Doc In The Box
was buttoning up his shirt. I stared at his upper chest, a
slab of tanned and toned muscle. As he tucked in his shirttail,
I admired that rippling washboard stomach once more, and imagined
those muscles moving the way I saw them last night. My mind
wandered to other visions now concealed by his pants. Those
strong legs and hot buns and . . .
"So, was I good?" he asked, combing
his hair with his fingers. He didn't wait for me to answer.
He knew he was. He was the sort of man who made women howl
and claw his hide.
"Got any hair spray I can borrow?"
"Nope, never use it," I
said. That wasn't quite true, but if you let him, the guy
borrowed more stuff than a sorority roommate. He'd already
used my powder compact, my teasing comb, and my pink lipstick
to make his heart-stopping lips more luscious. He used his
own eyeliner, though. I don't lend that out. I wasn't taking
a chance of getting pinkeye from the handsome Jack.
I shifted on my lopsided chair in
the men's dressing room at the Heart's Desire, a strip club
ten minutes across the river from downtown St. Louis. We like
to go across the Mississippi River into Illinois for our sin.
That way we can pretend we really don't have it in our city.
But we keep it close to home.
Buy at Murder on the Beach