Total pages in book: 51
Estimated words: 46943 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 235(@200wpm)___ 188(@250wpm)___ 156(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 46943 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 235(@200wpm)___ 188(@250wpm)___ 156(@300wpm)
But this one was going be easy. I pulled on my delivery jacket, a nondescript grey zip-up with the logo NYC Concierge on the sleeve, and smashed a baseball cap on my head. Yep, very much an anonymous delivery man now. Clattering down the stairs, I hopped onto a Vespa and zoomed off to my first stop, Coeur L’Amour. Mopeds are girly but uncannily useful in NYC. The small vehicles are able to wiggle through traffic jams, and even jump sidewalks when need be. Pulling up in front of the boutique, I switched off the motor only to find the door swept open in welcome.
“Mr. McGrath,” purred Amelia, a salesgirl at the boutique. “So good to see you.”
Fuck, the blonde recognized me. I’d been here more than a few times to buy stuff for ex-girlfriends, women that I’d fucked, or anyone who needed something to shut them up and keep them happy. And unfortunately as a high-end place, Coeur L’Amour associates made it their business to remember every high roller. Clearly, my uniform and baseball cap weren’t a sufficient disguise.
So I decided to make the best of it.
“Hey,” I grunted. “I need a robe.”
The blonde winked slyly.
“I have just the thing, Mr. McGrath,” Amelia purred again. “Let me show you.”
The young woman led me to a rack in back filled with lace fripperies, silky things that were barely two inches long and three inches wide. What the fuck? Even crazier, this shit cost five hundred bucks. Were they kidding me? Hell, I should go into the lingerie business because this was clearly a high margin industry.
Amelia pulled a silky robe off its hanger, and then another one. She pulled quite a few items actually: a pink thing, then a purple one, the array dizzying, all sorts of colors with lace and embroidery in tasteful patterns.
But this was a delivery and the customer could be a sixty year old crone for all I knew. So I picked one that was middle of the pack, decently long, pink satin with a tie at the waist.
“I’ll take it,” I grunted and Amelia cooed.
“Excellent choice, Mr. McGrath. I’ll ring it up for you. Should I gift wrap it?” she asked, fluttering her lashes. I shook my head tiredly.
“Not this time, thanks,” I said and Amelia was off, her fingers flying at the register, her long nails click-clacking on the keyboard. Finally, she folded the silk into a tiny square and deposited it in a fancy bag.
“Here you go!” she chirped. “And here’s your receipt,” she said, handing me a slip of paper with a wink.
I grabbed it, crumpling it in my hand. But once outside, I took a glance as bile rose in my throat. It wasn’t the purchase price that was shocking. It was the fact that the salesgirl had drawn a heart on the receipt and added her name and phone number. What the fuck? Even worse, this wasn’t the first time. Amelia did this last time too, and I’d ignored it, grinding my teeth at the come-on. She was absolutely not my type with her skinny blonde frame and the nails like Cruella de Ville. Clearly, this chick couldn’t get a clue, and I was ready to barrel right back in there and chew her out.
But fuck. There was no time because I needed to make my delivery. Jaw set with frustration, I got back on the bike, strapping the stuff to the back. What the fuck was wrong with females in this city? They threw themselves at me right and left, and you know what? I was over it. I was looking for curvy and round, with heft and some real weight. I wanted creamy flesh to grab and hold, not to mention big tits and wide hips that swung. In this city of skinny minnies, it was fucking hard to find too. Can you believe it? In this city of fifteen million, I couldn’t find a sassy, curvy girl to meet my needs.
3
Tucker
I pulled up in front of a dilapidated tenement building, the kind of thing that hadn’t been renovated in seventy years. The window frames sagged, and the interior hallway was dirty and ragged with years of caked-on dirt. A sad row of metal mailboxes lined up against the side, their locks more often busted than not.
Seeing that the lingerie and soaps had cost a pretty penny, I was surprised to be dropping them off at such a down-and-out location. But then again, New Yorkers are a weird bunch. It’s such an expensive city that people splurge on the little things to make life more bearable – expensive shampoo, smokes for a deep drag, shit, even cocaine sometimes. That’s the beauty and yet also the downfall of the city.
But it wasn’t my place to judge because I’m just the delivery guy. So I bolted up the five flights, stopping at a run-down landing which showcased three doors. Looking at the address, I knocked on 5A, the one furthest to the left. The paint on the door was peeling, and there were multiple long scratches on the wall. It looked like someone dragged their refrigerator against the wall, scraping the paint off.