The Divorcee Murder Club

Dos ~ 2

            Storefront signs shimmer across the damp sidewalk as Angie struts in her stiletto boots just a few paces ahead of me. Something tells me she does this on purpose. Waits for no one. Especially not a man, and the other thing I'm noticing is she's leading us in the opposite direction of the bar. However, my feet follow the round curve of her backside, which sways beneath that thigh-length fur coat. Headlights flash as a car approaches, but then it slows, the window rolls down, and the driver blows her a kiss.

"Mamacita, adónde vas?"

"Coma mierda," Angie blows a kiss back, and the men burst into laughter before peeling off—their tires screeching against the slick pavement. She continues strutting as if this is a regular occurrence and pauses in front of an old dive.

The massive sign with Bruno's in bold white letters across the facade glows as pulsing music spills from the landmark nightclub in the heart of the Mission District. Biting that plump lower lip, she turns to me and winks with mascara smudged all over her bottom lids. Does she know her makeup is smeared to shit right now?

"It's reggae night. Let's boogie," she purrs, and that soggy fur coat disappears inside the red-lit doorway where a bouncer steps aside. For me, however, he wants to see ID.

Of course.

As soon as I walk into the red cloudy atmosphere, the reggae beat swallows me, and my shoulders are swaying. It's the Carribeño in me. I can't help it. In fact, I might have to top off this night by heading to the Nicaraguan restaurant down the street and feast on food from the motherland.

When I make my way to the bar, Angie has already made herself comfortable. Her hair clings to her coat in a cascade of damp curls as she stares over her shoulder, sizing up the dance floor where laser beams shoot emerald lines through the red fog of twerking bodies. It's the same floor I'm about to school her on because if there's one thing I can brag about, it's that I've got moves. Dancing in the kitchen with my mother to salsa music while growing up has paid off in my adult years.

"What's your poison?" she asks.

"Oh, hey stranger." I slide in next to her, leaning my elbows on the slick bar top, and point to the Prohibition draft tab. "I like local."

"Did you grow up in the Bay?" Angie asks, raising two fingers to signal the blonde vixen managing the well.

"Yep. Right here in San Francisco! You?"

The blonde walks over, and Angie purrs our orders into her ear while tucking cash into the spaghetti strap of the bartender's corset top. This woman probably can seduce the pants off anyone, even in that shitty coat.

"On the peninsula," Angie turns back to me. "But after I graduated high school, me and a few friends moved into the city."

"Oh yeah, where about?"

"We rented a house over on Guerrero."

"That's a cool neighborhood for college kids. Lots of dive bars to get wasted in, restaurants to soak up the booze, and coffee shops to cure the hangover."

"Nah. Best hangover cure is ibuprofen, water, and a greasy burrito from La Tapatia."

"You mean, La Taqueria?" I cock a brow.

"Nope. TA PA TIA," she pronounces slowly. "It's in South San Francisco. Best place for burritos."

"No way!" I sweep my hand. "The best place is on this street."

"La Taqueria?"

"Yep! And has the Michelin star to prove it."

Angie rolls her eyes and sticks her finger in her mouth. "I hate food snobs."

"I just know the best places to eat in the city." I shrug.

"That's debatable."

"Anyway, where do you live now?"

"It's a studio in one of those new fancy apartments by the ballpark. I have my dead-beat, asshole ex-husband to thank for the gorgeous view. Praise alimony. Only downside is living alone."

"Cool. Well, I live on Valencia Avenue. Also alone."

"Oh, so just a few blocks from here. Good to know."

My eyes dart to her plump lips as she licks them. I can already picture us going back to my apartment, stumbling through the door, hands working frantically to remove garments, and that pretty mouth wrapping around my cock. A pulse quickens in my pants. This beast is ready for action, but it's too soon to suggest we head back to my place.

Or is it?

"So, what's the plan? We gonna cut up that dancefloor?" I nod towards it.

"Of course, why else would I bring us here." She snags the drinks the bartender sets down and takes a sip of hers. "Ready?"

"I was born dancing."

"We'll see..." Angie pushes past me.

Like the stunner she is the crowd parts with heads turning her way as she leads us to the small dancing area. It's hot as fuck in here, yet she doesn't bother removing that dead animal from her shoulders. Instead, she runs her hands down her chest and stomach while swaying her hips to a faster remix of Sister Nancy. Her moves hit the iconic reggae beat as if the lyrics were designed for her curves. Wanting to show off, I smooth my hands over her ass and pull her into me. We grind, and when I dip, she dips, and our legs are so in sync we might as well be sewn at the pelvis.

The DJ transitions the song into a slower groove, giving us the chance to sip our poison. Laser light catches the frizz forming on Angie's hair as the humid atmosphere dries her damp locks, and my skin is starting to sweat. Makeup is still running down her misty face, yet I can't look away as we press our mouths to the cool glasses in our hands. She slowly licks the bourbon off her lips while staring at me, and her body continues winding to the music. The more I watch her, the more I want to take her back to my place and strap her down to the bed—do every naughty thing I haven't been able to do in weeks.

Divorces are expensive. Between laboring by day as a personal trainer and being a bouncer at night, my pocket drains faster than a racehorse pissing itself. Not to mention how it's eaten up my social life. If it weren't for the support group, I'd have zero interaction outside of work. Hence, this sexual dry spell.

"So, your wife left you for some pussy, ey?" Angie rotates, pressing that round ass against me. "Is your dick broken?"

"No. Not broken."

"You sure?"

A smile tugs at the corners of my mouth, and I pause from running my hands down her waist—a bold idea hitting me.

"Want to find out?"

Because, let's be honest, I need to get laid.

Angie cocks her head back, looks me in the eyes, and smirks. Her heavy lashes give a quick flutter, and she might as well be tugging my jeans down with that bedroom stare. Grabbing hold of her round hip, I give a small thrust. A smile stretches across her face, and the strobe lights transform her smeared makeup into a clown mask, but I don't care. She's a babe underneath that shit. Taking my hand, she directs me away from the dancefloor.

"Where are we going?" I shout over the music.

"To test out your dick."

This time the crowd doesn't part, so we weave through them, and holy shit, she's steering us to the restrooms. I haven't gotten down in a bathroom since college.

Maybe the divorced version of me gets a second wind at behaving like a total Casanova?

"We could just go to my place," I suggest.

"Where's the fun in that?" Angie glances over her shoulder and tugs my chin, forcing our mouths to collide. She bites my lower lip and releases it with a moan. "You better not disappoint me, handsome."

No, Mrs. Mendoza. I definitely won't.