Title: Four Martinis Make An Evening
Author: regencyg
Rating: PG-13
Characters (other than TracyQ):OFC
Part of Ficathon: No
Prompt Used:
Summary: A silent admirer watches Tracy from afar, for most of the evening anyway.
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In the last half hour, I’ve watched this woman down four martinis alone at the bar. No one’s come to join her and she doesn’t appear to be waiting. If anything it looks like she’s holding court with herself. Slumped over the bar, she pops olives like Valium and wears the defeated smirk of a masochist. I should know it; it’s my default expression. When her hair falls into her eyes, she can’t be bothered to brush it away.

She holds these cocktail skewers between her fingers and rolls them idly, taking careful stock of her next morsel. It doesn’t take a degree to know she’s drunk, but she can hold her liquor; she’s just down today. She doesn’t look particularly dangerous, or intimidating. She’s tall, I suppose. Maybe even pretty. She’s seen hardship and difficulty; maybe they gave her that spine of hers. Yes, she’s beautiful -- lines and depth and the softness of maturity around the edges. She’s slumped, with a certain air of disgruntled defeat about her. And a few empty martini glasses sit drank dry before her.

I was about to leave when I initially saw her, sultry exhaustion and weariness bound attractively together. I’ve never been one shy to approach a woman, but this woman was different. Her air was daring and I didn’t dare. I don’t know if I have the heart to take her on. I sat back down at my table and ordered another drink. My pastime of choice has long been people watching. I make it my business not to be too obvious. Though my eyes must be burning into her skin, she doesn’t so much as turn to see who‘s looking.

She snags another olive between her pearly teeth and closes her eyes to savor its flavor. It’s a long moment in which neither of us breathes. She purses her lips and I take a mental photograph of what I can see. The stretching tendons in her neck as she tips her head, the vague notion of her chin, and the high cheekbones that are just beautiful enough under this light. I think I could draw her with the right pastels. She smiles at her glass, still half full, and takes a deep drink. Her lips shine with the savory liquor. She snorts aloud and shakes her head at nothing.

I wish I knew what was so funny. I could use a laugh. My life isn’t as humorous as it used to be.

She rolls her shoulders back, clearly trying to ease her tension. I try to keep my eyes on appropriates parts, but I clearly fail as I could easily sculpt her shape if I wanted to. There’s a Utopia of skin between the folds of her jacket and just above the neckline of her satin shell. I eye the silhouette of her bust with each breath and I keep coming back to them. Aside from her softly curled hair, it’s the only indication of her femininity and I think it’s a shame. There’s a spitfire in there and she’s under wraps. I begin to chafe at the restraint of my own wardrobe.

Suddenly, she shifts on her bar seat and I duck my head, hoping she won’t notice my scrutiny. She doesn’t give me more than a passing look and I exhale slowly in relief. Now facing my direction, she stretches a pair of incredible legs towards me. I know I’m staring now.

I follow those legs until they disappear beneath the hem of her thigh-hugging skirt, two inches above her knees. I grant myself permission to inspect her in detail until I come to her eyes. Set on me, they’re the color of artificial ice, of aquamarine and I am sincerely sorry I’ve been caught in their hold. There is no surprise in their depths. There is, though, an arousing challenge in them. She’s known, all along maybe, that I’ve been watching. I suppose she wanted to see how many liberties I’d allow myself on her unsuspecting person. Now, she knows exactly how many.

She, then, takes her time looking at me. I feel her gaze sweep over my brow, my lips -- I inhale sharply-- my neck, my chest. She does not stop where she can no longer see my body, but leans away and I feel her look, like fingertips, on my legs. She’s appraising me, placing a value on me, and I shiver.

At last, she smiles.

She drops a few bills on the counter for the last of her drinks and steps down from the stool. She smirks, her mouth tilting superiorly. She walks--no, she strolls to my table. She doesn’t sit down, doesn’t attempt to come down to my level, but stands before me, forcing me to look up to her. She completely fills the senses this close; her scent is expensive and I stifle the dire primal urge to deeply inhale it. Her presence alone is fierce.

She reaches past me, her nails scraping a button on my shirt, to put her hand on my bill. She has a rich, coarse voice. It hits every spot I wish it wouldn’t and my mouth is momentarily dry. It feels like a long lost sensation. I enjoy it more than I should.

“That’s an awfully small bill considering how long you’ve been here.”

I clear my throat uncomfortably.

“I come for the atmosphere, not the drinks.”

She chuckles and I make the mistake of watching her do so. Her eyes sparkle as if she’s genuinely amused by my response. Her breasts rise and falls with her amusement and I look away. My chest rises and falls definitively as well, but not from mirth.

“Ah, yes.” She looks around at the nearly empty room. “It is known for that.” She laces her hazardous fingers together in front of her. I flinch away whatever fantasy of them tries to enter my head.

“I take it you noticed my watching you.”

She nods. “You weren’t exactly discreet.”

I pick up my glass to take a steadying sip. I feel like a fool to realize it’s empty. She takes it from my hand and holds it up. A waiter appears immediately to refill it. She acknowledges them absently and returns the tumbler to my empty palm. I raise it to her and down it quick. She looks mildly impressed.

“Nineteen-year old single malt. That’s courage.”

I clear my throat nervously. “I could use some.”

She still stands. Still tall, still above me. Still…inciting incredibly erotic visions in my head. Damn her.

“What for? I’m perfectly harmless.” She speaks with an edge that makes me straighten in my seat. Harmless? As harmless as a bed of nails possibly.

I raise my glass for another shot. She lifts an eyebrow but has it refilled just the same.

“I’d take it easy. You’re meeting the boss in the morning.”

I nod, finishing off this last finger with remorse. I don’t hold my liquor well; I’ll be feeling this tomorrow. After a beat, I look up at her curiously.

“How’d you know?”

She shrugs nonchalantly. “I know everything.”

It’s said with such confidence that I believe it, and fear it.

She looks absentmindedly at her watch and rolls her eyes.

“I, too, should to be getting to bed. Sleep well.” She smiles--all impeccably sharp-looking teeth and provocative lips-- and walks past me, her hip touching my shoulder as she does. I squeeze my eyes shut and force myself not to watch her leave. I just about die when a light hand comes down on my shoulder, the thumb brushing the sensitive skin of my neck.

I don’t have to turn to know it’s her. Her body heat singes the hairs on the back of my neck.

“Here’s my number in case you’d ever like to have a drink with me.”

I reach up and snag it from between her fingers. This time, I listen for her heeled footsteps to fade before I let down my guard. My hands shake as I unfold the piece of paper. Above a neatly written sequence of numbers is the name Tracy Quartermaine.

My addled mind supplies the rest: CEO of ELQ Industries.

I groan and hide my face in misery. That voice was too familiar. We’ve been speaking on conference calls for months. In the morning, I have to not sell my grass roots company to this woman. I have to tell her no.

But, I don’t think I can.

The waiter comes again with my new check, minus the drinks received in the presence of greatness, and I hand him my credit card. I lament a woefully lost liaison and dread the day to come. He returns one last time with my receipt and I sign it tiredly, Angela Hudson.

Tomorrow is going to be an unbearable day.