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Summary
The warmth hit slowly, like some slow, languid kiss drawn from his lips: the warmth of reeking humans and dusty boilers, the moist, liquor-clotted air sweet with perfume and foul with sweat, sickly. The bar was small, but brightly lit with overhead lamps. There were tables clustered in corners, as if fitted together in broom closets, and the dance-floor – a large, oval-shaped platform with wooden banisters on one side, grease-shiny floors gaudy beneath soft lights – was empty apart from an old keyboard and a battered set of drums in the corner, a long brown-wood bar-stand running all the way across the Harpooner’s floor. Silver glints and cheap flashes of green bottles and glasses were scattered along the counter, but the strip of the bar-stand looked clean.
Angie McCain was sitting at the end of the bar-strip, smoking, long black-laced legs dangling an inch above the floor as she swung idly from side to side on the barstool. There was red lipstick slicked across her mouth like a dappled kiss. At Junior’s approach, she lifted her head, and her face lit up into a smile.
Series
- Part 8 of Somewhere in the Multiverse
- Language:
- English
- Words:
- 6,773
- Chapters:
- 1/1
- Kudos:
- 1
- Hits:
- 43