A Canary Sings

I'm drawn inside this particular night club by libido. The chanteuse is the prettiest caged canary in town. She sings her lungs out but never gets anywhere. I come here for her. I come alone. I've got a wife at home, but Mitsy's idea of a night out is a PTA meeting or dinner with a couple as boring as me and her. Mitsy's never in black lace, and her singing voice could break an ear drum. Charlene Wells wears black lace like it was tatted on her frame. She spills out of it in all the right places, and when she opens her mouth, she makes a man forget he's nothing but a two-bit factory worker in a sad sack town. She's older than me by a few years, but not so many that it shows. I keep my seat at the bar, near the piano and stage. It's ten o'clock. I should have been home at nine, but Charlene has promised a second set tonight in honor of a special occasion. The occasion I don't know about. It's just a regular Tuesday in a regular week in January for me. But a second set of songs and a chance to stare at her body is enough to make it an occasion for me too. I order another drink: bourbon, neat. With the first gulp, the fire to my gut simmers to a steady burn. The chill of winter can't touch me and guilt goes quietly to sleep, resting up for later when I'm at home in bed next to Mitsy. The bartender is new. He glances my way but only to check the level of hooch in my glass. He figures I'm money in the bank. He wants to keep me happy. But it's not in him. I'm not here for the booze—I could take it or leave it. I'm here for the dame. As if on cue, Charlene steps out from behind the curtain. She has replaced her regular black lace with red velvet, but the curves are all the same, just softer and sleeker. Her blond hair is pinned up, exposing a neck that teases a man about kissing it. "I want to thank you all for sticking around tonight," she coos. I don't have to look around to know that "you all" is me, a couple of other regulars concentrating on the pool table, a meatball here and there, and the bartender. I like an unpacked house. It lets me imagine Charlene's words of love and torment are meant for only me, and when she makes love to her microphone, cradling the old Western Electric like it's a prized possession, she's thinking exactly what I'm thinking. The piano man tinkles out the opening bars of the first song, and Charlene Wells licks her lips, leaving them parted and ready. A stir in the glory pole says I'm ready too. She gives a wink of recognition but appears to forget me as she closes her eyes and slides into the song. She's an angel in every respect, and I've been lucky enough to watch her sing for over six months. The words don't explode from her mouth. They seep out like they're hesitant to leave the warmth of her lungs. Her tits swell with the intake of breath and threaten the seams of the red velvet. I'm so engrossed, I don't notice the man who nabs the barstool closest to mine. Not until he interrupts my fantasy. "She's something, ain't she?" He's at my back and anger rumbles inside of me. Shut the fuck up, I want to say, but I just grunt and refuse to look at him. He's determined. "I've seen you in here a few times catching her act." He's been drinking. The smell of rancid breath lingers in the air long after he's spoken. "And I don't want to miss it this time, buster," I snarl. "You ain't missing nothing. You can still see her fine." "Yeah, but all I hear is the annoying little shit behind me." I turn around to let the joker know I mean business. I get a surprise. The kid is younger than me, maybe twenty. A good dose of alcohol has probably aged him. He's blond, hair light enough to look almost white. The room is dark and shadows dart around his eyes, but the green of them is unmistakable. The only other person with eyes that color is easing into the chorus of "Tangerine." "Can't miss the resemblance, can you?" "Not easily." "She's my sister." The brother is almost as pretty. Except for a missing tooth when he smirks, he would be. I turn back to face the stage and Charlene. Brother or not, it's Charlene I want to hear, not him. But being rude would indirectly offend the sister. I compromise. "Your sister can sure sing," I toss over my shoulder. "She's got lots of talents." His tone is seedy, and I suddenly wonder why I've never seen Charlene's brother in here before. But I don't pursue it. Charlene has looked our way. There isn't fear in her eyes, but there's something—disappointment, resignation—something. She keeps singing and tries to look around the joint, but her gaze keeps slipping back to me and her