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It was that time of year when rain fell unrelenting from the skies - the ceaseless weeping of the heavens above over Basin City. God's tears for a place awash in sin and depravity, perhaps. That's what the priest at his local church used to say, back when he was a young, frightened child finding what solace he could grasp in the sweet lies and half-truths of religion. Not sure he much believed in all that now, though. If God existed, he sure as fuck wasn't casting his eye over the likes of Sin City. No, this was the devil's domain. Always was. Always would be.
Shaking the stray droplets beading on his coat at the door, Jonas trudged inside Kadie's -- his usual haunt, this sweet den of flesh and smoke. Pretty girls up on stage, dancing and flaunting their bodies for old pervs like him, drooling over a flash of tit or a glimpse of pussy just to forget how terrible the world was. Temporary salvation for the gonks and goons. Just another way to make ends meet for them. They peddled pretty fantasies dressed up in lace and leather, and the dirty bastards ate it up, hook, line, and sinker.
Hell, he couldn't talk. Not really. He was one of 'em.
But only for *one* gal in particular -- most stunning one outta all the girls that twisted and twirled up on Kadie's stage, in his opinion -- *you*. Fuck, but even her name gracing his ears felt good.
It reeked of cheap booze and cigarette smoke in here. Desperation and testosterone only tempered by the sweeter smells of women. Waitresses in shorts barely long enough to cover half-cheek flitted about balancing trays of wings and beer, smiling knowingly when gazes lingered too long on assets freely on display. They were pretty, sure. Fine pieces of fuckmeat. But nothing could compare to you. Settling at his usual table - Kadie was good to her repeat customers, she always kept it clear for him - he flagged one of the staff for his usual four fingers of Scotch. Here, he had the best view of the main stage, and its little attached catwalk. Best seat in the house, far as he was concerned. For the next fifteen minutes, anyway.
Reaching up to scratch at the dark swathe of overgrown stubble along his jaw, Jonas waited - in his own little personal bubble, the world held its breath. *Show me heaven, angel.* Thought the hitman, nodding his thanks to the waitress placing his glass down with a *clink* without even looking at her. He couldn't miss a moment - not from the second she stepped on stage.
From the corner of his eye, Jonas spotted Marv - the big goddamn brute looked covered in fresh bruises. Another brawl, no doubt. Lifting his glass in salute, Jonas smirked when the overgrown bastard tipped his beer back in return. Marv was good people, under all that meat. Heart o' gold in what could have passed for an ogre's body. Kept the girls safe here. Someone had to.
The usual droning country-twang music feeding through the speakers faded out into something... different. *Her* songs. Jonas took a long swallow of Scotch, savoring the smooth burn as it slithered down his throat to settle heavy in his belly. *Showtime.* As soon as the first peek of the toe of her heel appeared from behind the heavy black velvet curtain, Jonas felt his breath hitch. His eyes followed the line of her limb as she stepped out, dragging up along her body until, after an unhurried wander, his gaze reached her face.
Fuck, but she had a body built for sin and rapture itself, and her face... if the devil was a woman, it'd wear hers. Those eyes *pierced* his goddamn soul, even when she wasn't looking at him. Everything crystalised, a mirror's edge focus on *her*. When she began to move, undulating and twisting and working that damn pole (fuck, what he'd give to be the one she was grinding on), Jonas was enraptured... though one wouldn't have known from his expression. The hitman's countenance was schooled into a mask of impassivity - not even a hint of interest showed in those flinty blues, but oh how it *burned* under his skin.
Truthfully, he could have paid for a private dance. In the four months he'd been coming here, he had ample opportunity to... 'specially when you was working the floor. But he never did. Couldn't bring himself to. Not for lack of wanting - *God*, no, he fucking ***wanted***** - but... something stopped him. Perhaps it was him not wanting his killing hands sullying her. Perhaps he didn't want to admit how fuckin' weak his pining for some stripper made him feel. Perhaps he didn't know *what* he'd do with her *finally* in his lap. Jonas feared that beast within him.
Fishing a cigarette from the crumpled pack in his coat pocket, he slotted it between his lips and lit up, drawing in a long lungful of smoke. The cherry blazed bright, illuminating the starving glint in his eyes through the dim lighting of the club. Exhaling through his teeth, Jonas murmured to himself, "Dance for me, babygirl. That's it. Show me... show me it all."
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