Jack Rose loved nothing more than the little seam that ran up the back of a woman’s leg. That thin, straight line led to beautiful things—garters and silk and soft, soft skin—all the things a man never saw until a woman was nice and mussed up.
Trouble was, there weren’t too many of those seams to be had anymore. It was an old fashioned fetish for an old fashioned time. Sure, there were girls all dolled up with bright red lips and dark, inky eyes, but they weren’t the real deal—too much make up, to much dye, too much of everything, including trying too hard. The stockings they wore didn’t lead to silk and skin. More often than not, they ended in elastic so tight it could have kept foreign invaders out.
Platform hipster heels with a too short dress…. That was all fine and dandy for some guys, but not for Jack Rose. Jack wanted the real thing—a girl whose silk stockings glossed against the sway of a skirt that ended just below the knee. He wanted to trace the ridge of a real seam that ran straight and true all the way up her leg before he buried his face between her thighs. He’d been wanting that for a real long time. He’d gotten lots of near misses in hipster heels, but he’d never quite struck gold.
Then she walked into his bar—a lanky brunette with a wicked jaw, straight out of Dashiell Hammett. She wore a little tailored jacket with a tailored skirt that flared just below her knee. The minute he saw her, the whole place faded to smoky black and white, and he hadn’t even seen her legs.
The place was nearly empty. She had her pick of seats, but she slid right onto the stool directly in front of him.
“What’ll you have,” he asked, wiping at the spotless bar with a rag.
“An old-fashioned. Thanks.”
She looked expensive to the touch. Her angel face was smooth and unpowdered. Only her lips were made up, a ripe, gorgeous red that made him want to take a bite.
“You know how to make that, right?”
Jack started. He hadn’t meant to stare.
“Yeah,” he replied, clearing his throat. “Yeah, darlin, I’ve got it covered. You’re just the first person to ask for one in more than five years.”
She grinned then, showing dimples and pretty, white teeth.
“I guess I’m an old fashioned girl.”
Jack didn’t know what to say to that. All he knew was that he was dying to see her legs.
Jack looked up and waved as Sam and Kyle, a couple of die hard regulars, headed into the quiet night. “See ya, guys,” he called.
The place was empty now.
He took his time muddling the sugar with the booze. Then he set the tumbler in front of the girl.
“Thanks. How much do I owe you?”
“Do me two things and it’s one the house,” he said, wishing he still smoked.
“I don’t know how badly I want a free drink,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “How about you tell what you want me to do, and I’ll tell you how I pay.”
Jack smiled. He liked her. He liked her way too much.
“Sure,” he said, pouring himself a bourbon on the rocks. “First thing. Tell me your name, gorgeous.”
She nodded, shifting slightly in her seat. Jack watched as he took a sip, imaging that she’d just crossed her legs.
“Sure. My name is Myrna.”
“Myrna,” he murmured, nodding. It felt just right in his mouth.
“That’s a pretty name you’ve got.”
She smiled and leaned her elbows up on the bar. “Thanks. What’s the second thing?”
“Stand and up and turn around.”
Jack met her eyes just as her soft, open gaze shuttered. He rushed on, trying to explain.
“It’s nothing weird, I promise. It’s just… Forget it. Never mind. Drink’s on the house.”
Jack knocked back the rest of the bourbon with a clatter of ice against glass. He’d blown that one all right. Might as well start closing up.
“Wait,” Myrna said, smooth as fifty year old scotch. “I think that’s a fair trade. Providing….”
“It’s a hell of a good drink.”
“Honey, that I can guarantee.”
Jack closed the till and watched as she slid of her stool and took three steps back. Then she slowly turned around. Long, black seams ran up her legs, from the heels of her spiky shoes to the scalloped edge of her hem.
“How’s that,” she said, meeting his eyes.
Jack cleared his throat.
“Not bad. I’d say we’re square.
“Like I said, that depends on how good your old-fashioned is.”
Still watching him, she sat back down and took a sip. She closed her eyes as her head tipped gently to one side, exposing the pale skin of her throat above the collar of her blouse. There was pleasure all over her face. He wondered if that’s how she looked when she came .
“How’s that,” he said.
“Oh… I’d say we’re square. In fact,” she said, opening her eyes, “I may owe you more than my name and a look at my legs.”
“Yeah?” Jack said, setting the rag aside. She was too damn good to be true.
“Yeah,” she said. “Why don’t you make yourself another drink?”
“Sure,” he said, “why not?”
With steady hands, Jack made himself an old-fashioned. Then he went around the empty bar, stopping just long enough to flip the closed sign over before taking the seat next to hers.
“What’s your name,” she said.
“Jack. Jack Rose.”
“Really? Jack Rose?”
“Yeah. My mom loved Hemingway.”
“That’s funny. I do too….”
A delicate flush colored her skin from collarbones to cheeks, as she slowly crossed her legs. Taking the invitation, Jack placed a hand lightly on her knee. When she leaned into him, he ran his hand down the back of her leg, over the perfect ridge of the seam. She sighed and bit her cherry red lip, as the scent of bourbon and sugar and Chanel filled his head. Goddamn. He wanted to muss her up.
Jack moved his hand back up her leg, pausing at her hem. She nodded, pulse skittering in her neck, so he allowed it to drift up her skirt, past the garters that kept those stockings in place, to a pair of silky knickers that were already damp and clinging to her sex.
Jack leaned in and kissed her. He loved an old-fashioned girl.
Note: I just wanted to quickly thank F. Leonora Solomon for our wonderful, wide-ranging conversations. This story was inspired by our mutual appreciation for the 1940’s and vintage underwear. She is a woman made of loveliness and class. Click here to read her drink – the Amaretto Sour.