So, as promised, we begin the story of ‘Sea Legs’ at, well, at the beginning. Today is day one in the telling of this collaborative tale, whose first part comes from its creator, Steve Baird of Ordinarily Handsome fame.
We’ve already got an exceptional addition coming from the author Mike Fuller Read what he came up with over at Ordinarily Handsome.
Or we can simply try this:
Steve got us started with the following opening to the story:
I kissed her hard. She wasn’t expecting it, and one of her words got caught in my throat. It was ‘no’.
“I don’t know what kind of girl you think I am, Mr. Carlisle, but that’s not it. Do you want the job or not? You’re just a name on a scrap of paper to me.”
I thought about it. Sure, I made a mistake about the kiss, but who could blame me? That splash of freckles on her shoulders, and that windswept hair the color of bourbon. They were distractions. Looking at her, you’d never know she was a widow twice over and a soon-to-be divorcée . She kept the gunpowder makeup to a minimum, and her legs were a mile long. She had lousy taste in men, and I went ahead and proved it. Did I want the job? Did the pope want a hat?
“Sure. I need the dough up front, though. Expenses and incidentals.”
“I don’t pay for your whiskey and whores,” she said. Her voice was as flat as a stick of gum.
“Film for the Brownie, and gas for the Buick,” I said. “Gas isn’t cheap, and neither is shoe leather.”
“I’ve seen your shoes. I’m not impressed. A hundred now, a hundred when I get the pictures. Quality pictures. Pictures that show everyone he’s a son-of-a-bitch.”
“My specialty,” I said.
“That’s what the scrap of paper said. When can you start?”
I thought about it. It was an easy job, and I could do it in my sleep. But she might be a complication. Those legs and that hair. That splash of freckles on her shoulders. “Tomorrow,” I said, and she handed me the envelope. (Steven Baird)
Mike Fuller (please visit his linked site above) offered this contribution:
It was Gin, not whiskey and the pint was empty after the second swallow. Bitter and just a bit too cold. The other bottle was hiding behind the papers from the courthouse and the Colt. Somehow I managed to avoid the ditch as I fumbled in the glove box but the revolver tumbled to the floorboard, ignored when my fingers found the smooth glass of the backup resting under a folded Esso roadmap.
“Whiskey, my dear, is for old ladies,” I said to myself.
But the Gin only made the trip seem longer. More time to ponder on those damn freckles…(Mike Fuller Author — https://mikefullerauthor.com)
To be continued…
My few lines to add on to an already intiguing tale:
“Is your Mr. Carlisle going to be a problem?”
“No. W-What makes you say that? He kissed me is all. A man like him all but assures us success in this venture”, purred Mathilda, drawing a slim platinum cigarette case from her oversized Hermes bag. “You tell Mr. Ito everything is going according to the plan. In a week’s time, we’ll not only have his initial half mil, we’ll toss in a bonus quarter simply because we can.”
“All right, Mattie”, sighed Jonah. I won’t arrive in San Francisco until Sunday. That gives you three days to solidify this thing, then-
“Relax, honey”, Mathilda laughed, balancing her phone between her mink-clad shoulder and her diamond-studded right ear as she looked out over the nighttime sparkle of the Golden Gate Bridge from her suite’s bay windows. “Everything, and I do mean everything will be just fine.”
So far, so good?
All we need now is your voice…