THE BETWEEN THE LINES SERIES
(or what happened between the episodes)
by Texbard
For Disclaimers, see "Looking for
Trouble"
With great
apologies to Bogey, Indiana Jones, and others, for borrowing their lines, here
is the next BTL story . . .
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
2.10 Sloe Gin on a Southern Porch Swing
(post "The Xena Scrolls")
Jan: "You were
right."
Mel: "I was, about what?"
Jan: "We were both living in our father's shadows."
Mel: "Well, maybe it's time that we both stepped out into the world and
showed them what we can do."
Jan: "Together?"
Mel: "Well, not if you don't want -- to."
Jan: "Come on. You can give me a hand."
-
The
Xena Scrolls
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It's a hot night in
It's one thing to be here in the bright light of day, but when the sun goes
down, the shadows start to creep up under the eaves, and across the floor, and
each creak of the loose boards on the stairs and in the hallway are magnified,
hitting your ears like the crack of a ball off the Babe's bat. She's set me up
in one of the guest rooms. Not like she doesn't have the space, and she seems
glad enough to have me here. Besides, we're research partners now -- two
drifters in search of the world.
Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she came walking into
mine, and almost got us killed with her language skills. But now, I have to
admit, the kid has grown on me. She's a tall drink of water on a slow, hot day
-- a peach of a gal with a set of gams thatt go on for miles, and a nice pair of
tomatoes up front. A real Betty that one is -- easy on the eyes and a voice as
smooth as honey on silk.
I can see her now, through the open window, bent over the work we've spread out
on the dining room table. Mel believes we'll be re-writing history someday. All
those scrolls -- she's been translating them, page by page, and we learn more
and more about Xena and the irritating blonde with each passing day. I try not
to think of her that way -- Xena told me Gabrielle was important, and I try to
be proud of my heritage.
Tough to do, though -- my old man was a thief and a grave robber. Mel's was a
well-respected professor in a field where I am nothing but a wannabe -- a hack
and a fraud. I'm making this up as I go, sliding home by the seat of my pants
-- flying on a wing and a prayer. Dr. Pappaas -- he had the plans and the
connections -- it's why I wrote to him -- figured he might be my ticket to
legitimacy. And legitimate is something I've never been -- never knew my mother
-- my old man, he never married her -- all I know with certainty is she had me
and left me on his front steps in a basket without so much as a bye-your-leave.
Mel -- she doesn't judge me for my past or my parentage -- not anymore. We've
been through too much together. She doesn't remember being Xena, either, but I
do, and now I see that power within her, and that beauty. Took a while, but I
convinced the kid to give up the stockings, girdles, high-heels, and
wave-setting lotion. Told 'er if she's gonna be an archeologist, she needs to dress
the part. Fits her like a glove, her new duds -- the tailored trousers and
men's shirts tucked into her waistband, a natty fedora tilted over one brow, a
shiny watch fob peeking out from her pocket -- the kid does love her sparklies
-- can't completely take the girly out of tthe girl.
Not that I'd want to, especially not tonight -- tonight she's in a sleeveless
ribbed top, her foundation garments foregone due to the heat. The lamplight
shines on her skin, highlighting a sheen of sweat and outlining some nice
points way up high, straining against the cotton stretched across her chest.
Her hair is swept up off her neck, just a few loose tendrils escaping down her
back. No ruby red lips tonight -- the kid has gone natural on me, lord have
mercy. She looks hot, in a good way, and I'm growing impossibly warmer, looking
at her.
Time for a cold drink. Luckily, she isn't a holdout prohibitionist. As far as
I'm concerned, the whole world is about three drinks behind, and people who
don't drink are afraid of revealing themselves. She won't let me smoke in the
house, so I stub out my cigar, and make my way inside, pausing in the doorway
to observe her. I've fought a few men now to defend her, and I've come to feel
protective of the kid -- she's adorable.
We ran into Jack again, somewhere on the outer edge of
Anyway, Jack joined up with us, and we were hot on the trail of the
Didn't matter -- Smythe's men wanted the map, and more importantly, they wanted
the scrolls. But I wasn't going to give up the location -- not unless they set
Mel free. See it, all depended on how reasonable they were willing to be. They
wanted the scrolls. All I want is the girl.
Here's the ticket -- I'm not in this for the moola, no
matter what the buzz may be from those who knew my old man. The only reason to
have money is to tell any SOB in the world to go to hell. I'm in it for the
history and the glory -- a chance to apply some respect to the name the old man
gave me. But now I'm in it for her -- this brainy, beautiful broad I travel
with everywhere I go. And she wasn't about to give up the scrolls, come hell or
high water.
