TEASER – Moonlighter by JC Jaye
Holy hell.
Holy fuck.
Shaded by a raggedy canvas awning, I stood to one side of Mooney’s front door and a few feet in front of my parked Harley Iron 1200, staring down the street like an infatuated schoolboy.
Jesus, Tirone. You are beyond pathetic with this spying shit.
I licked my lips, transfixed.
True, true. But goddamn my soul, is that girl fine…
“YO! Yo, ʼLighter!”
A familiar voice bellowing across the asphalt lot had me crashing back to planet Earth none too happily.
Noooooo.
My subconscious protested as I dragged hungry eyes off a curvy, redheaded vision perched on a bright pink bicycle—the woman’s long, tangled hair flying behind her like a crimson flag, her world-class rump bouncing on a seat of black leather.
Ah, Christ. Right about now, I wanna be a bike saddle so fucking bad.
“Hey, Lee. Stan.”
Pissed, I grunted at the dynamic duo fast approaching. This would be joined-at-the-hip regulars Leon and Stan, two of the bar’s best and thirstiest customers, hurrying to snag their favorite happy hour seats. Happy hour that would stretch well into the wee hours, winding down when yours truly locked the doors at closing time.
Keep moving, boys. Get lost. Scram.
I sent silent brainwaves to Leon, who was leading the charge, hoping the fool would compute telepathic messages that were high on the frustration scale.
Outta the way. I can’t see. Damn, I haven’t gotten my fix yet. Red’s ridin’ fast, but I still have one more stop sign before the beauty turns the corner.
A hearty wallop on my left shoulder sealed my fate as Karma, the almighty bitchtress, conspired against me.
Yeah, what else is fucking new.
“Yo, ʼLighter! Howzit hanging?”
Lee’s greeting was chipper as fuck, and no surprise… The lush, along with his boozy buddy, were about to enter their home-away-from-home, Mooney’s Place—my old man’s dumpy, yet much beloved, gin mill. The same murky dive where I bartend most weekday nights and every Friday and Saturday evening, once I clean myself up after pulling the plug on my dirtier daytime gig as an electrical contractor. This cash-under-the-table set-up serves two purposes: both saving Pop dough, and upholding the family biz’s reputation for quality, heavy-handed service.
Heavy-handed, oh yeah. Ain’t nobody pours ʼem like father and son.
“Moonlighter!”
Bringing up the rear, Stan shouted my nickname, grinning over Leon’s shoulder like a carved pumpkin.
“ʼLighter, my man! Workin’ a shift for your pops tonight, huh? Excellent, excellent—lookin’ forward to those generous pours.”
Told ya.
“Uh, yeah…” Scarcely listening, I squinted down the road, just in time to catch a rear bike tire disappear from view.
Shit, fuck, shit. Great, so much for today’s four-fifteen eye fest. Thanks a bunch for ruining the show, jerkfaces.
I cleared my throat and counted to five, struggling not to wrap my hands around a pair of meddling windpipes, and squeeeeeeze.
“Er, listen, I’ll see ya inside, guys. Gotta make a quick call…”
Unpocketing my cell, I muttered a lie to the loiterers, feeling like I’d been caught with my cock in my fist.
A ridiculous notion, since the fucker was stuffed behind my zipper and nowhere near my hand.
Yeah, not like it had been earlier this morning, as I moaned and groaned in my rumpled bed, jacking myself raw to hot fantasies of nailing Red Goddess into the mattress until my mystery woman couldn’t see straight, let alone operate a weirdly colored ten-speed.
I flushed, squirming on my shitkickers.
Freaking sicko. Moonlighter
