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Damn! she thought. This just wasn't her night! Her Benz glided to a halt, fortunately against the curb in a parking space. Now-fucking-what? At the edge of her peripheral vision, she saw a small neon sign, almost inconspicuous against a brick building. The sign said simply: THE BAR. Well, if she called Fred, he'd come and get her. When she looked in her purse for her cell phone, she decided that Murphy’s Law had kicked in. Her car was dead and her cell phone was nowhere to be found. She would have to call her husband from The Bar. Boy, would that kinky bastard dick her good when she told him what she had done today. She ha no way of knowing that, although it was dusk, the day had barely started. She felt apprehension as she looked at The Bar but the streets were quiet and, somehow, that soothed her. She locked her car, then started across the street, her bad black-and-gold dress clinging to her voluptuous asscheeks as she walked, her spiked black pumps clickety-clacking on the. There had to be a story there, he thought, and Luke liked stories. Stories were why he’d come to the city in the first place. He wanted to be a writer, and couldn’t do it on his parents’ farm. He needed—craved—the continuous hum of life he’d found in the city. His father had been furious, wanting Luke to keep the farm going, but Luke couldn’t. As much as he loved the farm, it just wasn’t in him to stay there. Never mind that his younger brother, Keith, was more than happy to run the place. As the oldest son, his father had considered it Luke’s obligation to run the farm and they hadn’t spoken since Luke had left. No, Luke needed his stories. He heard plenty of them while driving the carriage—and his cab part-time—and he found himself often putting stories to people that he saw on the street. He’d tried to do that with Emma, but hadn’t found the right one. No scenario he dreamed up seemed to fit her, and he wondered why she was so hard to pin down. ‘Stop staring.’ Sol thwacked Luke’s.
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