ghosts // riverdale

[1]

          It was a Friday. The fall air was cold and there was a serious storm heading directly towards Riverdale. The sun was hiding behind a collage of dark gray clouds, continual deep growls of thunder stemming from the frightening sky. Raindrops would flood the streets and then there would be a pause to leave time to find cover. What seemed like any other ordinary morning, this day, this day was different. The storm that brewed above Riverdale was only a natural manifestation of what was coming.

          Southside Serpents were unfazed by the impending storm as they filled the sidewalks surrounding the Whyte Wyrm. Broken glass and beer cans filled the nearby gutters as loud chatter and boisterous laughs filled the full lot. These men are loud in general but today, they had a good amount of beer and whiskey in their blood. In a sea of leather jackets and biker boots, there were six-inch heels and a red peacoat. They always say that the color red represents Satan but I had never believed that until the woman in red created a parting of the black sea of Southside Serpents in that bar parking lot that particular Friday night.

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The noise from the outside quiets as the woman pushes the heavy wooden doors of the bar open, allowing them to crash together behind her as a bar full of Southside Serpents turn their necks to welcome their latest guest. Shock and surprise hold their tongues as she flicks her blonde bangs behind her ear as the heels of her stilettos click against the sticky hardwood floors. She walks across the bar, the cape of her peacoat falling quickly behind her.

She watches carefully as she finds the perfect spot for herself at the half empty bar. A few men look her up and down, licking their lips as they get a good look at her. Balding men with missing teeth from quarrels. Young men with freshly inked tattoos. Older men with tattoos older than the newer generation of Serpents in the bar. While there were many of them, none of them were who she was looking for.

"What can I get for a pretty lady like you?" The middle-aged bartender asks as he smiles a gap toothed smile. Before she has the chance to mutter a response, he opens his mouth again. "Let me guess," he smiles, "A sex on the beach? Or maybe a peach mimosa?" She senses the sarcasm in his voice as the group of surrounding men laugh deeply. She flickers her eyelashes up at him as she pushes a 100 dollar bill across the slimy bar. "Whiskey," she smiles, "double."

The bartender's smile fades as the group of men once laughing are now silent. Without saying another word, the arrogant bartender takes the bill and grabs the whiskey from the bottom shelf. "My pal Vern here ain't botherin' you, is he?" A deep voice asks from beside her. Before she turns to look at him, a sly smile spreading across her glossed lips. Her eyes are met with dark eyes and peppered gray hair. His jeans are tight and his leather jacket gleaming under the fluorescent lights above them.

"No," she smiles carefully, "I actually quite like him." The man standing beside her places the palm of his hand on the bar top as he pulls the bar stool next to her beneath his legs. He scoots closer to her as he nods his head towards the bartender that gives the young woman her double shot of whiskey. The bartender quickly pours him the same thing as he glides it to him. The man in the leather jacket holds his shot glass towards hers as the two of them clink their glasses together.

The warm, bitter alcohol glides down their throats as they slam their shot glasses on the table top of the bar in front of them. Neither of them make a strange face with the taste of the alcohol. It's a taste that they're both accustomed to. The man pushes his smooth lips together as he looks her up and down, like all the other Southside Serpents did. "Freedom looks good on you, FP Jones," the young woman smiles as she returns the glance.

A seductive smile spreads across his lips as he leans further into the bar stool. "Hm," he mutters under his breath, "you a reporter or something?" The woman slides her finger around the rim of the shot glass as her eyes stay on his. "No," she whispers, "but you're going to wish that I was." He glances away for a second, looking into the bar of busy Serpents. "Is that right?" He says with a quiet laugh.

She nods as she continues to keep her eyes on him. She removes her finger from the rim of the shot glass as she then glides it across the place beneath her collarbone, flicking the top button of her peacoat open. The top of her coat sweeps beside her arms as a tight black dress is revealed beneath the coat. Beneath the strapless dress are sheer stockings that meet halfway up her pale thighs. FP looks her up and down once more as he turns back towards the bartender behind the bar flicking his eyebrows upwards as if it's a silent request for more whiskey.

"How did  you get out, FP?" The young woman asks as she leans into the bar counter. FP's chest rises and falls slowly as two more shots of whiskey are poured in front of them. FP's shoulders rise and fall as slowly as his chest as he holds the small glass between his rough fingers. The young woman raises hers quickly to her lips as they both take their shot at the same time. Again, no strange look. Instead, they stare at one another, their eyes dark and seductive.

"Are you one of those rich, snotty Riverdale broads?" FP asks as he pushes the glass aggressively away from him. The slender blonde places her glass in front of her as she smiles devilishly towards him, placing her thumb against the corner of her sticky lips. "No," she whispers as she leans towards him, "I'm not anything  Riverdale." FP licks his sticky lips too as he leans back into his bar stool, looking down at her hazel eyes as adrenaline and testosterone tear through his veins.

The lightweight door of the trailer crashes against its bare walls as FP's lips are intertwined with the glossed lips of the mystery girl from the bar. His rough fingers hold tightly onto either side of her face as he pushes her into the nearest wall, keeping his lips on hers. Their kisses are rough and warm, her palms held against his chest. She glides them down his abdomen, her fingers playing with the bottom of his white t-shirt underneath.

He throws his leather jacket to the floor beneath their feet, allowing her to help him remove his t-shirt. His bare chest crashes against hers as the kisses between them become rougher. He glides his hand down her neck, his palm grasping onto her shoulder as he moves his lips to her neck. She pants heavily as she keeps her eyes clutched shut, her wandering fingers running through his peppered hair.

He nips at her collarbone with his teeth as the slow, rough kisses stop and his dark eyes open in the blackness. His body holds her against the wall as the sudden pause in activity causes her to flicker her eyes open, her eyes only inches away from his. Her heavy pants slow as she stares at him, both of their eyes illuminated by the bright streetlight hanging outside of the trailer. She keeps her palms firmly against his chest as he stares at her in the dark.

Neither of them say a word. They're comfortable with the silence. For a few more seconds, they just stare at one another. The other trying to catch a glimpse into the other's soul. Maybe it was boredom. Maybe it was danger. It could've been a lot of things but they both knew that what would happen in the trailer that Friday night was a lot more than just a one night stand.

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