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“Here we are; one Mojito, with an extra kick and some salted peanuts – to keep you thirsty.” As she placed the coaster in front of me, she allowed the tip of one of her small breasts to brush against my bare arm. Taking this as an invitation, I turned fully towards her, intending to stroke her nipples. But she shook her head.“Out of bounds, I’m afraid. House Rule.”I swung back on my stool and glumly sipped my cocktail. “So what time do you finish, Kim?” I asked (I’d heard that many of the waitresses in this bar were available - for a price – after hours).“I finish at two.”“And are you free after that?”She fiddled with the beer mat. “To come back to your motel, you mean?”“Sure.”“Possibly. It would be $50. But cash in advance before we leave here. No plastic.”“Sounds good to me. How would it be if you fetched me another Mojito.”“Sure.” And she was off again, though I sensed a little moodily. Maybe she found our sex-for-cash arrangement distasteful.“So, do you get by ok here on your. “Okay,” I called.I peed, wolfed down a bowl of Count Chocula (which nobody would buy for me back home) and stomped into my boots. Uncle Bob had bought me a pair of beautiful cowboy boots, and they were just now getting broken in.I’d gotten dressed in a hurry, and what my hand had come into contact with in my “tops” drawer was a top I hadn’t worn, yet. It was a tank top, bright yellow, and though I didn’t think about it, kind of thin. If I’d have looked in the mirror before I left my room, I’d have changed it. But I didn’t look in the mirror. That was one thing about being on the ranch. I didn’t wear any makeup or fuss with my hair or any of that. The only other person around was Uncle Bob. Primping just seemed like a waste of time. Or unnecessary, or something. I knew quite well my mother would have said on more than one occasion since I got there, “Cassie, you look like you’ve been dragged through a briar patch!” or some such thing, but Uncle Bob had never said anything at all about.
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