Silk Stalkings excerpt!
The late model Miata in front of Diego Ramos crossed the
centerline for the second time in the span of as many
minutes before swerving into the left-hand turn lane without using a
blinker.
Typical. Probably
drunk, he thought. Diego had just
come from towing a BMW to the city impound lot—the driver had been issued a DUI
and hauled off to jail. It was a weeknight, but the owner of the BMW had stopped
off after work for a nightcap that had turned into three or four. Maybe the
driver of the little red sports car ahead of him had too.
Now I’ve seen everything. Or rather, despite his
headlights cutting through the murky darkness, he could see nothing in the car
ahead of him. Not even the driver’s head. Oh. There she is. He assumed
she was a she because she drove a
total chick car in a color that probably matched her
fingernails—red. She must have had her head between her legs, kissing her ass
goodbye. Excellent use of time, judging by her driving skills.
A hip-hop beat thrummed from her car, carrying all the way
to the cab of his tow-truck. Diego watched her head bob to the music as they
waited for the light in the turn lane to change. What is she doing?
Applying lipstick, as near as he could tell. When the arrow glowed green, he waited a few beats before tapping his horn.
Nothing.
She gunned her car through the intersection as the arrow
turned yellow. Diego threw his hands in the air, but stopped his truck just
short of the crosswalk. He didn’t need another ticket on his record. He beat his
fingers against the steering wheel while he waited. When the light changed to
green again he eased through the intersection and turned into the parking lot of
the grocery store, as the sports car had.
She whipped her car into a prime compact spot close to the
front doors as he cruised the lot for something roomier
that would accommodate his large vehicle. Diego backed his tow-truck into a
space alongside the building adjacent the grocery store, where he could enjoy
his dinner in solitude later. But he could still clearly see her sports car. Not
by accident or circumstance. Diego was drawn to trouble as a nail is drawn to a
magnet. Being a wise man with a fair amount of common sense, he should head
across town to a different store. She
struck him as dangerous in the best possible way.
And sexy, he
decided when the driver opened her car door and planted one lethally high-heeled
pump on the pavement. What followed did not disappoint. Good thing he was done
with curvy, conceited women with mile-high legs. He was on the lookout for a
round little chica with big, brown eyes who
could cook like his mother.
No harm in watching the driving-school-dropout from a
distance though. So he did. Auburn curls bounced around her head and shoulders as she hurried
into the store. Diego sauntered along behind her, which was a real treat for
him. She wore white thigh-high stockings that stopped a couple of inches short
of her flirty, pleated plaid skirt. Bows accented her stockings a few inches
below the hem. On top she wore a plain, white cotton dress shirt, probably so as
not to distract from the assets she had going on below the waist.
He needed a closer look and something to eat. Dinner and a
show.
Little Miss Wild-Behind-The-Wheel bent at the waist to
pluck a hand basket from the stack by the store’s automatic sliding doors. As
she bowed, her skirt stopped just shy of her panties…if she wore panties.
Diego bit his tongue to stop himself from hollering,
“Nice!”
Following her to the produce department, like your
garden-variety pervert, he plucked an orange from the display and sniffed it for
no other reason than to look as if he weren’t following her. He gave the orange
a firm squeeze to decide whether it was a keeper. The orange was. She wasn’t.
But that didn’t stop him from watching her. Hell, a city-wide blackout wouldn’t
have stopped him from watching her.
She placed a head of lettuce in her basket. As she leaned
in and reached for a long, thick cucumber, her foot came off the ground and bent
at the knee. The sight reminded Diego of one of those 1940s black-and-white
movies where the gal does the flamingo stance while getting kissed. Even her
shoes looked like reproduction 40s footwear—on stilts. Or steroids. They were
dangerously high. No wonder she’d been all over the road—she’d been driving with
a disability.
Upon closer inspection, she didn’t seem drunk. The woman
could probably walk a straight line if pressed by the cops. She deserved credit
for walking at all on heels that high. The rest of her apparel appeared sort of
Catholic schoolgirl gone bad. Very bad. She needed
detention.
And a spanking.
His mind went off to a dark place as he imagined turning
Naughty Dotty there over his knee to smack his open hand on the naked, milky
flesh of her thighs. Right there in the sweet spot between her hem and her
stockings. Desire sizzled all the way down his spine like a burning fuse. Diego
mentally stamped out the flames before he exploded, imploded or needed to hide
his erection behind a shopping cart.
He’d come in for a salad. Nothing more. I’m working, for
Christ’s sake. Diego did not need the kind of trouble that came wrapped in a
package like hers. His “type” was earthy, sweet and natural—starting now. The
girl next door, not the whore next door. He’d had enough of bad girls. I’m
thirty, for crying out loud. It was time to settle down and stop getting his
heart tramp-stamped like a passport to sin. Don’t even get me started on the ding to my
pocketbook. He’d been conned and outright robbed by the naughty-next-door
type. He’d decided he must have a “kick me” sign on his back, visible
only to hot chicks with very high heels, short skirts and low morals.
He weaved a path to the salad bar to feed his cravings with
a chef’s salad—extra ham, egg and cheese. He needed protein to muster the
strength to stay clear of the danger zone. Along with the healthy salad, he
loaded his to-go container with some bad choices. Heavy pastas, bread and half a
dozen butter pats. He’d pay dearly at the checkout, but better to feed his
desire with food than a mistake.
Diego groaned a few minutes later when he found that the
checkout lane was backed up with late night shoppers. Spotting his
wet-dream-come-to-life in the shorter express line, he decided to brave the
traffic jam of carts to avoid her.
“Sir…” A floor manager attempted to usher him to the more
logical express line.
Diego raised his hand in protest. “I’m fine here.” An
overflowing cart with a fussy toddler and a stressed-out mother pulled up behind
him, making him feel guilty for holding up the line because he was too chicken
to get within twenty yards of the hottie in high
heels.
The manager tilted her head. “We have less wait time in the
express line.”
He patted his back pocket, where he’d stuffed his checkbook. “I’m paying by check.” The express line clearly
stated cash only. Diego played by the rules. Not always, but starting
recently.
She waved him along. “Not a problem.”
The mother of the toddler flashed him a glare
that might kill under certain circumstances. Her kid wailed, leaking tears and snot that threatened to ruin his
appetite.
“Sure.” Diego followed the manager along to the express
line. Stopping way short, he left a good four or five
feet between him and the sex kitten.
Her white shirt was gathered up and tied in a knot near her
navel, giving the impression that perhaps she was wearing her lover’s dress
shirt after an evening of romping. She had her basket on the conveyer belt
directly behind some guy purchasing a case of beer, a carton of smokes and a
smutty magazine—the trifecta of debauchery. The woman ahead of him was twitching
as she bought her weight in lottery tickets. Diego decided to count ceiling
tiles. One, two, three…
