Legs Read online

  Legs

  Ian Cooper

  This Smashwords edition published by Ian Cooper

  Copyright 2014 Ian Cooper

  Design: J. Thornton/Long Cool One Books

  ISBN 978-1-927957-20-2

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  The following is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person living or deceased, or to any places or events, is purely coincidental. Names, places, settings, characters and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. The author’s moral rights to the proceeds of this work have been asserted.

  Table of Contents

  Act One

  Act Two

  Act Three

  About the Author

  Legs

  Ian Cooper

  Act One

  Slam Richmond grabbed Brandon’s arm.

  “Oh, my, Gawd…”

  Brandon wasn’t sure if there was a question mark on the end of that or what.

  Brandon Davison turned to see what Slam was looking at.

  Less assertive than Slam, he tried not to stare. Unfortunately, it was kind of hard not to. The most dazzling blue eyes swept past his gaze, taking in the room.

  The face turned away and that left only…

  Legs. And a jacket and not much more.

  Legs that started at the ground, just as all legs did, but then they went up like a beanstalk, all the way up to an ass that could only be described as tight. Clad in sheer black stockings with the smallest of lines up the back, a pair of legs that didn’t even seem to stop there, but just kept on going, way up high. This mental image was reflected in the slender arms, hands and wrists, long arms, and a neck that was graceful, slim and very smooth-looking.

  Brandon took another look. She towered there, shoulders in, a natural tall-girl response, and he wondered what she was thinking. She turned again and caught him looking, like a deer frozen in the headlights. Brandon hurriedly looked away, knowing he shouldn’t by the classic rules of the game.

  His heart was racing madly, but of course this was why they came out in the first place, action, excitement, escape.

  Holy, shit.

  Wow.

  Very tight, or toight, as Slam would say in another drink or two.

  A woman very seldom did that to him. She looked different even for this place. It’s one reason why his heart was never in it these days, no matter how Slam berated him or tried to buck him up. The trouble was that he couldn’t convince himself. No matter how badly he might want to. It’s like he knew his role too well.

  No, he was meant to suffer.

  To grin and bear it, for fuck’s sakes.

  Chic, European disco music blared over the speakers at the Cock and Bull, a hip little alternative bar where Facebook’s fifty different shades of gender option could meet, mingle, and pick each other up, or put each other down, whichever mood one might be in.

  Up until now, that last option had been the most often exercised by the two prowlers. When in doubt, snark.

  It was good for a laugh if nothing else, and the cheese-and-mushroom potato peels were cheap, filling and good. The vodka was the same anywhere. The beer likewise, they agreed.

  Slam was always prowling, but Brandon was just looking for somebody nice. That’s what he kept telling himself, although performance anxiety might have played a role in his remarkable lack of success to date. He could hardly live by Slam’s example. He didn’t really want to, not even under the best terms of reference as they called it. The guy would make love to a potato sack if all else failed—Brandon wasn’t quite sure how he did it, or what he told himself while he was doing it, but Slam had made it with some remarkable dogs. Slam hadn’t caught rabies so far but it was only a matter of time.

  He’d never had the heart to tell him that.

  “Well, there’s only one thing I know for sure: I don’t stand much of a chance.” Guys and girls were already eddying around the tall newcomer, slender, willowy, and exhibiting a feminine grace that most twinks could only envy.

  Brandon knew he shouldn’t put himself down, (or others) but there were times when the loneliness and the ineffectualness of his efforts were more than he could bear. He knew he shouldn’t have allowed himself to be dragged along. God. Where the hell are you going to go? What the hell are you going to do? It was always the same, first here, and then there, and then maybe somewhere else, and then if all else failed, they would grab a bite to eat, and he’d go home stone-cold sober, lay sleepless all night, a hundred bucks poorer and suffer the pangs of indigestion. When he woke up he’d have a headache, a sense of self-loathing and not much else to show for it. He would have a bad day at work, dragging his ass around, which was why it was usually Friday these days.

  If I’m not doing anything different, nothing’s ever going to change.

  The motivational speaker’s mantra.

  Brandon turned away, savoring the impression of a very short, black leather skirt, a long leather jacket, kind of more faded, and what looked like size fourteen or so black and red patent leather pumps, and a set of legs that beat all. It was hard to tell if the person had breasts or not. They were wearing a studded leather collar, which fair took his breath away when he saw it.

  But it was the shoes that were doing it, he thought.

  Nice feet. Fuck, even if that is a guy.

  Nice job, buddy. I like it!

  Keep up the good work.

  Yeah, and if all else fails, we can put a flag over your head and do it for the Queen.

  The pair of women (one for sure) were given priority and a table was found for them…as it very well should be.

  He caught Slam’s eye for a minute.

  “I’m feeling all catty.”

  Slam sniggered.

  The person, looking excitingly bored and androgynous as all hell, had medium-length purple-black hair, all fluffed up like a psychedelic glass-fibre lamp, and makeup that would have put Elvira, Mistress of the Dark, right to shame.

