More love to come

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Although the bedpost could have provided support for his venture, the skinny hairy man was too drunk to notice. He balanced on one leg and regarded the sock – his arch-enemy of the moment – curled enticingly around his toes. He grabbed for it, missed, grabbed again, finally managed to pull it up at least as far as his ankle, took that for a victory, put his foot back on the floor just in time to avoid a fall. He remembered the voluptuous girl on the bed, frowned at her, began the search for his other sock.

Judy Burton returned his frown with a smile, thought: You skinny fuck, just put the money on the dresser and get the hell out of here. The man ignored her telepathic message, continued rummaging around the room for his sock. Judy took a pull on her stale bourbon and soda. The money, she thought, just leave the money. The man had gotten everything he wanted, and more, the bruises on her thighs were testimony. Now it was her turn. She had to have that money, it was well that mattered.

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