Murray winced, studying her in the darkness. “Tell me you’re joking.”
Several expressions flittered crossed her face so rapidly, he couldn’t read them.
“Mostly.”
She had demons, that wasn’t up for debate. Murray normally ran from baggage, but Lucy’s burden made him want to stay right here and hold her. Unable to stop himself, he brushed a curl out of her face for a better look at her. An unfamiliar ache manifested in his chest as he watched her stone exterior crumble just a little. She turned away, and blew the dust off the old candle giving herself a sneezing fit in the process.
“Bless you.” He dropped the perfunctory phrase because his southern upbringing demanded it.
“Thank you.” She lit the wick, and the forgotten space looked even spookier somehow. Out of nowhere, Murray recalled a time when he was very young and had fallen asleep in an old mausoleum in a different cemetery while playing hide-and-go-seek with Tally. He’d awoken much later, in pitch blackness. The blistering beating Tally took for losing sight of him still made him shiver.
“Are you cold?” Dark thoughts evaporated at the sound of her honey smooth voice. Murray shrugged and Lucy beckoned him closer. He stumbled in her direction, drunk on desire and high as hell that he felt anything at all. His brain seemed scrambled, powerless to concentrate on anything other than her wanton eyes.
When he was within her reach, she snagged him by a beltloop, and after a bit of lingering eye contact, she found his zipper.
“Lucy…” he scolded and begged in equal measure. Peering up at him from under long lashes, her slender fingers swiftly unfastened his belt.
"Live a little.” Her cherry lips grazed his jaw, her hand slipping into his silk boxers. “They aren't going to care."
Lucy released him and took a seat on the dusty bench. Dancing candlelight accentuated the peaks and valleys of her devastating features. Murray cocked a dark brow, his slanted smile betraying any pretense of disapproval. Fiendish eyes teemed with life in the waning afternoon light.
"That's desecration, you vile little thing…" He descended on her, and his warm hand traveled up her ivory thigh and vanished beneath the hem of her little black dress.
She wriggled away, firm hands gripping his thighs, pulling his open fly millimeters from her pretty face. The next thing he knew she had him in her mouth and his eyes were rolling back in his head. Lucy took her time, leisurely teasing him with her swirling tongue. She showed no urgency, impervious to the damp cold surroundings and displaying absolutely no fear of being caught. Or maybe that was exactly what she hoped for. Maybe public lewdness was her kink. At that point Murray didn’t really care as long as he got to reap the rewards.
Lightheaded and gasping for breath, Murray looked down at her, the prisms of colored light streaming down on her from the stained glass above. He had one fleeting thought before all the blood drained from his head and traveled south. Lucy was the kind of woman his father had cautioned him about way back when they had “the talk.” Dear old dad had poured his son a shot of whisky and informed young Murray that the devil lived in every woman, passed down since Eve first ate the apple. Pussy clouded one’s judgment, Samuel Layhe declared, and without one’s judgment, life was chaos.
“Toy with the devil,” his father’s parting shot left young Murray befuddled, “…and you just might burn.”
As Lucy’s fingernails sank into the muscular flesh of his bare ass, Murray finally thought he understood what the old man meant.
The sound of the Roomba banging against her bedroom door lured Lucy from a blissful sleep. Though she covered her face with her pillow, it failed to block out the sunlight demanding she begin her day. Moaning, she fought her way out of the mosquito netting canopy encapsulating her bed.
As she trudged to the shower, she couldn’t ignore the delightful ache between her legs. Regardless of his public persona, Murray was a caged animal in sheep’s clothing.
Replaying a blow-by-blow of the sultry night before, Lucy stood in the shower soaping her aching body until the water ran lukewarm. Wrapping a towel around herself, she caught sight of fingerprint-sized bruises on both of her upper thighs. Grinning, she made several pointless swipes at the steamy mirror, reminiscent of the fogged-over windows of Murray Layhe’s hearse.
Like clockwork, she heard the singsong voice of her roommate echo down the hall. “Was I drunk or were you dropped off at midnight by a mystery man in a long black hearse?”
Lucy smiled at her own reflection, distorted by condensation. “Yes, Miss Margherita, I imagine you were drunk. And yes to the rest.”
Lucy heard furry slippers traveling in her direction and flung open the medicine cabinet.
“Who’d you paint the town black with? Uncle Fester?”
“A friend.” Lucy choked down a Morning After pill. She’d just closed the medicine cabinet door when Miss Marg appeared, a pink puffball in her glamorous get-up.
“Which of your friends drives a hearse?” the six-foot-tall drag queen asked. She didn’t have her hair and face on yet, and the lack of eyebrows in combination with the furry dressing gown, silk turban, and matching footwear made her look like a fancy cancer patient.
“No one you’d know.” Lucy swiped at her rosy, wet hair with a brush.
“Well, hurry up in here, would ya? This hair isn’t going to shave itself.”
“Sorry. Didn’t know you had a show.” Sharing a one-bath bungalow with a professional female impersonator meant carefully juggling a bathroom schedule, but it also meant plenty of killer beauty tips.
Miss M. sucked in her cheeks, green eyes focused on the mirror. “It’s October. There are always extra shows for the gay holy days.”
Lucy nodded and hurried for the fridge. When she heard a loud gasp, she whipped around.
“Oh, dear Lord, you slept with him already?” Miss Marg’s painted nails were on her naked lips, shaving cream comically covering both eyebrows.
Lucy
