In a rush of adrenaline comes lust
‘Fuck. I hate boats.’
Darcy pushed open the heavy door of the use-to-be-speak-easy she frequented when the idiotic 18th Amendment was passed. It was one of the few bars to continue to hold its illegal liquor license and put it to good use in that Jazz Age. Jane didn’t enjoy the whiskey and moonshine like Darcy did, but she did say that the place had good music and she didn’t have to freeze outside to enjoy a cigarette. Darcy couldn’t help but agree, so this became one of their favorites. Maybe Jane would be here. Maybe she would show up and need a light, and Darcy could finally be there for her when he family when Steve can’t.
‘Fuck. I hate sailing, too.’
She was glad to be off that fucking ship and have solid land beneath her feet. Solid familiar land beneath her feet, she should say. It has been quite a while since she had been in America and while growing up in Europe was educational, a war really ruined the old and familiar scenery. France was a God damned mess from the fucking Nazis. Homes destroyed, ancient architecture bombed; and art stolen, missing, or damaged beyond repair. Don’t even get her started on Notre Dame. London, England fared no better either. Nor Amsterdam.
‘I don’t even get fucking seasick. Ah, shit. Fuck it all. I’m home.’
Sitting down on one of the now legal bar’s padded and rickety barstools gingerly, she ordered a shot of something, anything, with a lot of alcohol in it. Secretively kicking off her sensibly short black heels given to her so generously by the United States Government as part of her uniform, she was glad that the bar was nearly deserted except for a couple of geezers dozing quietly in the corner, nursing their scotch. Damn heels in military uniform. And a knee length skirt. Darcy didn’t relax until the bartender passed her her amber-colored drink and returned to polishing the shot glasses with an old grey rag that had at one point in its life been clean, white, and new. But much like everything nowadays, it seems, it had seen better days. Then she sighed softly and took a small sip.
Alcohol had been a luxury in her former and most recent line of work. Not to mention drinking on the job was frowned upon as being unprofessional. Especially because she was a woman as well. So of course, naturally, Darcy drank like a fish, looking on it as an experience to build her tolerance back up again after being sober and dry for so long like some somber old maid. Or widower. There were plenty of those nowadays. The bartender did not deny her her vice either. He just kept the brown stuff coming. She didn’t stop drinking the stuff until her throat burned and her bladder was full. Then and only then did she slide clumsily off her tall barstool and stumble off to the ladies’ to take a piss.
He had just woken up from his drunken stupor from the night before; and like any alcoholic would do when faced with a killer hangover, he returned to the bar downstairs to drink it off. Time to get drunk again. Lucky for him, he didn’t fall down the stairs or anywhere else from the walk from his rented room upstairs facing the busy Time Square roaring with city noises that woke him up to the dark, cool, and quiet bar downstairs nearly deserted except for some old timers that were dreaming of unachievable war glory like the good patriots they were.
Poor, dumb bastards.
Logan had just taken a seat at the bar when some military dame in that ugly beige slipped out of the bathroom not so quietly. If she was going for grace or poise, she lost both the moment she burst through the door cursing under her breath about damn pantyhose. At least she didn’t let any stink out of the nasty public bathroom. It didn’t matter if it was the women’s; all public restrooms were foul and filthy. Not that he particularly cared. Given his past history, it didn’t matter as long as it was a real bathroom.
What toilets he had to look forward to now didn’t flush the shit away.
Before he had time to examine the lady any closer, the bartender slid him his drink with a disapproving scowl. Logan was building up quite a tab in the joint. The fight he was in last night didn’t help either. He didn’t kill the guy, but the pool table was useless now without the pool sticks. Or pool balls. Instead of scowling right back given his current temperament, he just picked up the short glass and jerked his chin up in appreciation before emptying it as his signal for another. That’s when the lady sat down on the bar stool right next to his.
“What, bar ain’t big enough for ya?”
The lady frowned her bright red painted lips at him and raised an eyebrow elegantly. Darcy shifted on the uncomfortable stool, and crossed her legs, her foot brushing up against the stranger’s calf. She didn’t particularly care if it did; he chose to sit there where her glass and her shoes were. They were already brushing shoulders and rubbing elbows anyway.
“My glass was here first.”
Now it was his turn to frown. Ah, in this she was correct. When the bartender ambled over to refill his glass, he refilled the lady’s first. From the smell of it, she had had enough booze. What the hell is a dame like her doing in here anyway?
‘For a damn drink, jackass. God, I hate being telepathic.’
“What’re ya doin’ here anyway?” he asked after he gulped down his second drink and slammed it down on the counter. He raised an eyebrow right back at her.