brother. "She's sort of keen on you," he says. "I can tell." I'm starting to boil now. I want him to shut up. "Maybe it's you that's making her nervous." "Maybe." And then he's quiet, as if he senses I'm about to blow. I listen uninterrupted through the next song and mostly through the one after that. Then Brother is tapping on my shoulder again. "I can arrange something, you know, after the show." This gets my attention. "You're a real piece of work, bub. She's your sister. Don't you have any respect?" But inside my head I'm remembering the last six months—slipping out of the house, telling Mitsy I'm with the boys, letting her know I'm the man of the house and I'll go out if I want to—all just to sit and listen to Charlene Wells sing. Brother's offer takes a seat in my brain. "You got a couple of songs to think about it. It doesn't come cheap." I try to ignore him, but my hand, almost on its own, slips in my pocket, fingering my money clip. The greenbacks are thick enough to let a glimmer of hope shine. Charlene stretches an arm over the top of the upright piano and presses her hip to its side. She's crooning a slow tune full of sex and innuendo, emitting enough heat to put the wood in danger. "Tonight, we love in the glow," come her words. "We touch the sky…" I'm being played. I know it, but I'm not sure by whom. Brother has an agenda, but what about Charlene? I don't want to think of her as a player. She's an angel. My angel in red. "If she touches her titty it means she's okaying the prospect." Brother's words feel like the devil's breath against the back of my neck. I watch her arm on the upright, willing it to move to her breast. She doesn't disappoint. Her hand glides off the piano and finds the red velvet hugging her shoulder. My heart races. I focus on her ruby-tipped fingers. They dance down the front of her chest, smoothing the velvet and showing the pattern of the nape over her tit. "You're in, mister. Easy greasy." I flinch when Brother chuckles. His laugh is clear, like a kid's laugh, except there's no innocence in the sound. He leaves, and the weight of him, that has never touched me, feels like it's been lifted away. I glance at Charlene. She winks, but she doesn't smile. So she's not an angel. It makes my choice easier. I miss the canary's last song to make my way to the payphone. I dial and wonder if Mitsy has ever been dressed to the nines—maybe at our wedding. After the first ring, I think about my money. No sense in giving it all away. I separate it and tuck a bit of it inside my sock. Mitsy answers on the fourth ring. "What took you so long?" I ask. "I was sweeping the floor." "Yeah, okay. I'm going to be really late tonight, Mitsy. Go to bed." "But I made you dinner," she whines. Mitsy has her talents too. They all center around housework and the kitchen. Guilt yawns and almost comes full awake. "So wrap it up for lunch tomorrow," I tell her. "Oh, okay. That's a good idea," she says, happy that her meal won't go to waste. Her easy acquiescing rocks my guilt back to sleep. I hang up just in time to catch the last of Charlene's act. I glance around for her brother. He's standing on the opposite side of the bar and nods at me with the drink in his hand. "This is my last night here," Charlene is saying as I settle back into my seat. So that's the occasion. I should have known it wouldn't be a happy event. Life isn't that good. A few "ahs" come from the pool players, but no one else seems to be upset by the news. I would have been, if there weren't the promise of one final act still on my horizon. Charlene throws me a kiss and turns to leave. I look around, wondering if I'm supposed to follow her. The bartender is shining his glasses. The pool players have racked up another round, and the few other stragglers in the joint have lost interest in the stage. I take the indifference as a sign and trail along after her. Just as I reach the side door where Charlene has gone, there's a jerk on my arm. Brother. "Pay first, mister." I turn around, fists clenched at my sides. I want to pop him one, knock him good for treating his sister with such contempt, but I know I'm just as bad. "Maybe we should see how your sister feels about this deal," I say. "Don't worry, she's jake." He unbuttons his suit jacket and a snub-nosed brownie glints at his side. He's taller than me, maybe stronger because of his age. I don't feel like testing the theory. I reach into my trouser pocket and pull out the moderate wad of cash I hadn't removed from my money clip. The remainder of my simoleons scratches at my ankle inside my sock. I can be played, but