One MardispA/s
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1 through F › Days of Our Lives
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
8
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Category:
1 through F › Days of Our Lives
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
8
Views:
2,342
Reviews:
0
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own Days of Our Lives, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
One Mardi Gras
Chapter One
“Damn it!” Brady curse loudly, flinging the wrench in his hand down on the ground.
His Harley was as tempermental as a sexually deprived woman, he thought viciously, sucking on the webbing between his thumb and finger.
If he were honest, he’d admit it wasn’t the motorcycle that was bothering him. It was the fact that Belle was missing, gone from the face of the earth, and all he could think of was the awful things that might have happened to her.
Not that his father and step-mother ever kept in contact with him. It was on rare occasions the John Black and his bride Marlena Evans ever wrote or called.
But they had phoned a few weeks ago, Marlena in tears and John talking in a strained voice. Belle had runaway, taking most of her clothes and cleaning out her college fund account. They were beside themselves with worry.
They had been convinced she was heridiniding out with her big brother, and his father had demanded that Brady send her back home.
When Brady had denied knowing anything about what had enedened to his sister, John had proceeded to curse him out, calling him a liar in not so nice words. He had taken his father’s anger in stride; John Black had never been the most stable person in the world.
John had eventually wound down and Brady had again told him in a cold and tightly controlled voice that Belle wasn’t with him. Apparently he’d been believed, and his father and had slammed the phone down without any further discussion.
Brady cursed again, glaring at his black motorcycle, and unfolded himself from his haunches. He had to have a way to the bar tonight; it was Mardi Gras, and the place was going to be packed beyond capacity.
Staring up at the bright Louisiana sky, he found himself remembering the day he’d driven his tired body and numb ass into the quarter. He’d fallen in love with Baton Rouge; the mystery of it, the sensuality of it, the sticky hot humidity that seemed to never disipate. It was home, and he’d known it the moment he saw it.
He had stayed, sleeping in the park at night while he job hunted, and had eventually ended up as a bartender at La Rouge Femme. Now he lived in a small, brick house on the outskirts of town and was known as one of the best gin slingers in Baton Rouge.
He was happy, he thought; he was single, he was independent, and he was as far away from Salem as he could possibly get.
~*~*~*~*~*
Chloe rolled into Baton Rouge with the windows down and the gas tank on empty. She looked around her, taking in the old buildings, the wrought iron railings and the loud xydico music. People milled up and down the sidewalks, laughing, toasting, hurling curse words and blatantly sexual inuendos.
She had to admit, it was a hell of a lot better looking and damn more exciting than snow covered Chicago.
Flipping her long, dark brown hair over her shoulder, she gauged just how far she could coast the little blue Toyota until it finally gave out. Growling in frustration, she glided into the last empty space on the side of the road and shut off the engine.
Picking up her purse, she pulled out her wallet and counted her cash. She had exactly $32.45 to her name; that wouldn’t get her very far.
Peering out of her window again, she tin tin the boisterous scene and smiled. Well, if she had to stranded, she could think of a worse place to be stuck in. Baton Rouge at the beginning of Mardi Gras. Everyone trying their best to act out the worst legal sin they could before Lent; not that Chloe needed much help in sinning. She’d done plenty of that in her lifetime. Hell, she’d done plenty enough of it for two lifetimes.
But hopping from foster home to foster home, growing up without any real restrictions, had taught her to rely on herself and to test the limits of her own self control. Chloe loved pushing the limits; it was the only time she truly felt free. And Louisiana in the middle of Mardi Gras was just the place to tempt fate.
~*~*~*~*~*
Brady strolled into the already packed La Rouge Femme and waved over the crowd to Steve, the other bartender.
Slipping around the crowd of bodies, he made his way to the bar and lifted the end up, swinging around to the service side. Smiling, he pulled down a red waist apron from the peg and immediately started taking orders.
~*~*~*~*~*~*
Chloe pushed her way toward the bar, dodging groping hands and slobering lips as she manuevered.
She had already decided that she needed to find a job, whether she wanted to or not; but first, she had just enough money for a drink.
Finally, she felt her hip slam against the solid wood of the bar and turned to try to order. She watched the waiters move like synchronized dancers, twirling around each other, sliding glasses down the bar, taking orders while pulling beers and pouring whiskey. It was really quite a beautiful thing to watch, she thought, then she caught the eye of the tall, blond haired man.
“Getcha’ something, cher?” he asked, the endearment rolling off of his tongue.
The voice wasn’t quite right, she noticed, but then, it was hard to hear your own mind in this deafening mass of humanity.
“Tequila shot!” she yelled out over the din.
The handsome stranger gave her wink and a nod, then proceeded to pour her order while pulling the Coors tap.
When he placed the small glass in front of her, Chloe gave him a lopsided smile then saluted him with her drink.
She slammed it down, feeling the welcoming burn of the alcohol slide down her throat, then sucked on the lemon wedge that had been on the glass’s edge.
She turned her attention back to the rowdy mob and noticed the harrased waitress taking orders and handling drinks. Chloe scanned the rest of the establishment, finding that the little red head was the only one working the overwhelming throng.
“Hey!” she yelled to the man who had served her. “Where’s the manager?”
Brady raised his eyebrow at the dark haired beauty, wondering why in the world she’d need to see Neil. Shrugging to himself, he pointed to the door in the far corner and watched her shove her way toward the office.
She sure was hot, he thought, and wondered what she looked like from the waist down.
Five minutes later she strolled out of Neil’s office, a bright red apron tied around her swinging hips, a cocky smile on her face. Brady watched her approach the bar, expertly skirting grabbing hands and body shoves.
