One Night in Short, Dirty Pieces #02

Author's note: I know, I know - it doesn't seem much like a 'Part Two'. It will in the end, and all of these "One Night..." stories should work just as well on their own as they do in the series. Thanks for reading.

- - -

"There sure are a lot of people out tonight considering it's balls-ass cold."

"Balls-ass cold. That's a lovely turn of phrase. Who fucking talks like that?"

"Don't try and fucking talk down to me when you've got a cute little nose and that stupid... doggy stubble painted onto your face. Talking down is reserved for people who still have dignity."

"Is that you?! Do you still have dignity? Really? Does it come with the 'King' costume that makes you look like a total ass?"

It wasn't quite a blizzard, but there was definitely something stirring in the blackness above them. A wind with a few more teeth, a certain tone it hadn't carried before.

"You know, I wish they'd sent that blonde who was working this corner last week." Regal gauntlets pushed shiny slips of paper into the reluctant, frozen fingers of pedestrians. Regal only in their adherence to an archetype - they were some form of leather-print nylon. "There was a dog I could really give a bone - if you know what I mean." The leer was most un-kingly.

"Oh my God, I can't believe I'm going to freeze to death tonight with someone like you." Brown, furry, vaguely paw-like gloves shoved glossy sheets at the people passing on the opposite side. The animal gloves stretched up her slim arms like caramel coating, going up past her elbows. She was incredibly thankful for that on this bone-chilling night. "My last night on earth spent with the world's biggest jackass. Anyway, aren't you working for a burger bar?"

"Why?" his grin was calculated to grate, "You hungry? You wanna flyer?" He was holding out the whole, bulging messenger bag that he had to hand out tonight.

"I mean," pausing from her designated task - letting passers-by pass-by without forcing any of her own glossy slips on them, "The manager of your place wants to advertise his burger restaurant with some idiot dressed in a king costume." She paused, clicked her tongue, shivered. "Was his other idea a red and yellow clown?"

"There's a totally original king character on our menus!" He was ignoring their targets too now, turning to face her, thrusting crumpled burger menus at her. The king certainly wasn't infringing any copyrights. Then again, it was hard to make out that it was a king - it looked more like Santa Claus. "What the fuck does your place have to do with puppies?"

She looked down at her get-up and (to her immense disappointment and rage) had to admit that he had a point. The ridiculous 'Puppy-girl' outfit that she had to wear had no connection whatsoever to the bar she was flyering for. She had stupid floppy ears, long furry gloves, thigh-high furry socks, a white-trimmed skirt and a thick-furry hoodie. All in the same, generic, golden retriever caramel. With her nose painted a glossy, wet black, the overall impression was broadly that of a puppy - but only broadly.

"You don't think it's cute?" She shot him a teasing smile and executed a neat half curtsey and twist, letting the skirt flare up a little. This chauvinist fucker could do with a little teasing.

They were an island in the middle of a crowded sidewalk, garishly costumed and given the unenviable duty of handing out flyers to winter-time drinkers who would much rather keep their numb fingers firmly in their pockets. They had only been out for half an hour, both arriving at their designated spot at the same time, but already their own anti-freeze methods (hot-pads and thermal underwear) were starting to seem pretty skimpy in the face of a mean, muscular night.

They were starting to attract more attention for the obvious spat that was going on than for their outfits. Possibly the outfits amplified the eye-catching effect of a face to face argument in the middle of the sidewalk, possibly the argument made their ridiculous clothes seem all the more apparent. People were giving them both space and smirks now.

"Cute... whatever..." she had him tongue-tied, she grinned. "I guess it must be nice to just be able to hike your skirt whenever you're on heat though, right?"

"Fuck off." She pivoted on the heel of a well-worn sneaker and turned back to the crowds, cheeks hot and scarlet from something she couldn't quite place.

"Oh, that's wit. Real canine wit there."

They didn't talk for a few minutes, icy dispositions matching the freezing night air. The wind now was a bladed, edged weapon and the snow was getting thicker as the crowds got thinner. The nastiest, most cutting gust brought a convincingly puppy-like yell from her, and another un-kingly curse from him.

"I want to be the guy who works for that sushi place across town." He didn't look across, but his tone had some kind of reconciliation in it. She waited a couple of beats and bit.