“For a drink.” She simply replied, and copied his earlier movements. Spotting the quirk of his brow, she almost cracked a smile at his sass. He was handsomer than those European boys were. His eyes were a warm brown, his hair was dark and thick, and his facial hair was deliberate and not out of want for a razor. This man was also older. And that was a rarity. “I’m also looking for my girlfriend.” She admitted as well, after a pause of recollection.
Immediately his mood seemed to shift. Ah. He hated homosexual as well. Prick.
“Are all ya WASPs and WAVs lesbians?” He sarcastically muttered around the rim of his glass. The grumpy man faced forward again, irritated that the only lady in the bar was one that was interested in the fairer sex as well. Damn it, just his luck. Right before he gets transferred from Eisenhower’s lot to MacArthur’s, he can’t even get laid by an American woman who speaks English at least.
‘Ah, so he’s grumpy because he’s interested.’
Darcy smirked at his thoughts and watched in fascination the way his lips pursed around the glass. It was very attractive to her the way his Adam’s apple would bob with every gulp. She wanted to groan at her lust; it’s been far too long since her last screw as she declined that behavior overseas. War was the perfect birth control, in her special case. Not so much for those grateful Frenchwomen. In her admiration of him, she seemed to miss an important fact in his thoughts.
‘Wait, he’s interested? Oh fucking Hell yes!’
Immediately changing tactic, she gently and hopefully smoothly corrected him, “Actually I’m a WAC, thank you very much. And can you blame some of us women for seeking company elsewhere while the men-folk are away? I knew many a married man in that horrendous olive drab uniform who spent their nights in Paris in the arms of some French girl or another.”
Reminded of them, she also remembered exactly why she was home now while the war was still going on. She had crossed the border into Germany, riding in one of the designated military vehicles assigned to her and a couple of human typewriters. There was an explosion, the car flipped, and Darcy managed to drag out both the driver and one other passenger – all three of them on fire. As soon as they were a safe distance away, she allowed herself to scream in her pain and regeneration as the flames quickly burned out and her skin was restored to its former permanently tanned glow of radiant health. The witnesses had attended to the other survivors, but plenty of the accompanying guard saw her little spectacle. One newbie, in his fear, opened fire on her. Darcy was caught in the eye by a bullet, and she blinked it out, irritated.
She didn’t kill them though.
Once her vision was completely restored in a matter of a few minutes, where the new draft boy was made to drop his weapon and he was wrestled to the ground, Darcy huffed and then made them forget her... ‘gifts’. With another well placed telepathic command, she was on her way to the sea, ready for home. So it must be with her... ‘special powers’. Always on the run out of fear of being discovered. She refused to be a scientific experiment like those poor little Jewish children were and Jane’s almost-boyfriend Steve Rogers, a sullen and sickly Brooklyn boy turned glorified lab rat turned war hero and American idol.
That is why she is here today.
Brought out of her reverie by the man’s – Logan, his name was Logan – amused snort, she continued on to flirt, as is her specialty, “The Frenchies didn’t interest me though. And it appears my girlfriend isn’t coming. You look like it’s been a while since you’ve last been between the thighs of a woman. If I speak a little French for you, will you take me upstairs?” Deliberately picking up his half-empty glass instead of her own full one, she put her lips on the rim where his had been and drained it on its contents.
‘What the fuck did she just say?’
Logan, who had been in the middle of lighting his cigar, dropped the lit match, completely caught off guard by her proposal. Unfortunately for him, the lit match fell in her glass and the alcoholic liquid caught fire. “Fucking shit.” He cursed, but before he could try and put it out, one of the lady’s hand picked up the glass and her other hand caught his chin before the unlit cigar could fall out of his mouth. Then she had the audacity to gently turn his face in her direction and use the low flames from the shot glass to light his cigar. Her face was calm and there was an upturned corner in her mouth from seemingly impish delight. She also looked rather... pretty… what with the fire and stuff glowing on her face and bringing a healthy blush of dark pink to her cheeks. Wow, how had he never noticed that her eyes were brown but then again not brown? Their color was similar to what they were drinking but brighter somehow, as if her insides were on fire, too.
‘Oh God, what is this romantic crap?’
Embarrassed by his line of thinking, he was going to jerk away from her touch, but then he watched the woman gulp down the quite literally burning liquid without a flinch. She returned the glass to the bar and tapped her long nails – were they pointed? – on the counter to summon the bartender. The entire time her eyes never left his, and the fingers that had a hold on his chin rubbed his jaw, her nails scraping through his facial hair with a scratching sound of ‘scritch scritch’. He felt like she was soothing him somehow, as if she were silently communicating, ‘There, there. I’m not dangerous, just ballsy.’ In actuality, what she said was not English, but French. “Vous ne serez pas en mesure de pisser quand je aurai fini avec vous demain.” Too bad he didn’t know what she was saying, but it doesn’t matter because he was definitely enraptured all the same. The effect was ruined when she removed the cigar from his mouth and took a puff for herself. Okay, no one takes Logan’s cigars, sexy woman or no.
