In Cold Blonde

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She was hot.

A California girl, with long blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail, emerald green eyes and lips bathed in Revlon’s Raspberry Mousse. The dress was by Calvin Klein, bright red, notice me red. It clung to her skin, served up the swell of her breasts, stopped at the top of her muscled thighs. Too short for most women, it looked perfect on her. Her long tanned legs curved down to a pair of Manolo Blahnik fuck-me pumps, her toes were painted to match her lips. And she had something else, attitude. She walked in long, confident strides, almost a swagger. She was on the prowl and tonight, this bar was her jungle.

If you’d glanced at your watch when she walked into Havoc, L.A.’s hottest body exchange, the little hand would have been on the one and the big hand just past the six; 1:32 a.m. to be exact.

Late, so the herd was cut by now, most everyone paired off and flirting. I say most everyone because one of the universe’s absolute truths is that there are always more single guys in a bar than single girls. And tonight’s loser was Colin Wood. He’d gotten to Havoc late, about 1:15, after all the available nubiles were taken. Frustrated, he’d ordered a Jack on the rocks, figuring he’d down it quickly and head home. He’d been working late, stuck on location in Redondo Beach, shooting in an abandoned power plant. Colin was an actor. Not a star, but a working actor; tall, handsome in a John Cusack sort of way, getting eight to ten jobs a year. Enough to pull down about 150 G’s, including residuals. Enough to get recognized every so often, though no one could ever place his name. Enough to usually get him laid when he went clubbing. But not tonight; tonight he was too late. Frustrated, he finished his drink, dropped some money on the bar and turned to the door.

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