touch me again and you earn your halo same day.”

And that was the end of that. The man backed away, and only when he was a safe distance away did he take a good look down at his shredded vest. “I’m too old for this bullshit,” he swore to himself, turning around once to watch the carnage behind him. Johnny definitely had picked the wrong people to screw with. He thought he’d had it bad being on the opposite end of Ginny’s blade, but as he watched the tall Irishman make short work of Johnny’s other thugs, he shook his head. He had enough presence of mind to grab his hat on the way out. His old lady had wanted him to find honest work anyway.

The club owner, a former boxer, just sat and watched in dismay as the damage total continued to rise. He was going to have to have a word (and by ‘word’, kick the shit out of) Johnny for starting the whole thing. He’d been in the back with the book keeper when one of the girls had told him that Johnny had slapped Ginny. His reaction had been the same as her band mates – and he’d dashed out the minute the gunshot went off. He was a large man – nearly as big as Connel, with a nasty scar down his left cheek. He’d ignored the slightly bigger man in favor of hauling the dazed Johnny off the ground.

“Son, you and I are gonna have a real long talk.”

+++++++++++

The sound of the gunshot had caused her to pause as well. After her incident with the man that’d tried to hold her, folks had given her a wide berth. As she attempted to stagger to the sidelines (she’d caught a few blows and given twice as well as she’d gotten), she was suddenly grabbed from behind. Before she could even try to manage a slap, Connel’s voice brought her out of it. He’d lifted her handily off the ground, almost as if he intended to sling her over his shoulder and carry her out like a sack of potatoes. Hauled for a few feet, she wiggled in his grasp, trying to get loose, the entire time, yowling and spitting curses like a wet cat. However, his grip was absolute, and all her wiggling got her was even more disheveled. The top of her dress tugged down, the hem tugged up, showing ripped stockings, a loosened garter, and the flash of a dark areola.

Not that she cared, though.

“Hands, if you don’t turn me loose, I’m going to deck you,” she caterwauled at him – though a shade less threatening than she’d been before. She had sense enough to know that there was no way she’d even remotely be able to slow down the Irishman; let alone hurt him. “This ain’t the way to get a lady’s attention!”

Now that some reason had returned (as the din of the fight had given way to swears and mutters as the beleaguered staff started the clean-up process), she could feel cool air where there wasn’t supposed to be any. Wiggling more in his grasp, she belligerently yanked the hem of her dress down, trying to get it to cover her garters.

 

[Silvert0ngue]

Her curves, and the exposed skin were not lost on him. A part of his brain registered this and just as quickly set it aside. His focus had to be getting them both the fuck out of here alive and as unharmed as possible. He did not loosen his grip, he did however aid with a free hand to help her regain her modesty. A hand slid down and it may have looked as if he were going to take a lush handful of flesh in payment for her safety. Instead he gently plucked at the strap that pooled around the full curve of an ebony breast. The touch was incidental and very clearly so, he could have taken the opportunity to press against her, instead he sought out the strap and tugged it back into place.

Risking getting the back of her skull driven into his face he placed his lips against her ear. “Time ta be leaving, Miss Ginny. You tha’ fear o’ God in them, but those lads are not going to stay spooked forever. Din’ae we have a plan to see what trouble we could get in with my hands?”

Then and only then did his grip soften. He was not intending to haul her off by force, yet. He was hoping she might come of her own accord, even though part of him was urging him to drag her off in cuffs, the sensible part of his brain was telling him how much of a bad idea that would be right now. The ire of the crowd was certainly mixed between the pair right now, but he knew it would quickly shift to be all on him the moment they started to smell ‘bacon’ as it were.

Slowly his hand went slack from around her waist. He regretted the loss immediately. She was no longer pressed so deliciously tight against his firm frame. There was no doubt that he had been enjoying it, even if he were just trying to haul her out of the lion’s den. His body betrayed that fact well enough, she didn’t even have to look back and down. She likely felt it pressing against her backside. “As ye said before, ye belong to no one. Yet it may be a smart choice to take a well earned break, don’t you think?”

Instead of hauling her back with a hand around her waist, he offered his hand and arm to her. There was already an ugly discolored bruise in the thick muscles of his hand. That one was going to hurt when the adrenaline died off. For now he didn’t even notice, other than a bit of stiffness and the uncomfortable buzz of inflamed nerve endings, like a thousand little needles. “Or would ye prefer I use tha power of The Eye?” A hint of a smile quirked his lips, and the playful prod was very obvious in his voice.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

At his hand on her partially bared flesh, she stiffened in his grasp. True, she’d have little chance against him in a physical fight, but by the way she steeled her body, it was clear that she wasn’t adverse to fighting him until she physically couldn’t. However, as his massive hand corrected the strap of her dress, she looked at him, almost in shock. She’d yet to meet the man that wasn’t trying to get a pound of flesh from her, one way or the other. Shocked, she seemed to hang loosely in his arms, before own arms, itching to go round his neck, moved up higher…

His smooth voice in her ear made her vision swim for a moment. Steadying herself against him, she resisted the urge to shake her head to clear it. Maybe she had gotten socked a little harder than she thought a few minutes ago. She knew she had the making of quite the shiner - that wasn’t anything new to her. But the fluttering in her stomach and the tightening of her cunt in anticipation, yeah. That was something new.

Letting go of him to stand beside him, she nodded, her tongue thick in her throat. “I…I dunno about a break there, Hands.” She pressed her nearly bare back against his torso, delighting in the rough fabric against her skin. It also didn’t hurt that his hard on fit neatly between the cleft of her ass. Unable to resist herself, she pressed back into him, relishing the feel of his hot length against her. Looking at him over her shoulder, eyes coyly at half mast, she seemed to mull over what he’d said, weighing it. “I suppose you’re right, Hands,” and, with great reluctance, she untangled herself from him.

“Motherfucker!” she crowed for good measure, picking up a heel and hurling it at one of Johnny’s thugs. Not like it would have made a lick of difference now - but it was the principle of the matter. Even though she was -nearly- getting hauled out, ass over teakettle backwards and in the arms of one of the biggest men she’d ever seen, it had to be known that Chick wasn’t someone you fucked with. Not now, not ever. The thug yowled all the same as the heel struck him in the shoulder, and before he could approach the two of them, he was stopped by the sheer ferocity in Ginny’s eyes. All of her frame was tense, and with her left eye steadily swelling shut, blood trickling from the side of her mouth, she didn’t look one iota as a damsel in distress. She looked like she’d given as good as she’d gotten, if not more, and was itching to put a man in his grave.

The thug looked from her to Connel, then back to her. As if Ginny was the deciding factor, he primly put her shoe down on one of the still upright tables, and backed off.

“Don’t tell me about no ‘Eye’, Hands,” she hissed, her guard up again after seeing the thug back off. “I’d do things to you that’d have you prayin’ ta saints that don’t even exist yet.” Partially a threat, partially a promise. With her blood up from the fight, it was bleeding over into that delirious desire between the two of them, and it was getting harder to control herself.