Deadly Pursuit

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Leaning forward, resting his elbow on the long mahogany bar, he gave the woman a look at his white smile.

“You don’t mean that?” he asked quietly.

“But I do. I envy you, living in L.A. That’s a real city. You can do things.”

“Phoenix isn’t a real city?”

“Well, sure it is, but…” She giggled. “ You know.”

He liked her laugh. He liked everything about her. She was exactly his type. Blue eyes, smooth skin lightly dusted with freckles, blond hair. About twenty-seven, he’d guess; eight years younger than himself. The tight blue dress showed a lot of leg and cleavage and, when she bent toward him, offered a glimpse of her white breasts.

She’d been sitting alone at the bar when he alighted beside her an hour ago. He’d bought her three cocktails so far. She was drinking vodka, straight, and though she held her liquor surprisingly well, the drinks were having an unmistakable effect.

“Personally,” he said, “I like your town.” He sipped the slush of gin and ice in the bottom of his glass. “Nice and clean. Feels safe.”

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