advertisement for Victoria 's Secret. He hooked a pair of red satin thong panties on one finger and held them up, stared at them through the stream of smoke curling up from his cigarette. The earlier image of her in jeans dissolved into one of her wearing nothing but a sliver of red satin and a smile, her thick, dark hair the color of cherry coke seductively shading her big eyes.
He shook off the thought. The idea of slowly peeling her out of satin thong panties had as much appeal as curling up in a nest of scorpions.
"Hurry!" Joaquin shouted.
Brandon took one last drag on his cigarette, then tossed it to the ground. He riffled through the underwear again to make certain he hadn't missed anything: a gun, a knife, a small explosive device—even worse, press credentials. He wondered which was worse. One way he died by wounds; the other, by words. At least a bullet in the brain got it over quickly.
He turned the canvas bag inside out and ran his hand into the side pockets, finding a single tampon and a couple of lambskin condoms. Trojans. Ribbed for Her Pleasure.
His face turned warmer, and something down low began to stir.
Don't even think it, a voice in his head whispered. The woman is trouble with a capital T. She represents everything you hate. Everything that dragged you down into the filthiest gutter. Her presence in Ticky Creek threatens your peace and harmony. And safety. Hell, she could be Anticipating, making plans to creep into your bedroom tonight and blow your brains out with an Uzi.
Brandon imagined his poor uncle Henry stumbling into his nephew's bedroom in the morning and finding Brandon 's brains spattered over the striped and flowered wallpaper. He suspected it would take more than a nitroglycerin tablet under Henry's tongue to prevent another heart attack like the one that nearly killed his uncle shortly after Brandon 's arrival in Ticky Creek.
Behind him, Juaquin let loose a string of expletives. Brandon gathered up the underwear and shoved it back into the bag—all but the red satin thong, and one of the condoms. He tucked those deep into his jeans pocket.
*
There was something about small town drugstores that had always fascinated Alyson. There was a certain smell that she could never quite put her finger on. Perhaps it was simply so many items crammed so close together: over-the-counter medications, greeting cards, toiletries, makeup, and knockoff perfumes. She always felt like tiptoeing up and down the aisles, as one does in a hospital.
Today she tiptoed down the candy aisle and grabbed up a bag of Kandy Korn and one of miniature Snickers, then, to balance her diet, she selected a can of Pringles. Alyson made her way to the rack of disposable cameras and film. She had tons of film back at the motel, but they weren't going to do her any good at that particular moment. No respectable photographer would ever be caught without film in her camera—Brandon Carlyle or no Brandon Carlyle. She wondered what he had done with the canister he had confiscated from her earlier that day. Thinking of the shots she had gotten and would never see, she felt queasy.
At the checkout she collected copies of the Gazette , the Enquirer, the Sun, and the Globe. The woman behind the cash register regarded Alyson over the tops of her thick glasses. Alyson smiled and shrugged. "I buy them for the crosswords."
A chubby blond in a bright red smock with a name tag emblazoned
HELLO I'M IRIS.
Ask about our one hour developing
moved behind the counter at that moment, her arms full of envelopes of recently developed photographs. Pulling out a drawer, she proceeded to file them in alphabetical order.
"Oh, my gosh !" Alyson slapped her forehead, causing Iris and the tabloid-disapproving woman to stare at her. "I totally forgot what I came in for in the first place. What a doofus. I'm supposed to pick up some photos for Carlyle if they're ready."
Iris narrowed her eyes.
Alyson smiled pleasantly. "Or maybe he hasn't gotten
He shook off the thought. The idea of slowly peeling her out of satin thong panties had as much appeal as curling up in a nest of scorpions.
"Hurry!" Joaquin shouted.
Brandon took one last drag on his cigarette, then tossed it to the ground. He riffled through the underwear again to make certain he hadn't missed anything: a gun, a knife, a small explosive device—even worse, press credentials. He wondered which was worse. One way he died by wounds; the other, by words. At least a bullet in the brain got it over quickly.
He turned the canvas bag inside out and ran his hand into the side pockets, finding a single tampon and a couple of lambskin condoms. Trojans. Ribbed for Her Pleasure.
His face turned warmer, and something down low began to stir.
Don't even think it, a voice in his head whispered. The woman is trouble with a capital T. She represents everything you hate. Everything that dragged you down into the filthiest gutter. Her presence in Ticky Creek threatens your peace and harmony. And safety. Hell, she could be Anticipating, making plans to creep into your bedroom tonight and blow your brains out with an Uzi.
Brandon imagined his poor uncle Henry stumbling into his nephew's bedroom in the morning and finding Brandon 's brains spattered over the striped and flowered wallpaper. He suspected it would take more than a nitroglycerin tablet under Henry's tongue to prevent another heart attack like the one that nearly killed his uncle shortly after Brandon 's arrival in Ticky Creek.
Behind him, Juaquin let loose a string of expletives. Brandon gathered up the underwear and shoved it back into the bag—all but the red satin thong, and one of the condoms. He tucked those deep into his jeans pocket.
*
There was something about small town drugstores that had always fascinated Alyson. There was a certain smell that she could never quite put her finger on. Perhaps it was simply so many items crammed so close together: over-the-counter medications, greeting cards, toiletries, makeup, and knockoff perfumes. She always felt like tiptoeing up and down the aisles, as one does in a hospital.
Today she tiptoed down the candy aisle and grabbed up a bag of Kandy Korn and one of miniature Snickers, then, to balance her diet, she selected a can of Pringles. Alyson made her way to the rack of disposable cameras and film. She had tons of film back at the motel, but they weren't going to do her any good at that particular moment. No respectable photographer would ever be caught without film in her camera—Brandon Carlyle or no Brandon Carlyle. She wondered what he had done with the canister he had confiscated from her earlier that day. Thinking of the shots she had gotten and would never see, she felt queasy.
At the checkout she collected copies of the Gazette , the Enquirer, the Sun, and the Globe. The woman behind the cash register regarded Alyson over the tops of her thick glasses. Alyson smiled and shrugged. "I buy them for the crosswords."
A chubby blond in a bright red smock with a name tag emblazoned
HELLO I'M IRIS.
Ask about our one hour developing
moved behind the counter at that moment, her arms full of envelopes of recently developed photographs. Pulling out a drawer, she proceeded to file them in alphabetical order.
"Oh, my gosh !" Alyson slapped her forehead, causing Iris and the tabloid-disapproving woman to stare at her. "I totally forgot what I came in for in the first place. What a doofus. I'm supposed to pick up some photos for Carlyle if they're ready."
Iris narrowed her eyes.
Alyson smiled pleasantly. "Or maybe he hasn't gotten
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