keep shoveling. It was stinking, hard work, and it hurt your back, but that was the way to get to the bottom of things. He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.
Chapter 7
Alana Black wasn't surprised to find him on her doorstep. "Heard you guys were doing a sweep," she said. She waved an arm toward the kitchen. "I could make coffee, unless you'd like something stronger."
"Coffee's fine."
He stepped in, smiling. She'd positioned herself so he couldn't get past without brushing against her. "After you," he said.
"Party pooper."
"Saving myself for marriage," he said.
He followed her into the kitchen and put his coat over the back of a chair. Alana stuck a filter in her coffee maker and spooned in some coffee. Daylight began and ended today in the kitchens of lovely women making coffee. But there the similarity ended. If Jen's had a theme, it was glossy or sterile. Alana's was shabby kitsch. Big-eyed animal magnets covered the refrigerator. On top lodged a cluster of mangy bears. A row of tiny bears lined the windowsill by the sink. Alana's hair was jet black and wildly curly, Gypsy hair. And while Jen's pale skin, cheekbones and baby-fine hair personified the WASP princess, Alana's mixed heritage had given her tawny skin, full lips, and dark, seductive eyes. Jen had small, pink-tipped breasts with a tracing of blue veins, Alana's were high, proud melons with jutting brown nipples.
He wasn't an ass man or a tit man or leg man. Mostly, he was a celibate man. Not that he didn't notice or desire. It was just that in a society where lack of impulse control ran rampant, he had too much. Except for occasional explosions of temper, he kept himself locked down. From his earliest years he'd been an observer. Observed his father beating his mother and his mother's silent, stoic grief. Observed the ugliness of what people did to each other. Learned to shift his eyes and pack his feelings down.
"You never come see me, Joe." She pouted, swishing her hips.
Despite the weather, she wore a wisp of low-slung black vinyl and an abbreviated tank top cut so low you could have mailed letters in her cleavage. A faint suggestion of dark hair feathered her stomach below the gleaming silver navel stud. She had skinny little girl arms and legs and a full, voluptuous ass. When she stood on tiptoe to reach in the cupboard, he was treated to the sight of most of it. If she was wearing any underwear at all, it was only a thong. He'd heard a guy describing how she gave a blow job once. He sometimes woke up thinking about it.
She flicked her tongue at him. "Should see your face right now, copman. You know you want it."
"I don't have to have everything I admire," he said. "You taking care of yourself?" Alana couldn't be rushed.
"I do my best, keep away from drinking and drugs and men who want to mess with my mind." She ducked her head in a self-deprecating way. "Mostly. Try to keep some money in the bank. Things have been slow, lotta guys tapped out after the holidays. Bad weather for business. I'm too old to be hanging out on street corners."
She was twenty-two. Senior citizen in the hooker business. "Especially dressed like that."
"Hey. I wear a coat. You think I'm a moron or somethin'?"
"I think you're divine. But does it cover your ass?"
She set coffee mugs on the table with a clink. Bent to get milk from the refrigerator with a grin back at him over her shoulder. "Maybe in your business, you worry about covering your ass. I worry about showing mine."
"Hard damned place to get frostbite, that's all."
She burst out laughing. "I wish you'd come around more. Not many people who can make me laugh. Hey, I'm moving up in the world. Got a beeper and an answering service. Don't have to go out there and freeze my ass." She shot him a sideways glance, daring him to disapprove. "You don't look like you're taking care of yourself."
"I try. Got some money in the bank. Can't seem to stay away from people who drink and do drugs
Chapter 7
Alana Black wasn't surprised to find him on her doorstep. "Heard you guys were doing a sweep," she said. She waved an arm toward the kitchen. "I could make coffee, unless you'd like something stronger."
"Coffee's fine."
He stepped in, smiling. She'd positioned herself so he couldn't get past without brushing against her. "After you," he said.
"Party pooper."
"Saving myself for marriage," he said.
He followed her into the kitchen and put his coat over the back of a chair. Alana stuck a filter in her coffee maker and spooned in some coffee. Daylight began and ended today in the kitchens of lovely women making coffee. But there the similarity ended. If Jen's had a theme, it was glossy or sterile. Alana's was shabby kitsch. Big-eyed animal magnets covered the refrigerator. On top lodged a cluster of mangy bears. A row of tiny bears lined the windowsill by the sink. Alana's hair was jet black and wildly curly, Gypsy hair. And while Jen's pale skin, cheekbones and baby-fine hair personified the WASP princess, Alana's mixed heritage had given her tawny skin, full lips, and dark, seductive eyes. Jen had small, pink-tipped breasts with a tracing of blue veins, Alana's were high, proud melons with jutting brown nipples.
He wasn't an ass man or a tit man or leg man. Mostly, he was a celibate man. Not that he didn't notice or desire. It was just that in a society where lack of impulse control ran rampant, he had too much. Except for occasional explosions of temper, he kept himself locked down. From his earliest years he'd been an observer. Observed his father beating his mother and his mother's silent, stoic grief. Observed the ugliness of what people did to each other. Learned to shift his eyes and pack his feelings down.
"You never come see me, Joe." She pouted, swishing her hips.
Despite the weather, she wore a wisp of low-slung black vinyl and an abbreviated tank top cut so low you could have mailed letters in her cleavage. A faint suggestion of dark hair feathered her stomach below the gleaming silver navel stud. She had skinny little girl arms and legs and a full, voluptuous ass. When she stood on tiptoe to reach in the cupboard, he was treated to the sight of most of it. If she was wearing any underwear at all, it was only a thong. He'd heard a guy describing how she gave a blow job once. He sometimes woke up thinking about it.
She flicked her tongue at him. "Should see your face right now, copman. You know you want it."
"I don't have to have everything I admire," he said. "You taking care of yourself?" Alana couldn't be rushed.
"I do my best, keep away from drinking and drugs and men who want to mess with my mind." She ducked her head in a self-deprecating way. "Mostly. Try to keep some money in the bank. Things have been slow, lotta guys tapped out after the holidays. Bad weather for business. I'm too old to be hanging out on street corners."
She was twenty-two. Senior citizen in the hooker business. "Especially dressed like that."
"Hey. I wear a coat. You think I'm a moron or somethin'?"
"I think you're divine. But does it cover your ass?"
She set coffee mugs on the table with a clink. Bent to get milk from the refrigerator with a grin back at him over her shoulder. "Maybe in your business, you worry about covering your ass. I worry about showing mine."
"Hard damned place to get frostbite, that's all."
She burst out laughing. "I wish you'd come around more. Not many people who can make me laugh. Hey, I'm moving up in the world. Got a beeper and an answering service. Don't have to go out there and freeze my ass." She shot him a sideways glance, daring him to disapprove. "You don't look like you're taking care of yourself."
"I try. Got some money in the bank. Can't seem to stay away from people who drink and do drugs
Similar Books
