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Bonnie Dee [Beloved 02] Beloved Bodyguard (Rock Hard) (
C M Stunich [Hard Rock Roots Dead Serious (epub)
C M Stunich [Hard Rock Roots Doll Face (epub)
Between a Rock and a Hard Place Clare London
Bite My Cookies [Who Needs Chri Joyee Flynn
Double the Bite Chris Marie Green
Boys That Bite Mari Mancusi
bite the bullet banks la
Dzieje Gnozy 04 O naturze kobie Carl Gustav Jung
BUTCHER JIM Akta Harry'ego Dres (2)

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.When they started leaving the door ajar, I walked right in and watched.Funny, these people.This’d been going on for about a month when she shows up with a black eye.Thunderclouds gather on Mack’s face, and he locks up, middle of the day.She heads for the back room, starts sobbing, and turns her purse upside-down so a flurry of bills spill over the bed.They talk back and forth a long time, and then Mack gathers up the money in a neat stack, opens the giant box and locks it in.They commence rolling around on the bed, but quieter and gentler than usual.A day or two later, Mack starts putting things in his army duffel.I know what that means: Mack’s fixing to leave for a while.Whitey usually takes over till Mack comes back.I hate Whitey; he forgets to feed me.Sure enough, after closing, here she comes, carrying a suitcase.I don’t like the look of this at all.They break out a bottle in the back room, strip off naked, and clink glasses.What they don’t know is, there’s a guy hiding under the bed.He must’ve been there a long time, because nobody saw him go in, but I can smell him breathing.I sit back and twitch my tail.Attracting Mack’s attention is an option, but why bother? Bastard’s going to leave me with Whitey.They’re bouncing that bed pretty good, making it squeak like a hundred chittering rats, and the guy slithers out from under with steel in his hand.I dive under the bed, and stay there through the blows and bludgeoning, the shouts and screaming, until it stops.The stranger’s stick drops with a clang, and his feet stagger out the door.It closes, the bolt scrapes.Mack’s sightless eyes stare at me.As he drains onto the floor, I wonder who’s going to feed me in the morning—what about my milk? I lap at one of the hundred rivulets of blood crawling toward me across the old hardwood—lick my chops, swallow the warm red, thicker than the blood of vermin.Maybe this won’t be too bad for a few days, after all.†Backseat Driver“What’s your name, foxy lady?”“Jasmine.”“Well Jasmine, would you like a drink?”She takes it, and another one, too.Around them, chatter and music.Question marks of smoke waft toward hanging lamps.Trippy macramé on the folksy wood walls.In Malibu, hip never tries too hard.The jukebox thrums Feel Like Makin’ Love.Jasmine smiles bedroom-eyed and turns her face to his.A golden hoop earring dangles all the way to her slender shoulder, underscoring a rose-petal face.Banter, charged with attraction, that old X meets Y magic, and another drink.She takes out a long, slim cigarette.using the moment to toss her hair—a magnificent, Charlie’s Angels’ mane— and hovers it in front of her glossed lips.He’s on top of the lighter, holding out a flame, notices that the brand is the same as his Laura’s.She’s away in San Jose.The thought snaps off with the lighter.He’s recaptured by Jasmine’s sparkling eyes, long-stem legs stretched out in the black vinyl cocktail chair.He excuses himself to the men’s room, nods a greeting to the elderly attendant.Stall or urinal? More important, what about condoms? No chance of finding any in here.Jock socks are strictly behind-the-counter items at pharmacies.The attendant reads his mind.“What d’you need, son? Maybe I have it.”He’s about to respond—of course, the old guy probably makes a few bucks bootlegging rubbers—then catches himself; what a square.A fox like Jasmine would be on the pill.Protection is so fifties.He signals “no” and hurries into a stall.Suddenly Laura pops back in his head along with her mother.They’ve been marooned by Hurricane Jasmine’s flash flood of alcohol and adventure.His future Mother-in-Law cautions Laura, “You women’s libbers go gallivanting off on business trips—leaving him alone—inviting trouble!”Laura’s insistent defense, “Mom, it’s not like that anymore! Chad and I trust each other.”The word “trust” sobers him.He hasn’t done anything yet.No promises made, no invitations extended.Just a harmless little drink, or three, but who’s counting.Time to skeedaddle out of there.He fumbles with the stall door and tosses a Washington into the tip basket.The old man nods in thanks.Prepared like a Boy Scout to leave this place, he returns to the cocktail table.Jasmine is prepared too.One slender leg crosses over the other, showing off her skin-tight jumpsuit, fire-engine red.“Everything copacetic?” she offers dreamily.On the tip of his tongue: Gotta close the shades, babe—Seeing flight in his eyes, she tightens the noose.“Can you drop me at my pad? It’s not far, promise.”He takes in those stems swinging, imagines them next to him in the car.***With a long filter-tip smoldering between her fingers, she waves him over at the Topanga Ranch Motel—boxy little cottages from the 20s with sand where lawn should be, and a midget picket fence.If the booming Pacific on the other side of the highway ever comes in ten yards too far, the whole pile of sticks would float away without protest [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]