“Ah, a man void of wet boundaries? My type of gig, mate!” Was Sharon encouraging Trevor? Unwisely, it would seem so.
The promise of money had her phone pulled from her pocket and thumbs quickly moving to text whoever she needed to text to make things happen. Playing fixer wasn’t a common thing for her, but that did mean she tended to accumulate favours and contacts. Lucky for Trevor, he had hit the ’ I know a guy ’ goldmine.
“That? I can fix that up for you, free of charge. Get a new coat of paint, hammer out the dings - - ah, nevermind, geezer. Just be CAREFUL with it, it’s from the nineteen forties,” As if he’d care about the age of a toy from over sixty years ago. Still, it was in her nature to say, as of trying to sell him on a product.
Final text for the time being was sent, and just in time. She considered his offered elbow as she approached, hesitating before sliding her arm through his, linking them securely together.
“I’m British, mate. A drink means gettin’ plastered,” Sharon opened the door, leading the way out before turning and locking up shop. She slid the key into her back pocket, hand moving to rest upon his forearm, as if they were committed lovers. “I’ll try to lay off the charms, but no promises. How does a KISS sound, or is that too far?”
You know, Sharon, you should shut your stupid, BOLD mouth sometimes.
“I live close by, if you want to drink at mine. I’ve got a well nice bottle of scotch, it’s old, powerful shit. It’s down this way, the first apartment block to the left. Apartment E-52.”
“Depends where you kiss me.” Trevor replies with a sly smirk, eyebrow raising as she clutches onto his arm to walk down the street towards her apartment, like he’s some kind of gentleman, though he’s sure she knows better. Frankly this girl looks like she’d eat him alive, if she decided she liked the taste of him and in that regard, he can’t complain; she can gladly eat his heart out…and his ass; if she’s into it.
Apartment E-52, the number means very little until the elevator takes them all the way up to the Penthouse; an impressive looking abode that T figures is probably paid for by Sharon’s arms dealing as opposed to her restoration of vintage cars and pieces of rusted metal.
“This place is fancy as fuck, makes me feel like some kind of high class hooker…” He remarks, grinning to himself as he ventures further into the apartment, his attention briefly drawn towards her bedroom.
“…what you gonna do, bathe me, ply me with expensive champagne then violate me with a wire coat hanger on pay per view?”
Laughing at his own sick joke, Trevor collapses down onto her sofa. “Since you’re playin’ bar tender tonight darlin’, what you servin?”
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