"How come?"

"Fucker's in a full-body, furry fish suit. That stuff's thick as all hell - I'm sure he's doing just fine tonight." The crowds really were thinning out, the lights and signs around them were taking on a weird, dreamy, gauzy shimmer. She couldn't feel her fingers. She let the few pedestrians that were struggling along pass unmolested. Her arms were wrapped around herself now - that was more important than giving out fucking flyers.

"But imagine how he feels in the summer." She had wanted to giggle to follow that up, but it came out as a kind of chattering groan.

"If I'm still doing this next summer I think I'll kill myself." His tone was sour, but the bile wasn't aimed her way. He thrust his flyers carelessly back into his bag and hefted it, resettling it on his shoulder. "Excuse my crudity," he had to raise his voice to be heard over the wind, and fired off half a smile that caught her by surprise - made her reconsider him, "but fuck this. I don't wanna lose my fingers for this paycheque. Do you drink?"

- - -

"Are you two... part of the... show?" The clumsily tattooed guy behind the bar was squinting at them as if he had half a clue what was going on. The soft, dull thump of a heavily amplified bass line pulsed through the ceiling from upstairs. Otherwise the bar (his choice) was quiet and half empty. Not that she felt all that self-conscious about being dressed as a puppy and getting a drink - the freezing conditions they were fleeing made it so that the only thing she was thinking about at that moment was getting warm.

"Show...?" She made a face, curling her lip, hesitating by the door.

"I have no fucking clue what you're talking about dude." She had paused but he had steamed straight in, hardly even glancing at Sketchy-Tattoo-Guy. "No show, just two beers over here."

"Thank Christ," Tats started pulling beers, "I thought things were gonna get really freaky up there." Oh, some private party upstairs - her brain was thawing and she joined the King at the bar, dusting snow off herself before it melted and matted the cheap, synthetic fur.

"You guys were out in this?" beers went one way, money the other. The King paid.

"Could be that even in a blizzard people need to know where to buy a shitty burger." Tats nodded and left them to their beers, moving on to another customer a few seats down the small bar. The beer was cold, but she was almost back up to a healthy temperature so it felt refreshing more than anything.

"What if I hadn't wanted a beer?" She kept going to rub her nose, her skin was tingling as it warmed up, but she had to catch herself before she smudged her stupid, shiny black make-up. She expected a snide, callous comeback.

"Oh man, I didn't think. My brain is still half frozen, sorry." He wasn't looking at her still - he'd hunched straight into a kind of foetal lean over the bar and he was squinting at the bottles lined up behind the bar. He didn't seem to be paying her much attention, but the contrition in his voice caught her by surprise.

"No, no. Beer's good."

"Oh, cool." He glanced at her for a second, then started looking around the bar. He certainly wasn't much for charm, but she started to think that the asshole he had been out on the corner was almost an act. She liked his unshaven jaw and the way it joined with his lean neck at such a sharp angle. Without the plastic crown he had an endearingly messy tangle of chestnut hair too. She pinched her thigh through her furry skirt - stop staring.

A couple left the bar, leaving only them and two other small groups of drinkers. She had finished half her beer before she felt human enough to speak again. He beat her to it anyway.

"Listen I'm sorry about some of that shit earlier," again, half a smile and a sideways glance, "I mean, the stuff about that other girl. It was nasty. I had a crappy day and... someone giving me shit brought out the worst in me."

"Wow, is that... regret?" She liked his face and she was willing to concede he wasn't the jackass she had met out on the corner, but she wasn't completely sold yet. So far it was easy to keep sniping at him, not really caring what he thought.

"Yeah," he chuckled and raised his beer to his lips, "Yeah it was. Eat it up because you won't get much more out of me."

"I don't know, I already got a beer," she raised her own glass, "I'm sure you're not finished paying out yet."

"Jeff," half a smile and an outstretched hand.

"Marcie."

- - -

When the door opened (which it blessedly seldom did) they got a sharp, toothy reminder not to go back out there for a good while yet. Their best plan of action for the night was to prop up the bar, help the inked-up barkeep dispose of his beer, and then apologise to their respective bosses tomorrow. The weather was truly exceptional.