  Dangly black faience earrings did nothing to contradict the illusion.

  Slam took a big gulp, then another. He set the glass down and waved at the bartender.

  “Wish me luck.” The guy just looked at him in pure blank mode. “Play it again, Sam.”

  “Aw. Hell.” Yeah, move right in, why don’t you.

  The bartender looked at a retreating Slam.

  “My name’s not Sam.”

  Brandon shrugged.

  I didn’t see that one coming.

  What the hell is wrong with me these days?

  He stared bitterly into the bottom of another glass.

  Bastard.

  Good to watch, though.

  Slam moved on in, slowly circuiting, with a hand-shake here and a quick nod there, and Brandon sighed and reached for his wallet. It was right out of the book, though.

  Oh, yeah. That’s right. I owe you one. Slam had gotten lucky last Friday night, going home with a forty-plus medical records transcriptionist with two teenage sons and a very hard belly that turned out to be under restraint from the finest stainless-steel and Kevlar girdle that money could buy, at least to hear Slam tell it. In which case why do it? And yet he always claimed to have done so. Said she loved sucking cock, too. He wondered how much of it was true, but if his own loneliness was anything to go by, it probably was true. He had this mental vision of big floppy skin-sacks for breasts, wobbling all over that belly. Some lady, pudgy and f
orlorn, perhaps glad enough to get it.

  The bartender finally acknowledged him with a nod.

  Leave it to Slam to be drinking the most expensive thing on the list.

  Stalingrad vodka, and eighty proof at that. The worst brand name ever.

  Brandon turned to watch, sipping his own light beer as the waistline tended to balloon in winter when he wasn’t working as much.

  ***

  “Hi, I’m Steve, but people call me Slam.”

  “Scram, Slam.”

  Steve Richmond coloured slightly, swallowed his disappointment as quickly as he could, and tried again.

  “Aw, hey, that’s no attitude. You’ve had a long day, let me buy you—”

  Those eyes froze in an instant.

  “…a drink.”

  The tall person, he still wasn’t entirely sure if it was a girl, even up close, towered over him. They leaned in, staring into his eyes. Steve couldn’t help but glance at the chest area. He was looking for obvious bumps but that wouldn’t prove a thing anyway, not in this crowd. She still had the jacket on. He couldn’t really be sure. He preferred big breasts but in an unusual case, whatever.

  A strong finger poked him in the sternum.

  “Still not getting it?”

  Slam nodded glumly.

  “My apologies.”

  He turned and moseyed, with as much grace as he could muster, back to where a grinning, and yet even then, a kind of admiring Brandon waited.

  Brandon tipped up his tall Pilsner glass and drained it.

  He thunked it on the bar and waved at the bartender, who hadn’t actually arrived with Slam’s drink yet. Maybe he’d get lucky, but more likely Slam would tell the fellow to put it on Brandon’s tab.

  “Slama-o-rama. Strike one.”

  Brandon chuckled. Yeah, and that was about it with Slam. He’d keep on swinging, all right.

  Slamster. The Slam-Meister. How many names had the man made up for himself?

  They weren’t the sort of names anyone else would make up for him.

  Nobody could ever say, but he kept on doing it. Richmond looked over in pure speculative fashion. The tall newcomer sat on a barstool, legs crossed and with those crazy shoes, as if they needed high heels anyway. Those legs were really something. The eyes were on him, and he looked away, uncomfortable with the whole meat-market thing right about then. The shoes were fascinating, he’d thought Goth was all shiny black paratroop boots, but these had high heels, high ankles, and yet the toes were cut away in a most suggestive fashion.

  She was literally dressed like a hooker, or maybe some kind of Halloween thing—Rocky Horror Picture Show, he thought.

  But that’s just insane. He wondered what she might be like naked. It couldn’t be all bad.

  He didn’t think he was a fetishist, but one never knew. If all he could get was the feet, he might just give in.

  “Why don’t you give it a try?” Slam slapped him on the upper arm. “Go with the moment.”

  Another one right out of the training manual.

  “Yeah, I can hardly spoil it for the Slammer now, can I?” It sounded bitter and it was. “Aw, forget it man, just get over it. He, she or it, just doesn’t like you.”

  “Don’t like men, you mean.”

  And they’re even less likely to like me, Brandon thought.

  “Ha! I wonder what it does like.” A connoisseur and a raconteur, and often a boor as well, Slam sipped the colourless liquid in silent appreciation.

  He, she, or it. Brandon took another look, slightly disappointed not to make eye contact again.

  The person was busy talking with her friend, who ordinarily, Brandon would have called lovely. But the tall one was unique. And compelling…and a whole lot of other things.

  He had himself another light beer. He took the foam off judiciously with his first sip, studied it and himself in the mirror over the bar, and thought some mournful thoughts. Like, how soon can we go?

  I must try not to look at my watch.

  That’s a good one, Brandon remembered thinking and then to both of their stunned awareness, the person under discussion was right there at Brandon’s elbow.