Wait, did he just think of her as sexy? Christ.
Oh, what the Hell? That whole trick was pretty damn sexy. There was no way she could have possibly planned that either. Just the timing of it all… This must be some sort of sign that God wants him to get laid before he goes island-hopping for America without Victor. When she returned the cigar to him, placing it between his lips and breathing out the smoke without choking, his mind was made up. He was just about to take her up on her offer and ask her what she said, but then there was a roar coming from outside and his instincts – not all of them from the war – compelled him to investigate.
“What the Hell was that?”
‘Good question.’ Logan sighed at being cock-blocked once again. However, he followed the sexy mystery woman and the other men outside any, thinking it to be the worst like some land invasion or another by the Japanese or even the Germans. Weren’t the Allies winning the war? Last he knew, yes. Once outside he saw the people screaming and yelling in the streets as if it were a riot. Nothing dangerous was happening, and most people looked… happy. Sure, a few were crying, but most just looked damned relieved. The whole atmosphere of the busy and crowded street felt like a tremendous weight was lifted simultaneously from the shoulders of every American present.
“You there! Boy! What is going on?”
Darcy caught one of the very young, scrawny, and dirty newspaper boys. The lad, who couldn’t have been anymore than about ten years old or so at the most, called out to her in his most business like cry, “The war is over! Victory in Europe!” Then he scrambled out of her grip and scampered off, brandishing his newspapers to sell with the headlines written boldly in black ink. She managed to snatch one off of him before he escaped her grasp completely, and she briefly examined the cover and scanned for a bit before passing it to Logan.
“The war is over.”
She sounded shocked. Thank God. Thank God that the war is over. Logan glanced at the paper, and shook his head. He knew better. It wasn’t over. Not yet. There was still Japan in the Pacific to worry about. Just because the fighting had stopped, didn’t mean that everything would return back to normal just quite yet, either. Looking back at the woman – he should really know her name if he was going to be bedding her later – he watched her watch the people parading like madmen in the streets, toasting the Allies in public and dancing in their exuberance. She had a funny look on her face, and then she looked at him, a devilish gleam shining in her amber eyes. Yes, in this outside light he could see that her eyes were almost yellow like dirty gold, amber like whiskey. He liked it.
Then she roughly grabbed his face, dipped him down and backwards, and kissed him so ardently that she had once again surprised him.
That surprise didn’t last long as he soon put things to right and had her tilt so far back that she was almost horizontal over his arm. He kissed her back just as passionately, nipping at her lip so he could dive his tongue right into her mouth for a taste. Victory had never tasted so sweet. In between his hungry kisses and pawing gropes, he growled at her, “So, uh, what’s ya name?”
“My lovers…Mmm…call me…Genevieve.”
“That’s a…mmphf! … mouthful.”
“Heheheh, you know what else is a mouthful?”
“I’ll have you screaming my name before sundown anyway.”
“Is that a promise?”
“Mmm yesss! Your name?”
Instead of replying she just cupped his erection daringly in the public view, but no one was watching save a photographer for the newspapers. Darcy caught his eye out of the corner of hers, and she directed him telepathically to take a picture of another couple, a sailor and a dental assistant, instead. With that handled, she grabbed fistfuls of Logan’s shirt and renewed her frenzied attack on his neck. Huh, that’s funny. Usually her kisses left purplish bruises when she was this excited. And she could have sworn that she nicked her teeth hard enough on his earlobe to leave some sort of mark of ownership. She’ll just have to try harder then.
“What did ya say ta me earlier?”
“Mmm… what? What are you talking about?”
“Oh… I called you handsome.”
“And that you have a big cock.”
He sucked particularly hard on her tongue to show his pleasure at that complimenting statement.
“I like big cocks.”
“Uh huh. Most ladies do.”
There was more obscene kissing and indecent public behavior displaying their newfound affection for each other before finally…
“So are you going to take me upstairs, Logan?”
Logan picked Darcy up easily as if she weighed nothing and unceremoniously tossed her over his should as if she were a sack of potatoes. She smacked her hands on his firm ass in retaliation, but she was smiling all the same. Maybe she will be the one who won’t be able to piss tomorrow without feeling a keen sting in remembrance of him.