Chloe scanned the good looking bartender who had served her earlier and gave him one of her patented, blantantly smug smiles.
“Which station is mine?” she shouted over the crowd.
“Damn it!” Brady curse loudly, flinging the wrench in his hand down on the ground.
His Harley was as tempermental as a sexually deprived woman, he thought viciously, sucking on the webbing between his thumb and finger.
If he were honest, he’d admit it wasn’t the motorcycle that was bothering him. It was the fact that Belle was missing, gone from the face of the earth, and all he could think of was the awful things that might have happened to her.
Not that his father and step-mother ever kept in contact with him. It was on rare occasions the John Black and his bride Marlena Evans ever wrote or called.
But they had phoned a few weeks ago, Marlena in tears and John talking in a strained voice. Belle had runaway, taking most of her clothes and cleaning out her college fund account. They were beside themselves with worry.
They had been convinced she was heridiniding out with her big brother, and his father had demanded that Brady send her back home.
When Brady had denied knowing anything about what had enedened to his sister, John had proceeded to curse him out, calling him a liar in not so nice words. He had taken his father’s anger in stride; John Black had never been the most stable person in the world.
John had eventually wound down and Brady had again told him in a cold and tightly controlled voice that Belle wasn’t with him. Apparently he’d been believed, and his father and had slammed the phone down without any further discussion.
Brady cursed again, glaring at his black motorcycle, and unfolded himself from his haunches. He had to have a way to the bar tonight; it was Mardi Gras, and the place was going to be packed beyond capacity.
Staring up at the bright Louisiana sky, he found himself remembering the day he’d driven his tired body and numb ass into the quarter. He’d fallen in love with Baton Rouge; the mystery of it, the sensuality of it, the sticky hot humidity that seemed to never disipate. It was home, and he’d known it the moment he saw it.
He had stayed, sleeping in the park at night while he job hunted, and had eventually ended up as a bartender at La Rouge Femme. Now he lived in a small, brick house on the outskirts of town and was known as one of the best gin slingers in Baton Rouge.
He was happy, he thought; he was single, he was independent, and he was as far away from Salem as he could possibly get.
~*~*~*~*~*
Chloe rolled into Baton Rouge with the windows down and the gas tank on empty. She looked around her, taking in the old buildings, the wrought iron railings and the loud xydico music. People milled up and down the sidewalks, laughing, toasting, hurling curse words and blatantly sexual inuendos.
She had to admit, it was a hell of a lot better looking and damn more exciting than snow covered Chicago.
Flipping her long, dark brown hair over her shoulder, she gauged just how far she could coast the little blue Toyota until it finally gave out. Growling in frustration, she glided into the last empty space on the side of the road and shut off the engine.
Picking up her purse, she pulled out her wallet and counted her cash. She had exactly $32.45 to her name; that wouldn’t get her very far.
Peering out of her window again, she tin tin the boisterous scene and smiled. Well, if she had to stranded, she could think of a worse place to be stuck in. Baton Rouge at the beginning of Mardi Gras. Everyone trying their best to act out the worst legal sin they could before Lent; not that Chloe needed much help in sinning. She’d done plenty of that in her lifetime. Hell, she’d done plenty enough of it for two lifetimes.
But hopping from foster home to foster home, growing up without any real restrictions, had taught her to rely on herself and to test the limits of her own self control. Chloe loved pushing the limits; it was the only time she truly felt free. And Louisiana in the middle of Mardi Gras was just the place to tempt fate.
~*~*~*~*~*
Brady strolled into the already packed La Rouge Femme and waved over the crowd to Steve, the other bartender.
Slipping around the crowd of bodies, he made his way to the bar and lifted the end up, swinging around to the service side. Smiling, he pulled down a red waist apron from the peg and immediately started taking orders.
~*~*~*~*~*~*
Chloe pushed her way toward the bar, dodging groping hands and slobering lips as she manuevered.
She had already decided that she needed to find a job, whether she wanted to or not; but first, she had just enough money for a drink.
Finally, she felt her hip slam against the solid wood of the bar and turned to try to order. She watched the waiters move like synchronized dancers, twirling around each other, sliding glasses down the bar, taking orders while pulling beers and pouring whiskey. It was really quite a beautiful thing to watch, she thought, then she caught the eye of the tall, blond haired man.
“Getcha’ something, cher?” he asked, the endearment rolling off of his tongue.
The voice wasn’t quite right, she noticed, but then, it was hard to hear your own mind in this deafening mass of humanity.
“Tequila shot!” she yelled out over the din.
The handsome stranger gave her wink and a nod, then proceeded to pour her order while pulling the Coors tap.
When he placed the small glass in front of her, Chloe gave him a lopsided smile then saluted him with her drink.
She slammed it down, feeling the welcoming burn of the alcohol slide down her throat, then sucked on the lemon wedge that had been on the glass’s edge.
She turned her attention back to the rowdy mob and noticed the harrased waitress taking orders and handling drinks. Chloe scanned the rest of the establishment, finding that the little red head was the only one working the overwhelming throng.
“Hey!” she yelled to the man who had served her. “Where’s the manager?”
Brady raised his eyebrow at the dark haired beauty, wondering why in the world she’d need to see Neil. Shrugging to himself, he pointed to the door in the far corner and watched her shove her way toward the office.
She sure was hot, he thought, and wondered what she looked like from the waist down.
Five minutes later she strolled out of Neil’s office, a bright red apron tied around her swinging hips, a cocky smile on her face. Brady watched her approach the bar, expertly skirting grabbing hands and body shoves.
Chloe scanned the good looking bartender who had served her earlier and gave him one of her patented, blantantly smug smiles.
“Which station is mine?” she shouted over the crowd.