  His jaw dropped and he contemplated the unthinkable. The impression of a kind of attractive androgyny was even more overpowering up close. She was just too big.

  What if this really wasn’t a lady, i.e., a person of the opposite sex?

  He stood there in thrall.

  It’s not exactly what he had in mind.

  “Would you care to dance?”

  “Uh, yes. Lovely.”

  He gave a nod and a wry look at Slam, face in his glass and staring fixedly downwards at the bar-top.

  “Of course. I, I’d be delighted.”

  The figure gave a smile, and an inclination of the head, and Brandon took the offered hand and allowed himself to be led out onto the dance floor. The face was very sweet, looking more vulnerable and open than Steve’s first perceptions had implied.

  “Your friend is kind of cute.”

  “Huh.”

  They smiled into his eyes.

  “My name is Kim”

  “Ah. Brandon.”

  Kim. That was helpful.

  The music was slow for once, and his partner was leading the pair with a strong sense of timing and position. It was easy enough to keep up and everything. It was like getting a dance lesson, he realized. Kim was very good, especially considering those shoes. He found himself peering at the neck collar, trying to catch any hint of an Adam’s apple. The legs…he already knew about the legs, but people said you could always tell by the lower calves.

  People were full of shit, he decided.

  They sure looked like a woman’s legs, or perhaps more properly, a girl’s. A jolly nice girl too, if only one could be absolutely, positively sure these days.

  And that was just the problem wasn’t it?

  That was the trouble. In spite of which, he was developing a distinct chub.

  “Ah, yeah, he’s not so bad. It’s just that he’s been kind of, ah, alone lately…”

  “You’re a loyal friend.”

  They danced for a while, Brandon biting his tongue and looking at her ears and neck.

  He was pretty sure in that exact moment of time.

  “No, seriously.” It appeared the ears were listening. “It’s just that you affected him, and he told me that as soon as he saw you.”

  “You’re his wingman, aren’t you?”

  Brandon’s heart thudded a bit when he heard that.

  He looked up in a kind of shock. Kim was a good inch, maybe even two inches taller than him, slender and yet not all bony in his grasp. Brandon was slightly aroused, he put it down to body heat. While Kim was spectacular, the whole Goth thing really wasn’t his cup of tea. Maybe up until now, he hadn’t seen it really well done, but it was a lifestyle as well as a temporary costume. He didn’t mind that people did it. Brandon couldn’t really see himself doing it, and Goth chicks always seemed to be with like-minded individuals. He didn’t think it would work very well any other way. It’s not like he saw them everyday.

  He couldn’t see going in to work like that—that was for one thing.

  “No. No. Never.” Not really, at least not most of the time. “Wingman, eh? Hah.”

  They were just a couple of guys out drinking on a Friday night, doing the rounds of all the singles bars.

  Those eyes regarded him, unreadable.

  “I see.”

  The music sped up and then Brandon really did have his hands full. After focusing on the illusion that was Kim’s body and its rhythm, and tuning out all that was out there except Kim and the music, he found he was enjoying himself.

  That was kind of unusual for Brandon.

  ***

  Kim and Brandon sat at a tiny table right by the kitchen door, which thudded open every minute or so in subtle counterpoint to everything that was going on. Which was not much except talk, for the little chamber sextuplet was taking a break to cl
ean the saliva out of their instruments. It was hard to believe they actually fit four people around this thing. Brandon was suddenly on a roll.

  He’d never thought he had it in him, but for whatever reason he was grateful and they were having fun after all. Man or woman, Kim was a genuinely good person, he saw that right off.

  Kim grinned at his jokes and Brandon squeezed Kim’s hand. They were angled close together, watching the crowd and the dancers.

  Some of his awkwardness was wearing off.

  “It’s kind of good to get away from Slam for a while. To hell with everything.”

  They raised a glass.

  Those beautiful eyes looked past him. He turned.

  Brandon laughed aloud, and Kim nodded in some humour.

  Across the room, Slam moved in for the kill, homing in on a little round girl perched on a stool at the south end of the bar, nursing some drink with an umbrella in it. If she was an inch over five-foot it was a miracle. If she was an ounce under one-eighty-five, it was an even bigger miracle. Slam’s head leaned in close and her head turned, her thick round glasses, mounted on the front of her big round head, catching the light and her mouth opening up to respond. Her dark brown hair was pulled in tight and straight around behind and Brandon wondered if Slam would score again tonight. It was a reasonable assumption. Like all good killers, the man made a science of it. If nothing else, it was oddly fascinating to watch.

  He turned to find Kim’s eyes upon him.

  He shrugged apologetically.

  Kim put Kim’s chin in Kim’s hands and regarded Brandon with some interested objectivity…a curious feeling. And yet he was feeling it too.

  Go with the freakin’ moment.

  “You’re a good dancer.”

  “Thank you. I enjoyed that, I really did.” There was no hesitation. “It’s been too long.”