Prologue
"Pardon me, please. I'm looking for my sister. I called the police but they won't accept a missing person report on an adult until three days pass. I'm trying to see if she got into an accident or something and needs medical treatment. Can you help me?"
Tom was looking for Gen, but she sure as hell wasn't his sister and he hadn't called the police.
The twenty-something assistant across the intake desk at the hospital focused her attention on him and brightened her eyes. "Sure. What's your sister's name?"
"Genevieve Broussard. She goes by Gen."
"That's 'Broussard' with two S's?"
"Yes that's correct."
After typing in the name, the assistant squinted at the screen. "Sorry, nobody under that name. What does she look?"
"She's 5:8", blonde hair, she wears it long, blue eyes, about 170. She was wearing a sundress when she left. She's 22."
Shaking her head sympathetically as she viewed the search results, she said, "I'm sorry. No twenty-something blondes were admitted within the last 24 hours. But that's good news, right?"
Looking disappointed, he said, "I suppose." He turned to leave.
"Wait. Why don't you give me your number and I'll call if she comes in."
"Sure. That's a good idea. Got a pen and a piece of paper?" He began writing. When he handed the note back he said, "I'm leaving town this coming Sunday for a job starting on the first of June. After that, this number won't be any good."
When he got inside his car, he grasped the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white.
I'll never find her. Not enough time and no real information. I've lived with her since last October and I know exactly shit about her past. How does that happen?
Chapter 01
Gen's eyes brimmed as she ran her fingers over the gold heart she wore on a chain. A few tears streaked down her cheeks. They came more frequently nowadays.
Oh, Gran. I miss you.
The heart was a high school graduation gift from her grandmother. The old woman had taken her in after Gen's mother abandoned her three years ago. "Get out, you little whore," was the last thing her mother said.
She wouldn't even look at me at Gran's funeral. Well, fuck her.
The service had been six weeks ago, just as the current semester started. Now she was a college drop-out with a job so lousy she wondered if she could really afford a pack of cigarettes. She scanned her tables. No customers in the large and nearly empty room needed any drinks at the moment. She sniffed, swiped her cheeks, approached the vending machine and counted out the necessary change. She pulled the handle for Winston's more roughly than necessary. She felt a hand pat her bottom.
"When you gettin' off tonight, so we can, you know, go get off again?" He guffawed at his own cleverness.
A surge of anger evaporated her tears. If the light had been better, the administrator of the pat might've seen her skin redden from her cleavage to her ears. She turned and glared at him. Having her butt patted never pleased her. It reminded her that her ass was wider than it should be and, instead of being round, was flat.
She knew that her sub-standard derriere contrasted sharply with her unmatched bosom. Large, perfectly round, firm and standing proudly out on her chest, her tits elicited envy from women and worship from men. Those luscious orbs captured and held most men's attention exclusively and this "handy" idiot was no exception. He failed to see the blue fire smoldering in her eyes.
I'll bet the stupid fucker doesn't know the color of my eyes.
She was on the heavy side of curvy. While not as magnificent as her breasts, her legs were also worthy of notice. They looked shapely because her ankles were trim. But even if she had been thinner, her short neck guaranteed her a double chin. She was far from plain but nobody would call her beautiful. Sexy was the word most typically used by others to describe her. Like the leering idiot now staring at her breasts.
This damn fool thinks I'm gonna be in his bed again. Two nights in a row? Fat chance.
"Keep your hands off me, Jimmy."
Only then did Jimmy's eyes rise from her tits to her face. He stood there dumbfounded by her reaction. "What the hell's wrong with you, girl?"
"I don't take to being man-handled. Especially in public and most especially while I'm at work. I didn't know you were that stupid. Fuck off." She started to turn away.
Confused, he asked, "But, what about last night?"
She faced him again. "What about it?"
"Well, I mean, didn't we have fun?"
"Sure we had fun. So what?"
More confused than ever, he asked, "Well, don't you wanna have another go? I sure do." His leer returned, indicating what he thought of Gen's skills in bed.
Disgusted, Gen sighed and said, "Look Jimmy, sure it was fun but it wasn't that much fun. Besides, I rarely ever fuck the same guy twice. So piss off." The light was dim, but she could see the band of white skin on his left ring finger. Pointing to it, she said, "Or do I need to call your wife?"
Backing off as if she'd burned him, Jimmy asked, "Who told you I'm married?"
Gen smirked, put her cigarettes in her small purse and said, "Why do you think I went with you in the first place? I never fuck anybody I know unless they're attached. Just in case they wanna make trouble later. Now, and for the last time, fuck the hell off, asshole."
Jimmy spat, "Bitch," at her back as she walked toward an occupied table.
"Only when required," she sang, putting her hand in the air and waving her fingers in dismissal. She had seen a customer signal for another round. She took his order and proceeded to the front bar.
Beer. Fucking draft beer. And just one mug, not even a pitcher. The cheap bastard might leave me a quarter if I'm lucky.
As she stomped toward the double two-way doors that separated the back of the club from the front to place the piss ant order, she felt her face still burning. Ever since the steep decline in business, Bob, the owner, had closed the back except for Friday and Saturday and fired the back bartender and the other cocktail waitress. They weren't needed. But the lack of a bartender there required Gen to have her drink orders filled at the small bar in the front room. She didn't mind the distance as much as the wait. But what she saw standing at the front bar when she passed through the doors instantly put her in a better mood.
A guy was talking to Bob. He was average height, maybe 5'10", and weighed about 200, which made him a bit fat. But he had the Mediterranean looks (dark hair, dark eyes and olive skin) that she preferred. Men like that were rare in Forrestburg, Mississippi. It was a teeming metropolis of 41,000, counting the 10,000 students at SMP. It was only 80 miles north of the Gulf Coast, so you'd think a bit of that gorgeous creole flesh would find its way up there. But sandy hair and pale skin seemed to be the dominant local traits. No, she didn't mind this fellow's belly at all. She carried some fat of her own.
