Graceful

I’d been watching her long enough to know what her favorite drink was. I knew her favorite flower, her favorite restaurant and her favorite flavor of ice cream. I knew when she was on her period and I knew when she had gotten laid.

It wasn’t that she was that intriguing of a woman, well, at least not to most people. Her long brown hair was straight and non-descript, blunt bangs hanging in her brown eyes, which she subconsciously swiped at with one un-manicured hand every few minutes. She rarely wore make-up, and preferred jeans and a T-shirt to anything that might show her shape.

No, it wasn’t this woman I was interested in; I was hunting for the person who killed my wife, and this woman would lead me to them.

Grace and I had been married only a few years, and the honeymoon was still in full swing. We couldn’t get enough of each other, always looking for any opportunity to touch, kiss or fuck; location be damned. She’d filled me up to overflowing with passion and love, up until the day she was taken from me by a stray bullet from a bank robber’s gun.

Wrong place, wrong time, that’s what the police had said right before they gave their obligatory condolences and sent me on my way. Not good enough.

That had been two years ago. It had taken me ten months before I got my first clue and another 18 before I found my way to where I now stood; outside a titty bar in Sacramento. I watched Mousey Brown cross the parking lot with her head down and her shoulders hunched; the yellow of the lights casting a sickly tone over cars and people alike.

She spared a glance around as she opened the door, pausing for just a moment before she disappeared into the dark interior of the club. I climbed from my car and followed, only a minute behind, and the bar was dark enough that my eyes didn’t need any time to adjust as the door closed behind me.

The dance music blared while a tall blonde pranced up and down the illuminated catwalk, her full breasts bouncing with her rhythmic gait. I scanned the room, looking for Mousey Brown, but she had vanished. I found a table in a dimly lit corner and settled in, waiting for her to emerge from her hole, and waiving away other women who were selling lap dances.

The music changed as each dancer cycled through: techno, rock and dance poured from the speakers as my eyes passed over the inhabitants of the room for the hundredth time; still no sign of Mousey. Then the flavor of the music changed, it was slow and seductive and familiar. It made me think of dark nights on satin sheets, nights from memory, not from fantasy. Images of Grace lying under me, her skin slick with sweat and eyes lids fallen shut in ecstasy came storming to the forefront of my mind, and my gaze was involuntarily pulled toward the catwalk.

I watched from my lone, dark corner as a tall leggy red head pranced onto the stage. She dripped in black lace. Stockings, garters and thigh high leather boots encased her legs, and her breasts swelled over the top of the lace corset that cinched her waist; she moved like a serpent. I rose slowly to my feet and moved numbly toward the stage; surely my eyes were deceiving me, the lithe curves of the woman before me were familiar, intimately familiar, and my fingers longed to revisit them.

I reached the edge of the stage just as she dropped to her knees and looked up, peering into my face through her curtain of garnet hair with green feline eyes; it was my Grace. I heard a gasp escape her and her eyes went wide, piercing my soul a moment before darting toward the table of men who suddenly stood up and reached for concealed weapons.

Time slowed at that moment, and exploded all at the same time. Grace leapt from the stage and tackled me to the floor, straddling me with one hand pressed to my chest, holding me down. She extracted a gun from the top of her boot and turned, firing at the group of men with the precision of an expert gem cutter, dropping them easily in the darkness.

I stared up at her with wide eyes, her weight familiar on my body, and her scent wafting around me like a secret whispered promise. I reached up and touched her cheek, drawing her attention to me and despite the bar now being empty, the strains of our song continued to play around us. She smiled down at me, bending over until her breasts pressed against my chest and she held my face in her hands.

I had a million questions, but found I couldn’t speak past the lump in my throat, my Grace had been restored to me and I didn’t know how; frankly I didn’t care as I wrapped my arms around her. She saw the questions in my eyes, lowering her mouth and speaking against my lips, “Ask me later,” she said softly before flooding me with her essence.