I tried to take a page from Gabrielle's scrolls -- tried reasoning with
Smythe's men, on behalf of Mel, Jack, and myself -- but it didn't take much to
see that to them, the problems of three little people didn't add up to a hill
of beans in this crazy world. They weren't letting anyone go, and they wanted
the location of the scrolls, or they were going to kill us. Then I figured,
things are never so bad they can't be made worse -- they were going to kill us,
one way or the other -- get the information out of us and pick us off, or give
up and leave us for dead in the old underground slammer they'd tossed us in.
But Mel -- she had a plan. In the middle of the night she showed some leg to
the sole guard watching us, and convinced him to let her out of the cell to
spend some time with him. He proceeded to tie one on, with my Mel eagerly
refilling his glass with the home-made wine he kept stashed behind a brick in
the wall. Soon as he passed out stinkin' drunk, she tied him up, stole the key
from his belt, and let us out.
What a gal! Xena would've been proud of her -- it was
textbook warrior princess, just like she'd used her feminine whiles so many
times in the ancient past. We snuck out and were probably halfway across the
desert by the time the rest of the men knew we were missing.
Smythe's men can't get into this country, so we're safe for now. Besides -- at
the end of the day, those scrolls go into a safe in a hidden compartment
beneath the basement floor. No one knows we have them -- as added protection,
we faked a plane crash -- parachuting to safety over the Amazon Jungle in South
America, with a tube of scrolls strapped to my back, and Mel strapped firmly to
my front. The official buzz for the rags is that the scrolls went up in flames.
That's our story, and we're sticking to it, until the translation is complete.
Finally, I push away from the door frame and slide over to the wet bar next to
the table, and pour myself a tall glass of sloe gin on the rocks. That'll hit
the spot on a night like this. "Want a drink, Darlin'?" I turn around
and move in beside her, bumping her shoulder with my hip.
"Give me just another minute here, Junior." She starts to roll up one
of the scrolls.
"Don't call me 'Junior'." I frown. It's a nickname she's picked up --
nasty habit she needs to break. I am not my old man.
"Very well, then, Sugar." Sugar. Now that's more like it. She tucks
the scroll into a metal tube and caps it firmly. "I could use a little ol'
break here."
"What'll it be, Sweetheart? Mint Julip? Sweet red wine? Whiskey Sour? Sloe
Gin like mine?" I turn back to the bar and pull out another glass.
"Welllll," she drawls. And then she sneaks up on me like Xena, her
next words right in my ear, sending a pleasant tingle down my spine. "What
I'd really like, is a Sloe Comfortable Screw, out on the porch." She rubs
up against me like a cat in heat, and I suddenly realize I'm not the only one
with an itch to scratch.
"Um . . ." The blood has left my brain, draining to points far south.
"What's in that, again?"
"Take your Sloe Gin, Sugar, and add some whiskey, vodka, and orange juice.
Now . . ." She trails a long red fingernail across my chest, and I am
suddenly grateful I didn't talk her out of nail polish. "I'm going to go
make myself comfortable out on that porch swing. You finish pouring up that
drink, and bring it on out there to me -- I could use something to wet my
whistle." She leans over me, her hair tickling the side of my face.
"You know how to whistle, don't you, Janice? You just put your lips
together and blow."
And with that, she sashays out the door. Me -- my knees give out and I grab the
edge of the bar for support. Lord, have mercy! There's going to be some
sparking on the porch tonight. Little Janice is gonna get lucky. I somehow
manage to make her drink -- even tack on a pretty piece of mint leaf for
garnish. Dames like that sort of thing.
With both drinks in hand, I back out the screen door and turn to face her as it
slams behind me. She crooks a finger at me and I join her on the swing, sitting
a polite distance apart. I'd never presume anything about a lady until she
makes her intentions perfectly clear, all flirtations aside. I hand over her glass
and clink the edge of mine against hers. "Here's looking at you,
kid." I smile and wink, and drain my drink.
My eyebrows shoot up, as Mel slams down the entire glassful in a few swallows,
and sets it aside, licking her lips suggestively. She leans over coyly, and
pats the space between us. "Come on over here, Yankee, and keep me
company. I can call you 'Yankee,' can't I?"
"Yankee. Junior. Call me whatever you want to. Frankly my dear, I don't
give a damn." I close the distance and drape an arm around her shoulders.
"You can do better than that, can't you, Stud?" Her hand cups my
kneecap, then slides up my leg, those nails trailing against my inner thigh.
"You've got a couple of years on me, don't you Janice? Surely you can
teach little ol' Mel a thing or two?" She blows in my ear, and I groan in
anticipation. Her intentions are more than clear.
"It's not the years, Honey. It's the mileage." I lean in for a kiss,
and she presses that long body up against me, pinning me to the back of the
porch swing. I don't know who's gonna be teaching who, but I do know one thing,
I think this is the start of a beautiful friendship.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Next in the BTL series -- Masquerade (post
"Here She Comes, Miss Amphipolis")