Angie’s whoring years were coming to a close. Every morning she looked at the lines on her face with something like despair, and every evening she slipped into something slinky and slapped on a smile.
The jobs still came, but they were mostly half-hour quickies with guys too mean to leave a tip.
The cowboy had about a yard of shoulders, and big, hard hands. All the girls sat up a bit straighter but he saw only Angie.
“Ma’am,” he said in his slow Texan drawl. “Would you?”
Thirty years later, he could still melt her with a smile.
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