He looked down at the kneeling figure of the love-starved widow and smiled as she finally pulled her hungrily sucking mouth away from his pelvis, a thin sticky trail of semen dangling from her lips and chin like a spider's web. Yes sir, she was right where he wanted her, nothing stood in his way now, those checks might as well be his!
But Roger had other things on his mind… other things that the love-starved widow would not have understood in her silent modest humility. Things a God-fearing woman such as herself didn't even know happened in a big city where everyone is prey to other lethal talons.
CHAPTER TWO
Chris O'Brien took one look at her checkbook balance and swore. Damn! There was no way she could pay the rent and afford bus fare too, not to mention coincidentals like laundry and an occasional glass of wine. Then the worst realization imaginable struck the sandy haired girl between the eyes like 40,000 watts of voltage: there was no more money coming in until she found a job. Thank God they were getting food stamps!
Oh God! What to do? She collapsed on the single bed that squeeked under her slender weight and, covering her face with her hands, she wept, her five-foot four-inch body rocking back and forth on the Indian print bedspread. Why had she insisted on coming to San Francisco without a job? Her uncle Frank had warned her, her aunt Violet, her father, and her very own younger sister.