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300 pages, Hardcover
First published March 20, 2020
She had learned long ago how easy it was to disarm a man, leaving him dazed and babbling and giving Molly time to formulate a plan that would lead to his ultimate demise. She supposed it was because life had damaged her enough to closet her own feelings, tuck them away, allowing her to focus on wit and irresistible external features which could subdue nearly every man she encountered.
Women she had met over the years were not as taken, not as captivated and not as kind, often apt to assess her as cold, even calculating, with more than one elevating that assessment to exalt, “What a bitch,” whenever Molly walked away.
…he had come to love Molly, and need her, like no one he had ever allowed into his life before. It wasn’t so much that he allowed her there, as that she had inserted herself without regard for his opinion on the matter.
It was Tuesday night at Lola’s. Ladies night. Molly especially enjoyed Tuesdays, not because she felt more secure strolling into an environment where an abundance of women would offer her some anonymity, but because she enjoyed the sexual tension brought about by an excess of women in a bar usually filled with men. Walking up to the bar, she knew a hundred pairs of male eyes were feasting on her, pining for her attention, while at the same time a hundred pairs of female eyes shined bright with the hope that she would trip and fall on her face. This amused her. Carl often referred to her as an attention whore, and she supposed that was as close to a fitting description as one could get.
The barroom was crowded, as it usually was on Tuesdays. She squeezed her way in between two men at the bar, then turned to the one on her left. “My seat,” she said, reaching out with one hand to remove the Stetson from the man’s head, while the other brushed its way affectionately through his hair. The man surrendered his seat without protest, also happily surrendering his hat which Molly placed on her own head, tilting it back to showcase the mass of blonde curls that swept out from beneath the brim. She turned to the second man, who swung himself around enough so their knees interlocked, with one of Molly’s legs reaching out to caress the man’s thigh. “Vodka, rocks,” she said to the man, whose hand went immediately into the air as a signal to the bartender.
Sometime after midnight Molly broke away. She walked over to a young man who had been assigned to guard her purse, kissing him lightly on the lips in thanks. The man blushed, his mundane night composed of standing on the sidelines watching her dance having just become a spectacular one.




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