BEVERLY BARTON - If Looks Could Kill

“I’ll leave quietly,” the girl said, then cozied up to Farlan and whispered, “Want to give me a ride? Or if you’d prefer, I could ride you.”

Farlan didn’t flinch, but his gut tightened. He inspected the girl thoroughly, from head to toe. For a split second his old eyes played a trick on him, and he saw the ghost of a pretty young woman from his past.

He paid for his drink, then said, “Why don’t I give you a lift home, young lady? You shouldn’t be in a place like this. You should be out on a Saturday night date with some nice young man.”

Glowering at Farlan, the bartender harrumphed. Hell, let her think whatever she wanted to. He had no intention of taking this girl up on her offer, but he did want to spend a little time with her. And he didn’t owe Lacy Fallon or anyone else an explanation.

The young woman curled her arm around his as they walked out of Jazzy’s Joint. “I don’t have a place of my own, so you’ll have to rent us a room somewhere. Or if you’d rather, we can just do it in your car. I give great blow jobs.”

Without replying to her offer, Farlan led her out of the bar and down the street to his Bentley. He unlocked the car and helped her in on the passenger’s side; then he slid behind the wheel and turned to her. “I don’t want sex from you. But I am willing to pay you for an hour or two of your time tonight.”

She stared at him, her expression one of doubt. “How much? And what do you want me to do?”

“Would a hundred dollars be sufficient for . . . say, two hours of your time?”

She grinned. “Yeah, I’d say a hundred is just fine, depending on what I have to do to earn the money.”

“Take a ride with me. Talk to me. Tell me about your hopes and dreams.”

She looked at him as if she thought he was crazy. “That’s it. That’s all you want from me?” she asked.

“Yes, that’s all.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“No, I’m perfectly serious. You see, I’m a lonely old man with only a few truly happy memories. Some of those mem ories are about another pretty young woman who had so many hopes and dreams for her future.”

She shrugged. “Sure, if talk is all you want. I can talk all night for fifty bucks an hour. And if you change your mind about the blow job or—”

“I won’t change my mind. I know what I want.”

She’d told him she was eighteen. He’d asked to see her driver’s license. Sure enough, she was legal. Just barely. Despite his penchant for tasty young things, he couldn’t risk screwing around with jail bait. He’d learned his lesson ten years ago when a certain fifteen-year-old gal’s daddy had come after him with a shotgun. If Farlan hadn’t had the law in his hip pocket back then—both the sheriff and the chief of police—things might have gotten nasty. But once Farlan paid her father fifty thousand not to press charges, the whole ugly mess simply went away. Not one word had ever been printed in the local paper, thanks to the fact that MacKinnon Media had a monopoly on the press in Cherokee County. Max couldn’t help shivering just a bit whenever he thought about the whole situation and how close he’d come to ruining his life. He owed Farlan a debt he could never fully repay.

Max lay in bed, naked as the day he was born, and let her remove his soiled condom. When she got up, he swatted her smooth, round backside. Glancing over her shoulder, she smiled at him, then disappeared into the bathroom. With the heat of passion fading, he felt a sudden chill, so he dragged the sheet and blanket up to his waist.

He had needed this evening’s entertainment, needed it the way he needed air to breathe. Sex with his wife—which he got about once a month, if he was lucky—had never been great, not in years. Not after she got a little older and more demanding. He liked ’em young. So sue him. If all men would admit the truth, most of them would prefer a sixteen- year-old to a thirty-year-old.

Hell, he wasn’t a damn pedophile. Little girls didn’t turn him on. They had to be mature enough to have tits and a furry pussy before he was interested. Somebody between fourteen and twenty. He’d enjoyed his share of the younger ones in the past, until he’d picked the wrong gal. Ever since then, he’d made sure they were either legal age or in an illegal profession. Lately most of his pickups were the later. Young prostitutes.

When she came out of the bathroom, she started putting on her clothes. Max patted the bed and motioned to her.

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