successful operation.
There’s a story here, a great one, but you’ll have to take my word for it, since I’m still flirting with Trudy, who is not the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.
That’s not to imply she’s ugly.
It’s just that two weeks ago I was in the same room with the two most beautiful women currently gracing the planet Earth: Callie Carpenter, assassin, and Rose Stout, surgical nurse. I’ve known three other truly gorgeous women: Miranda Rodriguez, courtesan, Willow Breeland, con artist, and Dublin Devereaux, billionaire socialite.
In a group comprised of these five women and Trudy Lake, my waitress, Trudy’s sucking hind tit.
Having said that, she’s still the sixth most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on, and absolutely worth whatever time and effort might be required to separate her from her panties tonight.
She’s not very worldly, which works to my advantage. Can’t even tell the difference between a Rolex and a Piaget!
I have other advantages. Trudy’s a backwoods pony-tailed waitress, I’m a renowned surgeon. She’s poor, I’m rich. She appears to possess average intelligence, I’m off-the-charts brilliant.
I know what you’re thinking. I’m full of myself, right?
Not true.
I’m a mess.
I’m petty. Mean-spirited. Vengeful. I have a rotten personality. No friends. And a bad track record with women.
I’ve been flirting with Trudy the better part of an hour. She ignored me at first, but my persistence is paying off. She’s appraising me.
“How old are you?” she asks, going straight for the jugular.
I frown. Besides my personality, my age is my biggest weakness. I’m forty-two. She can’t be more than…
“How old are you?” I ask.
“Eighteen.”
Shit. The last eighteen-year-old I dated turned out to be a seventeen-year-old identity thief.
“Eighteen?” I say. “You’re sure about that?”
I’d go after older women, but those north of twenty see me coming a mile away.
“Eighteen-and-a-half,” she says. “Almost nineteen.”
Going the extra mile to make herself appear older tells me she might be interested. But I’ve been wrong before. In fact, I’m wrong most of the time.
I know one sure-fire way to find out.
I focus my eyes on her chest, and keep them there a long moment before looking up. In my experience, it’s fifty-fifty she’ll either be flattered or offended. Of course, my success rate is padded by strippers and hookers. What I’m saying, my social skills are so lacking I’ve offended half the strippers and hookers I’ve flirted with.
But Trudy’s expression reveals nothing.
She looks at her chest.
“Have I spilt somethin’?” she says. “Or are you just bein’ a guy?”
“I’m just being a guy.”
She nods, but shows no anger, disgust, or any other emotion I’ve encountered when blatantly fixing my gaze on a woman’s chest. Her nod seems to say, “It is what it is. Girls have boobs, guys have eyes.”
Maybe country girls are more worldly than I thought.
“What time do you get off?” I ask.
“Ten.”
“An hour from now? More or less?”
“You’re the one with the fancy watch,” she says, then tosses her hair, spins, and heads for the kitchen.
Five minutes later she comes out with a gleam in her eye, looks from side to side, lowers her voice, and says, “Want to do somethin’ wild?”
3
I have no idea what a backwoods rural beauty like Trudy considers wild.
Greasing a pig?
Shooting a pig?
Fucking a pig?
“What do you have in mind?” I say.
“Scooter Bing just pulled up out front.”
My eyes grow big. “Seriously? Scooter Bing? You’re shitting me!”
She looks puzzled. “You know Scooter?”
I laugh. “I’ve been in town ninety minutes. I don’t know if Scooter’s man, woman, or beast.”
“He’s two of those things.”
“Which two?”
“Man and beast.”
“And is he gainfully employed?”
“Sir?”
“Does Scooter have a profession?”
“He’s our big, fat, deputy sheriff.”
“I see. And is there some significance to him having just pulled up outside?”
She laughs. “You talk like a TV lawyer.”
I smile, hoping that’s a compliment.
She smiles back, waiting for me to say something.
It strikes me how much I love watching her beautiful, expressive mouth form sentences and smiles, and adore how she mangles the English language with her sexy southern drawl. She has a way of taking a monosyllabic word like “Hi!” and making it sound like a full sentence. On the other hand, her conversations require great patience, since they aren’t driven by the need to make an actual point. Coming from most other mouths, this round-about style of speaking would annoy the shit out of me. In Manhattan, people say as little as possible and move the fuck along. I like Trudy’s world better, where conversation moves slower, and seems to require two people. But it will take some getting used to, and I’m impatient to hear what’s wild about Scooter Bing pulling up in front of the restaurant.
She obliges me by saying, “In a minute Scooter will come in, sit at that counter…”-she points to a spot thirty feet away-“and he’ll order a cup of coffee.”
I say nothing, realizing the slightest comment will delay her getting to the point.
“He’ll put a laxative in the coffee. Fifteen minutes later he’ll go to the men’s room to take a dump.”
I can’t take it any longer.
“Wow, Trudy. All this time I’ve felt sorry for you, thinking how bored you must be, living in this little town. And now you tell me this type of excitement is going on all around us?”
She smiles.
It’s a helluva smile.
She says, “Before droppin’ his pants, Deputy Bing hangs his gun belt over the door of the stall.”
“So?”
“He’ll have the gun side facin’ him, but the handcuffs will be hangin’ on the other side of the door.”
“And you know this because?”
“It’s his way.”
“His way?”
“His habit.”
“What’s the wild part?”