on my own terms. Brother grabs the money clip and counts the cash. He doesn't smile when he's done. He just turns and walks away. I watch his back long enough to know he's buttoned the jacket back up, ready to move on to the next mark. The small hallway behind the door leads to one room. The door is open. Charlene sits in front of a vanity. I enter and she looks at me through the reflection in the mirror. "My biggest fan," she says. "You almost waited too long to come back stage." I shut the door. "I didn't know I'd be so welcome." She smiles and it's nothing like her brother's. It reaches her eyes. "Dickie told you to come back here, didn't he?" "Dickie your brother?" "Yes. I saw him sitting near you." "He paved the way, so to speak." She glances down at the powder puff in her hand. "He's here to take me home." "You seem a little old to be dragged home if you don't want to go." She doesn't answer, but when she looks up again, tears fill her eyes. "It's a long story," she says. "I got a minute." "You're nice." Not so very, I think, but I let her believe it. We can both get by pretending there are no cracks in our reality. "My mother's ill," she says, but the tears are suddenly dry. "You don't seem too worried." She shrugs and the red velvet slips at her shoulder, showing a hint more of skin. "She's always ill with one thing or another." "But this time you're going home because of it?" I have the urge to beg her to stay, but it's not my place. I'm just the guy in the audience. I never knew she had a mother before this moment. "Dickie says I have to." "Odd that a big sister gives in to a little brother." She shrugs again but this time the velvet stays in place. The rhinestone at her ear catches the light. "Family. What are you going to do?" I nod and the quiet between us grows uncomfortable. I figure it's time to get down to business. I've done a lot of bad things in my life, but paying for sex has never been one of them. I'm not sure how to go about it. I flop around like a seal with a fish. "This is new for me" I finally spurt out. "Coming back stage?" I can't tell if she means the pun or not. But I suddenly feel bolder. "Can I kiss you?" "Does this mean you're going to miss me?" "Absolutely." She rises from her padded bench and floats over. The hem of the red velvet swishes on the floor. Up close, her curves are even more defined. I stare hard at her cleavage as she moves. Her tits bounce against one another, fighting for space. Just as she reaches me, I get a flash of deep pink nipple. "Like what you see?" I look in her eyes. The age difference shows a little more under the fluorescent bulb. "Absolutely," I say. She doesn't wait. She presses her body against me and raises her face to mine. Kohl around her eyes highlights the green irises. As if they need highlighting. This color of green should be illegal—it's a drug no man can resist. Her lips touch mine and it tickles. The faint smell of perspiration clings to her upper lip. Singing must be hard work. I wrap my arms around her. She tenses but relaxes when I loosen my hold. The kiss is sisterly. No tongue. No lingering. Just a pat of lips. Disappointing. I grip her a little harder again and force my tongue in her closed mouth. She struggles, pushes against my chest, but it's a weak attempt. I kiss her with six months of pent-up lust. When I finally pull my mouth from hers, she swipes at her lips and backs away. "That was some kiss," she says. "Might as well do things right." "Well, thank you for coming to see me night after night. I don't know what it would have been like not to see you sitting out there." She turns toward her vanity. I'm beginning to see the scam. "That's it?" She turns around. "What do you mean?" "The money I paid your brother. It was for a single kiss?" "I don't know what you're talking about." "Sure sister." "You paid money to Dickie?" I remember how she rubbed her tit as she sang—the signal to Dickie that she is okay with the deal. I think about the winks and the kiss she blew. She's never done any of these things before tonight. "Emptied my money clip," I tell her. "Well, I don't know what you think you were paying for." "A hell of a lot more than a kiss, that's for damn sure." Her smile is gone. "You're out of luck." She whips around toward her vanity. I grab her arm and pull her to me. Her breathing is ragged. "I make my own luck," I say and rip the bodice of the red velvet. Her tits bounce free, full and pale. She tries to cover herself, but I'm holding her arm and her hand can't quite reach the nipple that's hardening. She uses the other arm to stretch across