Like I said, he’s not very smooth. But I took it as a compliment since his eyes seemed to find a home in my boobs.
We spoke some words durin’ the drink order, and durin’ the drink bringin’, and the food order, the food bringin’, and now he’s stallin’, tryin’ to see if his charm’s workin’ on me.
I can’t decide if he’s interested in a relationship, or just lookin’ to get laid and move along.
If he’s truly interested in me, I’ll have to sort out my feelin’s for him.
On the one hand, he reeks of money, which makes him rarer in this town than a freshly-wiped ass. On the other, while he’s not even close to bein’ ugly, there’s somethin’ off-puttin in his manner.
What’s the worst that can happen by bein’ nice to him?
I’ll almost certainly get a big tip. I can live with that. In fact, he already asked, “What’s the biggest tip you ever got?”
I had to decide between tellin’ the truth and lyin’ to get more.
“Twenty dollars,” I said, stickin’ with the truth.
“That’s pitiful,” he said.
“Kennon Carlson got fifty dollars once,” I blurted out.
“Which one’s she?”
I pointed her out.
He said, “She’s cute. But she’s not in your league.”
I rewarded him with my best smile for sayin’ that.
If the worst is a good tip, what’s the best I can hope for out of this doctor?
Jury’s still out on that.
But he’s been workin’ hard these ninety minutes, struttin’ his wealth and worldly ways, flirtin’ hard, tryin’ to impress me.
It’s workin’.
I mean, I’m not stupid. He’s a man, and men want what they want. It’s a fact of life. The trick is makin’ them think that what they’re gonna get is as good as the thing they want.
It’s like that battle we studied in high school, where Robert E. Lee created a diversion. That’s what you gotta do when a superior force is about to make its move. And he’s a superior force ’cause he’s holdin’ all the cards. He’s rich, he’s worldly, he’s smart, and he’s got a car.
All I’ve got is my looks.
Around here, looks’ll get you any man you want, but Dr. Box is a famous surgeon from New York City. I read somewhere that one out of every ten thousand women is considered movie-star beautiful, and here in Frog Shit County, that’s pretty much me. But in New York City the ratio’s a hundred times higher, because women who look like movie stars don’t strive to live here.
I figure twenty thousand women in New York City are prettier and more sophisticated than me. So I’ve got to decide if what I’ve got can compete with what he can get with a phone call.
My advantage is I’m here, and they’re there.
Okay, so it’s a short-term advantage. Like a one-night-stand sort of advantage.
If this doctor’s my ticket out, I can’t let him turn me into a one-night stand.
If I let him pursue me, I’ll have to put his mind on somethin’ else. Somethin’ good enough to hold his interest, but different than what he’s hopin’ for.
2
Dr. Gideon Box.
I’m Dr. Gideon Box. Those who know me think I’m crazy.
That’s why it’s nice to get away sometimes, fly to a city I’ve never visited before, rent a car, hit the back roads, see if I can fuck a couple of the women I’ve been flirting with on social media for the past two weeks.
You do this often enough, every now and then you get a bonus.
It’s late, you’re driving, hungry. You stop at a little hole-in-the wall called Alice T’s, in Bum Fuck, Kentucky, whose sign promises “Good Country Cooking!” You go in, expecting the worst, and someone pops up right out of the blue, someone who was never on the radar, someone who turns out to be better than what you were hoping to find in Ralston, Kentucky.
Like the young waitress lingering at my table.
Trudy Lake.
“Nice watch,” Trudy says.
I glance at my wrist.
She’s right. It’s a helluva watch.
“What is it, a Rolex?”
“Piaget.”
She nods. “I like it.”
“Thanks.”
I like it, too. That’s why I stole it from Austin Devereaux while attending the party to celebrate his daughter’s successful operation.
There’s a story here, a great one, but you’ll have to take my word for it, since I’m still flirting with Trudy, who is not the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.
That’s not to imply she’s ugly.
It’s just that two weeks ago I was in the same room with the two most beautiful women currently gracing the planet Earth: Callie Carpenter, assassin, and Rose Stout, surgical nurse. I’ve known three other truly gorgeous women: Miranda Rodriguez, courtesan, Willow Breeland, con artist, and Dublin Devereaux, billionaire socialite.
In a group comprised of these five women and Trudy Lake, my waitress, Trudy’s sucking hind tit.
Having said that, she’s still the sixth most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on, and absolutely worth whatever time and effort might be required to separate her from her panties tonight.
She’s not very worldly, which works to my advantage. Can’t even tell the difference between a Rolex and a Piaget!
I have other advantages. Trudy’s a backwoods pony-tailed waitress, I’m a renowned surgeon. She’s poor, I’m rich. She appears to possess average intelligence, I’m off-the-charts brilliant.
I know what you’re thinking. I’m full of myself, right?
Not true.
I’m a mess.
I’m petty. Mean-spirited. Vengeful. I have a rotten personality. No friends. And a bad track record with women.
I’ve been flirting with Trudy the better part of an hour. She ignored me at first, but my persistence is paying off. She’s appraising me.
“How old are you?” she asks, going straight for the jugular.
I frown. Besides my personality, my age is my biggest weakness. I’m forty-two. She can’t be more than…
“How old are you?” I ask.
“Eighteen.”
Shit. The last eighteen-year-old I dated turned out to be a seventeen-year-old identity thief.
“Eighteen?” I say. “You’re sure about that?”
I’d go after older women, but those north of twenty see me coming a mile away.
“Eighteen-and-a-half,” she says. “Almost nineteen.”
Going the extra mile to make herself appear older tells me she might be interested. But I’ve been wrong before. In fact, I’m wrong most of the time.
I know one sure-fire way to find out.
I focus my eyes on her chest, and keep them there a long moment before looking up. In my experience, it’s fifty-fifty she’ll either be flattered or offended. Of course, my success rate is padded by strippers and hookers. What I’m saying, my social skills are so lacking I’ve offended half the strippers and hookers I’ve flirted with.
But Trudy’s expression reveals nothing.
She looks at her chest.
“Have I spilt somethin’?” she says. “Or are you just bein’ a guy?”
“I’m just being a guy.”
She nods, but shows no anger, disgust, or any other emotion I’ve encountered when blatantly fixing my gaze on a woman’s chest. Her nod seems to say, “It is what it is. Girls have boobs, guys have eyes.”
Maybe country girls are more worldly than I thought.
“What time do you get off?” I ask.
“Ten.”
“An hour from now? More or less?”
“You’re the one with the fancy watch,” she says, then tosses her hair, spins, and heads for the kitchen.
Five minutes later she comes out with a gleam in her eye, looks from side to side, lowers her voice, and says, “Want to do somethin’ wild?”
3
I have no idea what a backwoods rural beauty like Trudy considers wild.
Greasing a pig?
Shooting a pig?
Fucking a pig?
“What do you have in mind?” I say.
“Scooter Bing just pulled up out front.”
My eyes grow big. “Seriously? Scooter Bing? You’re shitting me!”
She looks puzzled. “You know Scooter?”