Her puppy ears, his 'gown' and two pairs of novelty gloves were folded neatly on a stool to her left. More beer had been drunk then they had moved on to stronger booze in smaller glasses. And at some point in the middle of all of this he had actually stopped the perpetually distracted flake act and devoted all his attention to her. They sat angled towards each other, their knees touching.

And still, if she was brutally honest, he was kind of a jerk. They talked about a lot of things and he was smart, interesting and funny. But every now and then there was an off-hand, smart-assed dismissal that made him seem - for want of a better word - spiteful. Then again, excessive smart-assery was something she was frequently accused of herself.

But the sharp, bitter edges began to blur after a while, like they do with any flawed friend whose virtues outweigh their vices, and she found herself tracing the line of his jaw with her eyes again and again while he was talking.

It got hotter (or she did) and she unzipped the puppy-hoodie more than half-way without thinking. Guiding the zipper over the curve of her chest quickly, she found it was enough, she was cooling down again, but suddenly he was paying a lot more attention.

It took her a moment to realise that the clinging thermal top she was wearing under the faux-fur hoodie was really accentuating the swell of her breasts, clinging all the way around, to the underside of her bra. She honestly hadn't intended this to have any effect - but she made no move to zip it back up or cover herself. It wasn't like there was any skin showing.

There were other people in the bar, but the alcohol made them seem so very distant. When the small group from one of the booths left, they took a bottle and made some unspoken decision to take their place.

The booth was at the back of the bar, away from the distracting chills of the door and he made something of a fuss of struggling out of one thin layer, so that he was down to his plain blue t-shirt. She licked her lips, telling herself she was checking for... booze... or something. His slim, lithe torso was easily accessible to her hungry eyes in a t-shirt that tight.

She pushed off her hoodie and leaned forwards in just the thermal top, so very aware of the shape of her body as he would see it; slender and petite, but not without curves. She brushed her dark bangs out of her face for the millionth time (one thing about the doggy ears, they did help her keep things under control) and tucked the rest of her hair behind her ears.

They were talking all the time but she was damned if she knew what about. Some sarcastic animal instinct kept supplying her with comebacks and one-liners that kept him chuckling, and as long as he was laughing and making her laugh and she could rest her ankle against his calf under the table...

Oh... wait. Hold on. When had that started? She was absolutely sure that their legs hadn't been touching a moment ago, but now that they were... Well surely it would seem rude to just pull away? Right?

She moved and he moved, but neither of them moved away. She felt his jeans (very anachronistic, not at all kingly, as she had pointed out when talk had returned to costumes) dragging over her high, furry socks. Mmm, friction.

He was tugging at his tee in a random, distracted way. She liked it, the way it stretched away from his body only to spring back, desperate still to cling to him.

"Our bottle," he spaced his words carefully, "will soon be empty."

"Let's..." she was going to suggest another trip to the bar, but looking over they saw that its keeper had deserted his post. Checking on the party upstairs perhaps? The music still made itself felt, thumping gently through the ceiling. "Oh, there's no-one there to give us any more liquor." She pouted, and saw his grin was infinitely easier and more natural than it had been before.

"Listen to you - 'liquor' - what is this, a speakeasy?"

"It could be - an illicit liquor den on the wrong side of town." She defended herself with a shrug. "Just the place for a king and his puppy to hide out." It slipped out, but he was still sharp enough not to let it go.

"'His' puppy?"

"I didn't say 'his'..."

"Yes you did." He was standing up now, shuffling sideways out of his seat. "I tell you what, I'm going to hit the head. I'll obtain further 'moonshine' on the way back."

"I didn't..."

"And y'know - in a way - if you're my puppy that would also make you... my bitch." His tone deviously matter of fact, his grin utterly innocent as he turned and made his way to the door that led to the toilets.

When she stood up she realised that she was drunker than she had previously thought. It took a little concentration to manoeuvre out of the booth. And she was half way across the floor, following him (of course she was following him) before she thought to glance at the front of the bar, to see who was watching. No-one was.

She wasn't entirely sure why she was following him, after all, she didn't need the bathroom. But she was following, leaving their coats and bags unattended in the booth behind her. She watched the door swing shut behind his skinny, denim-wrapped ass and wondered if her judgement was impaired. If she was sober enough to wonder if her judgement was impaired - that probably meant that her judgement wasn't impaired... didn't it?