her chest, but something inside her snaps and she flings the arm down to her side. The gaping material falls open completely. I loosen my grip and let go. "Go ahead," she says. "You won't be the first man to force himself on me." For a moment I almost believe she's not in on the scam, but the moment passes. "It isn't force when you and Dickie set a fellow up. It's getting what I'm owed." "It's Dickie who owes you. Not me." She could run. I'm not holding her. But she doesn't. She stands there exposed. Her hair is mussed and the lipstick is smeared from our kiss. But the eyes are clear. No tears. No deceit. She's suddenly the angel again. "Sing," I tell her. "What?" "Sing. That's what I really want." Her hand flutters to her neck, and a pretty blush rises on her skin. "But do it naked." She hesitates. But then slips the shred of velvet off her shoulders and down over her hips. She's wearing garters and stockings but no panties. The dress pools at her feet like a spent flower. She stands up tall. Her mound is dusted with down, and the pink of her sex matches the pink of her nipples. The first note is weak, but every note after is clear and strong. I'm hard as stone. I unzip my pants and let my cock breathe. She doesn't falter. She reaches the chorus, and I wrap my hand around my shaft. The second verse and I'm rubbing furiously, heading for her big finish. The chorus again and she changes tempo, faster and higher, trilling the notes. The end is near and her voice gains force, building up the scale. The last note rings out and my spunk finds the floor. Her body glows. Dew glistens between her legs. "Come here," she whispers, opening her legs and arms to embrace me. She's hot and ready. The pool of my liquid on the floor makes me think of Mitsy. She would have been bustling to clean up the mess. "I don't think so, doll." I tuck my johnson into my pants and zip up my trousers. "An ordinary man just can't fuck an angel," I say, and I walk out. I turn toward the door to the stage but it's blocked. Brother again. "Quick on the trigger, eh?" He's a punk, the kind that thinks life is only for him. But I can play his game. "I got what I wanted," I tell him. He's leaning against the stage door, picking at his teeth. "No complaints?" "None," I say and move to pass him. "Then I'll be taking the rest of that cash you've got stuffed away." His words are smooth and gentle, as if he were asking for the time of day and was sorry for it. I try to ignore him, keep on moving, but suddenly his gun is jamming into my mid-section trying to burrow through to the other side. Maybe I can't play his games. I'd forgotten about the brownie. "Dickie…" It's Charlene come to join us in the hallway. The red velvet has been replaced with a dingy bathrobe, and she's taken the pins from her hair, but she still looks like an angel. "Leave him be, Dickie." "He's a welcher, sis. He stuffed a bunch of currency in his sock." The nose of the brownie pokes a little more against my ribs. "I figure it's his way of saying you ain't worth it." "Take it," I tell him. Not so much because of the gun, but because it isn't true. She is worth it. I reach for the cash and the gun explodes. I hear it but I don't feel anything. I've been hit. "You're shot," my brain is saying, but I have this flash of it's not so bad. And then I'm on the floor. My legs are tingling and twitching as if I'm kicking the dust at home plate. But still, I feel nothing "You didn't have to shoot him, Dickie. He was giving you the cash." "I told him you didn't come cheap, sis. And I meant it." And there it is— a hot ice pick stabbing into me. I want to take a deep breath, but I can't. A blistering numbness spreads inside of me like a chocolate bar melting on hot pavement and suddenly, the pain intensifies. It stretches so fast I don't know where the bullet went in. My side? My back? I can't breathe. It must be my chest. I bring my hand to my chest, my arm must weigh a hundred pounds, only to find hot liquid gurgling out of a gaping hole burned clear through my clothes. Damn! Can Mitsy sew a bullet hole? Charlene leans over me, her hair loose and touching my face. But where's her halo? She should have a God-damned halo. "I think you killed him, Dickie. We've got to get out of here." The chanteuse's words are muffled like she's talking with the microphone lodged in her mouth. I want to touch her, stroke her beautiful hair, listen to her sing. She's my angel. But there's no halo. No halo. I should have fucked her.

All models are 18 years or older, regardless of the text.

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