The continuing saga of Rocky Chaser by Zoltan James
When I got back to my trailer, Starrla was standing in the kitchen wearing nothing but my best white dress shirt. I couldn’t help but notice that she had forgotten to button all the buttons, and the next thought that occurred to me is that my shirt would probably never fit me the same.
“Hi there, Handsome,” she said. “I got coffee on for ya.” She pointed to the steaming pot steaming away behind her steamy white shirt. “I was gonna make you up a protein shake but I couldn’t find no milk nor fruit anywhere. I swear, I think your fridge is more bare than my bottom.” She giggled, then licked her thumb and pressed it against her right bun and made a sizzle sound.
“Thanks, but I’m not a fruit and milk guy.” I helped myself to a cup of joe.
‘Uh, listen, handsome –”
“Call me, Rocky,” I said. It occured to me that maybe she had forgotten my name as well. After all, last night was somewhat of a blur after we met at the Clown Bar and Dance Emporium. The establishment was famous for its “slap happy hours.” Long story short, we hit it off and all too soon we launched into a drinking contest where we both slammed down a long row of sliders and beer chasers. We didn’t win, at least I don’t think we did. Then we danced (if you can call it that) some Texas Two-Step to the strains of George Strait, and then I remember a fumble of keys, lipsticks, mints, and what-not before I piled her into her turquoise Corvair and drove us back to my place.
Anyway, as I admired, make that looked at her, it was difficult to ignore her perky personality and the perky ways in which she wore my shirt. But I kept my guard up as Harley Handel’s voice and warning rattled in my brain. She’s trouble.
She touched her forehead. “Oh, yeah, Rocky,” followed by a nervous laugh. “That’s right.” Her eyes rolled to the top of her head and back down like red cherries on a slot machine. She pointed at me. “Ha! Yeah. Rocky. Anyway, listen, handsome, I really enjoyed last night and all, but I gotta get going. You see, I promised my sister, Darrla – that’s with two ‘r’s’ – that I’d take her shopping at the mall today. It’s our sister, Marla’s birthday.”
“Is that ‘Marla’ with two ‘r’s?”
“Nah. She only got one. Mamma got tired of writin’ so many ‘r’s. Said it gave her hand a cramp.”
Starrla sauntered over to me and flitted her eyelashes. At first I thought maybe a gnat had flown into her eye, but then realized she was coming on to me – again. Her lips looked thirsty and pouty. She ran her fingernail, painted with the NFL logo on it, down my favorite red vintage Nitty Gritty Dirt Band Cosmic Cowboy T-shirt. Her finger lingered at my belt buckle. “I left my phone number for ya on the counter,” she purred. Call me. ‘kay?”
I nodded and that seemed to satisfy her. She pecked me on the check.
As she walked to the bedroom, I was mesmerized by the sexy undulation of her neuro-muscular system, a harmonic convergence of her long legs, pelvis, and spine . I took a sip of my coffee, forgot it was hot, and nearly burnt my tongue. She began to unbutton my shirt, the white one, that is. She looked back at me with those tantalizing saloon eyes that matched the color of her Corvair, and she let my shirt trail on the carpet behind her. That’s when I saw the Harley tattoo and the reminder of trouble.
By the time I finished my coffee, Starrla had dressed in her tight blue jeans, blue denim shirt tied at the waist, and stilettos. I remembered now why I had been attracted to her at the bar last night. The woman was stunning in a Nashville-Barbie-sort-of-way. She kissed me hot on the lips and said, “See ya, handsome. It was fun. Lots of fun.”
I held the door open for her and before she touched the bottom step of my trailer, I said, “Harley said to tell you, hello.”
She looked at me with a shocked expression, eyes wide, mouth pulsing open like a bass fighting for air – you know, the kind of look you see when people’s credit cards are turned down at 7-11 while trying to buy a pack of cigarettes, a carton of milk, and a can of Mobil oil. Then she fled to her car.
As she ran, a business card dropped from her purse and floated to the bottom of my stairs. I picked it up. It read: “Dewey Ketchum. Special Inspector. Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
I don’t normally curse, but I found myself blurting, out loud, “somanaseabiscuit.”
# # #
To be continued when next the sun rises, or the dark lets go, or soon as I finish dinner.
Remember. Make every hour your happy hour.