She pulled the door open.

There was a short, cramped corridor with three doors, respectively marked for ladies, gentlemen and staff (still churning with the need to crack jokes and impress him she wanted to come out with a - 'What, so they only hire hermaphrodites here?' joke, but bit her tongue since he was already in the men's room).

She leaned on the ladies' room door, and screwed her eyes up. She wasn't too drunk was she? Whatever she was doing there (she still didn't know) was what she wanted to do, she was sure of that. She wanted to do him, but the full formulation of that thought made her cheeks flush, hot and red, as if she had only just come in from the cold.

And as she tried her best to think things through, panic set in. It passed, but for a moment she was frozen - what if she was misreading this whole thing? What if he wasn't interested at all?

The sound of him relieving himself rattled and rang and finally tailed off. There was a flush, a few more seconds for her to wonder (as if it weren't even her there in that crappy little corridor) what she was doing there, and then he was out there with her, looking at her - her back to the bathroom door, looking at him.

"Oh, hey. Occupied?" He was still buttoning his jeans, she watched him do it as she shook her head. "Then... uh...?"

"You're kind of an asshole." His posture relaxed just a little, he still seemed a touch on edge as he frowned and smiled at her.

"Wait a second..." he laughed, "Are you trying to insult me and hit on me at the same time?"

"Isn't that how you would do it?" She pushed herself away from the door, and as if mirroring her he took a step forwards too. He was taller than her, but not much.

"I guess I would," half a smile, "I mean, I'm having to fight spitting out another crack about you being on heat right now." Thumbs hooked into his belt loops like some kind of hipster cowboy he swaggered another step closer. She twisted her fingers together behind her back, finding a little of the coyness that had gone AWOL when she came in here.

"But..." angling her head just a little, looking up at him, "Is it really a joke if it's true?" So close now - less than an arm's length away. The drum beat from the room upstairs was a soundtrack of some kind. He had stopped, daring her to cover the last bit of ground. Screw him, she'd done her part. Now it was time to see if he was in.

She looked away, to the side, knew that his eyes were on her chest where she was shameless pushing her fantastic breasts (she had no qualms about calling her own tits great - they were) out for his delectation. She pouted again, because she couldn't think of anything else to do.

"Y'know..." he was moving, "what's really, really fucking hot?"

"I have no -" skinny, cynical, unshaved indie boys in tight jeans and even tighter t-shirts "- idea."

"Nasty, funny girls..." his hands touched her hips, brushed gently over the soft, fake fur, "... who've forgotten that they're wearing ridiculous face paint."

Her eyes opened in shock - she had totally forgotten. But in the split second that she found her self reeling he had leaned in and taken her lips with a long, violent kiss - lips and tongue and teeth in just the right amounts. When he pulled away her nose had left a short black smear across his cheek.

"Asshole."

"Bitch." He grinned. "Referring of course to your... oh, woah!"

It was only two steps he stumbled backwards as she shoved him, but he was actually panicking for a second. Then his back hit the wall, then she heaved open the door marked 'Staff' and then she bundled him inside.

"Holy f-" her lips hit his, and her hands gripped the waistband of his jeans. She was dimly aware of boxes stacked on boxes, surrounding them and making a tiny room even smaller, but she really didn't care about the setting at all. His fingers were in her hair, his stubble scraping her chin. She wrestled his tongue into submission.

"Chicks dig jerks," she gasped as their mouths finally separated. The music was faint in here, and the air was cooler. It didn't matter, they were generating their own heat now.

"Lucky me." His hands were out of her hair and pulling up her tight top before she knew it. Then again, she was oblivious to a lot of things - she didn't realise she was stroking the growing bulge in his jeans until the nerve sensations from her fingertips hit her brain. She was kind of glad her auto-pilot was working so well.

"We should be quick," she whispered, exhausting her reserves of common sense as his hands agreed with her. In a moment she was feeling the clinging thermal fabric leaving her arms, slipping up, being tossed away onto a box in the corner - then she felt his eyes on her, licking like a tongue over the swell of her cleavage, her black bra.