work with wimps,” she retorted. “Go call a cab, go home. I’ll do the job myself. Shit, I thought your people were going to assign me to a professional, not a candyass.”
“I am not a candyass,” Straker objected. “I have the highest conviction rate of anyone in the state police.”
“Give yourself a medal. Pay phone’s over there. Call a cab and get out of here. Need a quarter?”
What a hardass! This girl’s breaking my chops like there’s no tomorrow! “All right, listen—”
“You’re still here?”
Straker grit his teeth. “I’ve been thinking about this—” and he had, hadn’t he? And it was true; he was being the perfect hypocrite, disparaging her for what she referred to as “alternative protocols” when he’d done the self-same thing just this morning with Traci Wilcox, the chicken lady.
Laughter exploded from Dare’s table. “I’m a licensed pilot!” he bragged. “Woo!” He drained a gin and tonic in one gulp. “I own six gyms in North Carolina! Woo!” He flexed his pecs. “I am stylin’ and profilin’! I’m the biggest and the best! Woo!”
What a dick, Straker thought. And she thinks he’s hot?
Over his other shoulder, though, he could see the Fabulous Ghoula and Terri Strong—bitter enemies an hour ago—trading jokes over drinks. Then he looked at Melinda again, the flawless feminine line rising from her heels to her neck, the perfect, tanned legs jutting from the denim skirt, the white-blond hair and the world-class bosom.
“I’ll do it,” he said.
She smirked through a sideglance. “You haven’t got the nuts.”
“Watch me.”
Straker steeled himself, took a deep breath, and parted. He approached Ghoula’s table and before he was even halfway there, the blob-like, rat-haired woman looked up and shot a gapped grin.
“Sweetcakes!” she exclaimed. “I knew you’d come lookin’ for me!”
Straker sat down at the table, winked at her. “I’ve still got that package for you, Ms. Ghoula. What do you say we go back to your motel and open it together?”
««—»»
Melinda couldn’t help but smile. That poor sucker, he’s in love with me. She watched amused as Captain Straker snagged his mark and eventually left the bar with the Fabulous Ghoula on his arm. But Melinda had some snagging to do herself, and time was wasting. Be industrious, she thought. Dare was sitting over there with a veritable harem, but Melinda knew her own looks blew them all away. She finished her Coke, then traipsed over. The other rats at the table glared at her.
“Get out of here, bitch,” one flat-chested girl remarked. “Can’t you see this table’s full?”
“Too bad your bra’s not,” Melinda replied.
“Buzz off, Blondie!” barked a brunette with way too much eyeliner.
“Is that mascara, or did somebody punch you in the eye?”
“Fuck you!”
Melinda ignored them. She leveled her gaze at Dare. “Hey. Wonder Boy. You gonna hang out in this dog pound all night, or are you gonna jump some real bones?”
Dare only stared at her, his gaze locked on her haltered breasts, her tight waist, her knock-out hips and Penthouse legs.
Melinda, without hesitation, smoothly removed the halter. “How’d you like to pin these to the fuckin’ mat?” she said.
That was all it took. Dare dropped a c-note on the bar, and stood up. “I only have one thing to say about that, baby.”
Melinda ran her hands up, cupped the melon-tight 38Ds. “Yeah, Wonder Boy? And what’s that?”
Dare shot his cuffs, did a quick pec-flex, then hauled back and shouted, “Woooooo!”
««—»»
Oh, for Christ’s sake, Melinda thought. Hurry up and come!
Alternative protocols or not, she was really getting sick of this. Right now, she lay naked and squashed under the 243-pound frame of The Wonder Boy Slick Dare, and he was humping as though she were nothing more animate than a watermelon with a hole in it. At least if the action was good, she might be able to
“I am not a candyass,” Straker objected. “I have the highest conviction rate of anyone in the state police.”
“Give yourself a medal. Pay phone’s over there. Call a cab and get out of here. Need a quarter?”
What a hardass! This girl’s breaking my chops like there’s no tomorrow! “All right, listen—”
“You’re still here?”
Straker grit his teeth. “I’ve been thinking about this—” and he had, hadn’t he? And it was true; he was being the perfect hypocrite, disparaging her for what she referred to as “alternative protocols” when he’d done the self-same thing just this morning with Traci Wilcox, the chicken lady.
Laughter exploded from Dare’s table. “I’m a licensed pilot!” he bragged. “Woo!” He drained a gin and tonic in one gulp. “I own six gyms in North Carolina! Woo!” He flexed his pecs. “I am stylin’ and profilin’! I’m the biggest and the best! Woo!”
What a dick, Straker thought. And she thinks he’s hot?
Over his other shoulder, though, he could see the Fabulous Ghoula and Terri Strong—bitter enemies an hour ago—trading jokes over drinks. Then he looked at Melinda again, the flawless feminine line rising from her heels to her neck, the perfect, tanned legs jutting from the denim skirt, the white-blond hair and the world-class bosom.
“I’ll do it,” he said.
She smirked through a sideglance. “You haven’t got the nuts.”
“Watch me.”
Straker steeled himself, took a deep breath, and parted. He approached Ghoula’s table and before he was even halfway there, the blob-like, rat-haired woman looked up and shot a gapped grin.
“Sweetcakes!” she exclaimed. “I knew you’d come lookin’ for me!”
Straker sat down at the table, winked at her. “I’ve still got that package for you, Ms. Ghoula. What do you say we go back to your motel and open it together?”
««—»»
Melinda couldn’t help but smile. That poor sucker, he’s in love with me. She watched amused as Captain Straker snagged his mark and eventually left the bar with the Fabulous Ghoula on his arm. But Melinda had some snagging to do herself, and time was wasting. Be industrious, she thought. Dare was sitting over there with a veritable harem, but Melinda knew her own looks blew them all away. She finished her Coke, then traipsed over. The other rats at the table glared at her.
“Get out of here, bitch,” one flat-chested girl remarked. “Can’t you see this table’s full?”
“Too bad your bra’s not,” Melinda replied.
“Buzz off, Blondie!” barked a brunette with way too much eyeliner.
“Is that mascara, or did somebody punch you in the eye?”
“Fuck you!”
Melinda ignored them. She leveled her gaze at Dare. “Hey. Wonder Boy. You gonna hang out in this dog pound all night, or are you gonna jump some real bones?”
Dare only stared at her, his gaze locked on her haltered breasts, her tight waist, her knock-out hips and Penthouse legs.
Melinda, without hesitation, smoothly removed the halter. “How’d you like to pin these to the fuckin’ mat?” she said.
That was all it took. Dare dropped a c-note on the bar, and stood up. “I only have one thing to say about that, baby.”
Melinda ran her hands up, cupped the melon-tight 38Ds. “Yeah, Wonder Boy? And what’s that?”
Dare shot his cuffs, did a quick pec-flex, then hauled back and shouted, “Woooooo!”
««—»»
Oh, for Christ’s sake, Melinda thought. Hurry up and come!
Alternative protocols or not, she was really getting sick of this. Right now, she lay naked and squashed under the 243-pound frame of The Wonder Boy Slick Dare, and he was humping as though she were nothing more animate than a watermelon with a hole in it. At least if the action was good, she might be able to
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