watch it, swell

[ollie]

odette notham both hated and loved her job. hated was the primary feeling: that anger that the men had no remorse about reaching out and grabbing her bum, just because she was a flapper girl. being that she was both waitress and singer, she’d worn a longer dress to work and had to wear a shorter one—her theory was because all her superiors were perverted pigs that couldn’t let a woman cover her knees, but of course she couldn’t say that because she needed this job and so did her friend—and the oddness of bare knees had left her mindset many weeks ago. she hated how comfortable she was in this dress, too: it meant that she was loosing her morals or whatever it was that made her feel strange with virtually bare knees. they weren’t really bare, of course—they were covered with pantyhose, the garters showing since her boss had chosen (how shockingly) low garters.

no one doubted why odette had been chosen to work a the speakeasy. having just moved to the city, looking starry-eyed and lovely, arm in arm with a girl as lovely though both in their own ways, and they’d been swooped up by a recruit and thrown into the alcoholic world without much warning. odette had adapted somewhat quickly, defending adalia along the day, and when she’d proven to be a dark-haired songbird. she loved the spotlight she’d lacked in her average life, and she enjoyed it more than any other part of the speakeasy, other than the fact that she could get alcohol brought to her apartment. she didn’t drink heavily, but sometimes she enjoyed the vodka they were somehow finding. it was nice to have a load off in ways no one else could.

“honey, why don’t you sit down? a bird like you shouldn’t be moving around, she should be with a man that can make her happy.” the voice made odette barely look over, her green eyes flickering over him before she plunked down the glass on his table in front of him. it sloshed over the edge, wetting her slender hands and losing a lot of expensive alcohol in the wood tables. she smiled harshly, the flush-faced man staring at with glassy-eyed shock. she went on, her head raised a bit higher, hips swinging seductively, the wavy bob making her both blend in and stand out. she enjoyed this, the exhilarated feeling that the men were looking at her, wanting her, wishing they could have her. and that she could reject them whenever she liked, as long as they held no weight in her life.

when odette finished her rounds, she stopped at the bar, beside one of her fellow band-mates. the saxophone player, one of a few lovers of hers (so, yes, she did treat sex casually like most flappers did, but she didn’t care if it was stereotypical or not), smiled at her nonchalantly as he gulped down a mouthful of his vodka. he leaned over, just whispering her name in her ear in a husky voice, and she smiled as she watched him stand, his hand brushing over her hip before he left to speak to someone else. she watched, eying his swaying hips before looking at the bartender. odette grinned at him, crossing her legs, the heels of her pumps meeting. “vodka, darling,” she said simply, in a better mood so simply.

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ooc: a swell is a rich man. thought it fitting. :D