Always
You can't just leave me/Breathe into me and make me real/Bring me to life
It's late. You're tired after a long day's shoot and want nothing more than a good, stiff...drink. But you don't know this part of L.A., even after five years of living here, and the streets are unusually dark if somewhat familiar.
When you see the sign, you smile - it must be homage to a bar that once exsisted only in a television world you've just left behind. Suddenly you feel a bit of something like homesickness. The need to go in is almost overwhelming...so you do.
It's dark (which doesn't surprise you) and smoky (which does, but is most welcome). You pull out a cigarette only to find you've lost your lighter. You turn to the nearest patron for a light and nearly jump out of your skin because his is blue.
So does he. "Slayer!" he yelps, backing away and tripping over his own...tail?!
Fucking fanboys. They're all freaks. "That's just a part," you say, annoyance and weariness creeping into your voice. He's gone before the words finish leaving your mouth.
Sighing, you motion to the bartender who draws a pint and slides it your way. "Goin' up tonight?"
Up? You look at him puzzledly.
He points to a stage where someone in the ugliest costume you've ever scene is belting out something rendered unrecognisable by a voice even worse. Ah, karaoke! Sorry, not tonight, you tell him and he nods before going to serve another patron.
Mercifully the caterwauling comes to an end. You hear the host onstage but take no note of what's said as the next singer is introduced, nor the singer herself.
Then she greets the crowd. Her smoky voice is too familiar. You turn slowly, feigning indifference.
Every hair on the back of your neck stands straight up, and your arms become a mass of gooseflesh. It's her. Except it can't be because you're sititng here with your Stoli, not onstage in the last outfit you'll never be allowed to take home.
She says something that makes a few patrons laugh nervously and smirks as one slips out to the opening strains of a song you've heard blaring from more cars than you care to count. Drapes herself around the mic stand in a manner that would do Mr. Mojo Risin' himself proud and opens her full, glossy pout to sing in a rough contralto, an octave below the song's vocalist.
Her eyes are locked on you the entire time.
You feel the need to go outside for a smoke after all. You squeeze through the crowd, thankful for once of the smallish stature that allows you to slip between and through and out.
It's dark now, so dark you can't see beyond the circle of light from the flickering streetlamp, and still somehow less creepy than seeing your doppelganger. You pull out your pack of American Spirits and pull one out with your lips, then reach into your pocket for your Zippo out of habit.
Fuck. You didn't even grab matches on your way out. With a low growl you lean back against the wall and close your eyes, too annoyed to do anything else.
"Need a light?"
The voice is low and rough, like a jungle cat's purr, and you know it's her before you look. She can't be real - but she is, all too real. Danger comes off her in palpable waves, mixed with a raw animal sensuality that takes your breath away. Her eyes are darker than the midnight sky in the more remote parts of China and you find you're becoming lost in them.
You don't trust your voice, so you kick off the wall and approach her in reply. She smiles wickedly and pulls a lighter which looks identical to yours from her jean jacket. Flicks it open and lights it in a well practised motion and brings it to your cig. Clangs it shut and pockets it.
"Lemme get one," she fairly demands. You're too startled to do anything but comply. She snags yours (and your hand) for a cherry-light, takes a long drag and lets it out in perfect rings before releasing you. "You left," she continues, taking another drag.
"You're quick," you counter before your brain can catch up to your mouth.
Her eyes narrow to slits.
You suddenly realise how very alone you are with her. The creepy, cramped bar looks terribly inviting...and the twenty or so paces to its door, so terribly far. But you don't have time to think about that - you've a pissed off psychobitch persona-made-flesh slowly coming toward you. For each of her steps forward you take one back, until your back hits the wall. She slams her hand against the building, cracking the brick just an inch from your head. You do not flinch, instead staring levelly into those darker-than-dark eyes.
She seems pleased by your lack of fear. Nose to nose with you now, she tilts her head to the side, gazing at you with such intensity it burns, tracing your features with her stare.
You barely have time to wonder what she's thinking before she surges forward, pressing your head back with the force of her kiss. She catches your lower lip between her teeth and pulls. You moan, opening your mouth, and she slips her tongue inside, teasing and drawing yours out as her wandering hand does the same to the painfully hard nipple straining your shirt. It's wrong and oh-so-right, sending all the blood in your body between your legs in a rush of heat, an electric tingle right on its tail. You whimper.
Grinning salaciously, she none-too-gently forces her knee between yours and up against the inferno blazing beneath your skirt. Your hips seem to move of their own accord, grinding shamelessly against her leather-clad thigh.
Her breath is hot on your ear as she leans forward and practically growls into it. You're too far gone to comprehend and right now you wouldn't care, except she's teasing you while waiting for an answer, trailing well-manicured fingernails through your pubes. Distantly you wonder what happened to your panties as you try to ask her what she said - it comes out as a shaky moan as two fingers slip between your netherlips.
She understands anyway. "Am. I. Still. Your. Girl?" She punctuates each word with a deep thrust, bringing you off the ground with the strength of each. Desperate nods and whines answer her and she smiles as she jabs your g-spot fiercely, making you scream. She kisses you again, swallowing your cry.
You wake, gasping, the taste of cheap lipstick lingering on your tongue.