A sample of Ainslie Paton's Grease Monkey Jive

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He crooked his finger and she came.  

Across the club, in between the drinkers and the dancers, the predators and the prey, the spectators and manipulators, she made her way to Dan.  She was all hip and hair toss, open mouth and wet lips.  She was shrink-wrapped in a hot pink package of dress that showed all her sweet curves and angles.  Nothing that wasn’t fit for immediate consumption.  Mitch could see this was a girl without a noticeable use-by date.

Except where Dan was concerned, her shelf life was likely to be a night or two, a week maybe, a month tops.  Anything more would be some kind of a personal best and Dan would’ve gone freaking soft.

Mitch was in awe and frustrated by it.  He elbowed Ant, who nudged Fluke, so the three of them could have the pleasure of watching her approach and the gut grinding annoyance of seeing Dan do it again.

It was hard to credit it.  The power of that finger.  That microscopic bend.  It wasn’t even a proper movement, you’d think barely visible in this dungeon lighting. It had to be more about the extension of his arm than the actual working of the knuckle, but maybe it was more to do with the intention in his eyes than any obvious joint action.

He had bedroom eyes, or so chicks told him, way too many times.  Mitch had made a study of Dan’s eyes, trying to see what it was that Dan had that he and Ant and Fluke didn’t.  Well, maybe not Fluke. Fluke wasn’t in the same league.  

They were just plain old dark blue peepers as far as Mitch could tell, set deep in Dan’s fat head, under dark brows with almost girly-thick black eyelashes, but Dan had a way of looking at women that made them come undone.  Fucked if Mitch could work out what it was, but it was a Class-A secret weapon that was for sure.

‘Cause the chicks, they just kept coming and coming undone.  And it wasn’t like Dan did that much to inspire them.  He never broke a sweat over them, either before they arrived or after he’d finished with them.

He was a freaking legend where it came to pulling birds.  And what he knew about cars.  And that’s what made him an acceptable human being – otherwise it was just too painful to be mates with him.

“Fuck!” mouthed Ant, shaking his head at his beer.  He was another fifty bucks down.  He glued his eyes to the wet dream.  She was now almost on top of them, looking real dangerous up this close. Not that she was sparing any of her mega-wattage for anyone but Dan.  Not that Dan noticed.  He just expected her to sidle up next to him and whisper in his ear and stuffed if that’s not exactly what she did.

She pressed herself against Dan’s side and made a show of having to talk directly into his ear on account of the music being so loud and how it let Dan get a real good handle on her wares.  

Mitch watched Dan’s arm slide around her waist, like it was natural, like that’s what a chick who came across a crowded room at the crook of a finger and whispered in your ear expected, and next thing he knew, she had both her arms around Dan’s neck and their fronts were plastered together like wallpaper and wall.

“Shit!” said Fluke.  “There goes my ride home.”

“Why’d you bother?” Mitch shouted at Ant.  He meant bother making a bet Dan couldn’t pull a chick from half way across the room in less time than it took for another shout to come around.

“Law of averages.  The bastard has to lose his mojo sometime,” growled Ant, his baritone not hard to hear above the thump of the dance music.

“He never bloody looks like losing it,” yelled Mitch.

“What?” shouted Fluke.

“Dan.  Bastard.  Magic touch.  Ant.  Idiot.  Soft touch,” yelled Mitch in Fluke’s ear.

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