D. R. Gordon
et's get together."
Luke paused. They usually smiled or sighed and started shedding clothes.
That was the way it went for hunks in Palm Beach. You picked the right bar. You picked a slow time in a slow day. You picked peaches that were just a little bit over-ripe.
And 'plop' they fell into your arms and into bed.
So, what was with this one? She looked about the same, Rubenesque with the extra five pounds gained since her hey-day. Tanned, feather cut, groomed top to toe. Eyes with a haunted look underlined by first wrinkles in the corners. Mid 30s. Probably lonely.
"You wanna talk?" he asked, feeling restless.
"Just a bit," she countered.
Luke's tumescence lessened.
Then . . . inspiration.
"Your place . . . or mine?"
She arched an eyebrow.
Luke thought about his mother. Again.
"Sorry," he said flatly.
And that was that.
First published: February 1998