At the request of a reader who was kind enough to offer both feedback and a plot suggestion, I have this to say.
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The engine ticked lightly, rhythmically, having only recently completed a twenty mile journey. Rain dripped from the frame of the car, from the edges of its bumpers. The windows were blurred, save for the two arches where the wipers had recently swept drops from the tempered glass.
The car didn't belong there. Not in that parking lot. Not in that town.
The rain having passed, the titanium gloss of the newly acquired Mercedes S-class gleamed in the setting sun. Next to it, a rusty, seventies-vintage Ford Granada sat silent, its engine having long since cooled; its owner had pulled in hours ago.
Across the macadam parking lot – crumbled in places, weeds sprouting up through the cracks – was the front door of the tavern.
Frank's Tavern. Green Bay Road. North Chicago.
Like the weather-beaten Granada in the parking lot, Frank's owed it style to the seventies. It was dark and dank, some windows clouded from years of smoke and grime, others just simply blacked out. A long, scarred bar ran along one wall. Behind it, an elderly gentleman cleaned dirty, ten-ounce draft glasses, his furtive eyes occasionally scanning the patrons.
A few neon signs advertising alcoholic beverages – some of which were no longer available – along with heavily shaded overhead lighting provided scant light for the tables that were haphazardly arranged along the other walls.
From the rear of the tavern, the sound of a cue ball striking a blue-striped ball emanated throughout the space, somehow penetrating the smoke-laden and alcohol-tinged air.
In a corner, four aluminum-and-pleather chairs were set around a wobbly, Formica-topped table. A handbag – the latest offering from the Florence design house of Gucci – sat atop one of the chairs, and a sweating vodka gimlet floated on a pool of condensation on the table. The table was otherwise unoccupied.
Off to the side of the bar were the bathrooms. Behind a door marked with the universal symbol for 'male' stood Donna Morgan. She observed her image in the small mirror above the wall-mounted sink; the manicured index finger of her right hand traced the outlines of her left nostril before delving between her shiny, crimson-glossed lips.
"Mmm," came the rumbling from deep in her slender throat as her silky tongue slithered around her delicate finger.
She gingerly lifted the rolled twenty dollar bill from the edge of the sink, twirled it to make the roll tighter and bent at the waist, feeling her heavy, bra-encased breasts sway beneath her slim torso. She put one end of the tube to her right nostril and bent further, bringing the other end to the thin white line of powder that stood out against the faded porcelain.
Closing her open nostril with a finger tipped in bright red polish, she inhaled deeply, the cocaine disappearing into the tube, exiting deep in her nostril. She stood upright again, dropping the rolled currency, not caring that it unraveled in the sink. She tossed her head back and savored the sensation of the cocaine sliding through her nasal passage and down her slender throat.
She righted her head and leaned in closer to the mirror. Her bright blue eyes, softened by lightly powdered cheeks, sparkled in the harsh light cast from the bare light bulb above. She brought her left hand to her face, a manicured finger extended, and gently ran the nail along the edges of her right nostril.
The diamonds of her engagement and wedding rings gleamed in the stark light. A decadent sneer masked her classic beauty.
Donna stood upright again, her pink tongue darting from between her full lips and swiping at her still extended finger. She ran her tongue across her gums and gleaming teeth, feeling them go numb, and stepped back from the filthy sink.
Smoothing her palms down her ample chest, the corrupt wife and mother felt her nipples thicken and throb. Her vagina moistened and she rubbed her wool-clad thighs together, hoping to quell – if only temporarily – the smoldering heat building deep within her pelvic bone.
Her lithe body knew what was in store. Shortly, the conservative oxford cloth top that hid the saline-injected breasts would be torn from that lithe, little body, the ivory buttons clattering across the worn hardwood floor of some apartment. The elegant wool pants would be bunched in a ball before being thrown in a dust-filled corner. In all likelihood, the thong that wrapped around her trim waist and hairless crotch would never do so again and the clasp on her overworked bra would be rendered useless.
Donna Morgan was somewhat of a regular at Frank's. Once every two or three weeks, she would trek up to North Chicago from Winnetka, have a few drinks, and buy and eight-ball of cocaine to last her through her next visit.
More often than not, she received a discount for the eight-ball, paying only half-price. She used her sinful body, wicked mouth and utter depravity to make up the difference.
Not because her dealer required it of her, but because she enjoyed it, yearned for it. There were safer places for her to feed her habit, dealers more discreet and secure. But she came to Frank's nonetheless. Not for the atmosphere or even the blow, really. She came for the discount. For earning it.
Rubbing her thighs together again, feeling her fluids saturate her vagina, the thumbs and forefingers of each of Donna's dainty hands closed around her turgid nipples, pinching them lightly. In the mirror, she observed them elongate, tenting the fabric of her cotton top, casting a slight shadow against the bright white fabric. With a quick flick of each wrist, her lustful eyes nearly rolled into her head, her nipples twisted and deformed beneath the soon-to-be-discarded top.
A shudder having passed through her sexy body, satisfied for the moment, she released her nipples, smoothed the front of her top again, and departed the men's room, the door clanging shut behind her. She sauntered across the room toward the empty, cigarette-blemished table, her heels a barely audible crack against the grimy tiled floor of the tavern.
Looking for her companion, her dealer, she swiveled her head left and right, her lustrous blonde hair whispering against her shoulders, before spotting him leaning against the pool table, talking to another patron.
Donna continued back to the table and sat. She pulled her cell phone from the bag to see if she had missed any calls; she hadn't. She retrieved her drink from the table, crossed her lightly muscled legs, and leaned back. Taking a strong pull from the tumbler, her massive breasts pulled at the fabric of her shirt, her obscenely erect nipples readily apparent to anyone who glanced her way.
After a few minutes, her companion returned.
"Ready to go?" he grumbled, stuffing his wallet back into his grease-stained jeans.
"Where are we going?" Donna responded, a coy look passing across her face.
"You goin' straight home? That what yer tellin' me?"
"So what if I do?"
"Then you owe me another bill, that's so what if."
"And if I don't want to pay you another hundred?"
"Quit fuckin' around, slut. Let's go."
Donna stared at the man, her piercing eyes playful. After hesitating a moment, she gave him a curt nod, drained her drink down her throat and rose. She was a little unsteady atop the three-inch heels as the drug had rendered her joints weak, rubbery.
Her companion moved off, toward the door, and Donna, grabbing her purse, followed.
