Her legs as long as the tall grass in the bayou—in the shadows, she knew the steps and chorography of the Flamingo’s rhythm, like her lips, seducing the olive in her martini as the tsetse fly sucked blood from her insomnia. Fedora had been watching him for days—the gumshoe that came in from out of the rain in the Big Easy, with a chinchilla growth of hair, combed back with wings like Elvis. Dressed in herringbone.
The bar smelled like spilled bourbon and regret. She slid into the booth—one leg crossed over the other—the silk stocking whispering against itself. He didn’t look up. Just kept swirling the dregs of his whiskey—some kind of goodbye dance—to whatever ghosts kept him awake. “You’re not from around here, are you, darling?” she purred, leaning forward just enough to let the dim light catch the curve of her smooth bones. Watching the shadows in his eyes.
He exhaled through his nose—half a laugh, half surrender—and finally met her gaze. “Wouldn’t matter if I was. You already know why I’m here.” The ice shifted in his glass, cracking like gunfire. She smiled—slow, practiced—her painted nail tracing the rim of his untouched drink. His pulse kicked under his collar. She noticed. Of course, she noticed. He left no scars when he bit, just a hickey and as his lips minuet on her flesh.
