Chirp(2)

Ginny was dressed in a leather jacket and low-cut tank, her voluptuous breasts swelling over the top. Nothing like formaldehyde to pump up a woman’s upper thorax. Blaze tugged at her own T-shirt, conscious of the small boobs she’d been blessed with. Removing the pencil from behind her ear, she scratched out part of the note and made changes.

Proper shading and contouring made women appear pounds lighter and years younger. Once Blaze had finished, Ginny looked like a Harley Harlot. Blaze always regretted the client couldn’t witness the magic. She jotted another message, tucked it into Motorcycle Momma’s pocket, and zipped it. “Give this to Larkin Montgomery. You’ll recognize her because we look alike.” With only a few pictures for comparison, she wasn’t sure about that. The older she got, the less she remembered about her mother.

With her supplies back in place, Blaze peeked into the hallway. The coast appeared clear. No Cam waiting to walk her out. Maybe she’d finally been rude enough for him to get the message.

Outside, a sharp February breeze cut at her face, but spring hid right around the corner. Almost time to break up the garden spot. Even though she liked living alone, she missed Dessie. The sweet woman had left the place to her only grandson, but Blaze would never meet him.

Since he was serving a fifteen-year prison sentence, she’d be long gone by the time he showed up.





Rance


Rance Keller’s biggest regret would always be that Jack Fletcher died before he had a chance to kill him. Son of a bitch had to go and get cancer, and right along with it, he’d gotten religion and admitted to framing Rance. Small consolation. At least in prison, with no distractions, Rance had graduated college summa cum laude.

Still, what major corporation wanted to hire an almost thirty-year-old with no work experience except summer construction jobs and bussing tables at Backstreet Willie’s Bar and Grill? Especially after being convicted for burning the place down. Didn’t matter he’d been exonerated. Statistics proved twenty percent of people would always think he did it.

That was the bad thing about lies: once folks made up their minds, nothing could change them. Not even the truth.

He hoped God hadn’t forgiven Jack because the thought of him burning in hell made Rance happy. Maybe the Lord had been busy working a terrorist attack or a ten-car pile-up when the scumbag had begged for mercy. Even the Almighty couldn’t give back six years. The state had done its part with the annuity and cash settlement, but money didn’t replace Rance’s lost youth.

Downing his second shot of whiskey, he eyed a duo of leggy blondes at the end of the bar. The one in the tight black skirt dangled a red stiletto from her toes and bounced it in time with the country tune blaring from the jukebox. The other wore leather pants and twirled a pink umbrella in her drink.

Funny how he paid attention to details. When his sentence started, he realized there’d be plenty of things he’d miss. Women—how they looked and smelled and felt. Driving—freedom to go anywhere he wanted. That’s why he’d spent the last year on the open road riding his Harley, letting the wind, rain, and sun restore life to his body.

Never imagined missing something as insignificant as color though. But when everything was taken, he realized all the things he’d taken for granted.

Both babes sported hot-pink fingernails—probably fake, and their skin sparkled. Noticed them the minute they came in. Skirt definitely had the better ass. Leather Pants, mm-mm, killer tits. If he didn’t make a move, he’d have to add a missed opportunity to his misery.

Laying one chick a week had turned out to be harder than he’d thought. He could have pulled it off, but some nights—well—he’d been too drunk to care. In two more days, his year of sin would end, and he’d be at the farm his grandmother had left him.

His long-term goal was to get the place in shape with enough square footage to appeal to buyers. Didn’t want to keep it. Wouldn’t be the same without Gran. Missing her funeral and not saying a proper goodbye still galled him. Of course, the damn state had lost the paperwork.

The last time he’d visited, the house had needed repairs. After sitting vacant two years, it would be more run-down than ever. No problem. He had plenty of experience and time.

Right now, though, he needed to focus on the prospect at hand. He motioned to the bartender, swallowed another shot, and went back to the math problem. Two days. Six lays. He laughed out loud. Rhyme sounded like the beginning of a rap song.

Tight Skirt sent him a smile. If he doubled up, he’d make his quota. Hell, might as well get started. He rose from the bar stool and ambled over to the ladies. During the past year, he’d learned females had evolved while he’d been out of circulation, and he didn’t even need a pickup line. The best approach? Get to the point.

“Got a room across the street. You girls want to take the party there?”

Tight Skirt fiddled with a gold arrow pendant pointing to her breasts and other southern regions. “You’re a big guy. Are you big all over?”

“Nothing like a game of Show and Tell to find out.”

She licked her lips. “In that case, I’m Mia, and this is Mya.”

He doubted that, but hell. Me-oh, my-oh, I’ll fuck you both-o. “Rance.” He stuck out his hand, and when Mia took it, she stroked his palm with her finger. His cock twitched.

Once inside his room, the duo didn’t hesitate. No small talk. No games. Just got down to business. Mia started with his shirt, and Mya with his pants.