Chapter 1

Life is good except for the parts that suck. Being homeless sucks almost as much as being old.

In the cold light of autumn dawn, under the uncaring eyes of the Sheriff’s eviction team, I shoved the last cardboard box of my belongings into the trunk of my girlfriend’s Rav4 and slammed the hatch closed.

Resisting the temptation to render a one-finger salute, I kept my opinion in my pocket and jumped into the passenger seat and shivered. Darlene flipped several strands of flyaway hair out of her eyes for the umpteenth time and squinted to read the tiny letters with directions to our new home: some Godforsaken prepper hideaway in the western mountains. Mapmakers tend to hide the most critical information in the smallest print known to man.

She was like that--a stickler for details.

Finally finished, she smiled. “Let’s go!”

She adjusted the mirror and put the Rav into gear. On our way to a new life off the grid.

Her soft and innocent musical voice accented her thoughts with honey and desire. To me, she sounded like exotic ear-candy.

She was more than she seemed and used a different song for every mood and season. When angry, sarcastic sandpaper replaced honey as her words scoured lies and bullshit away from facts until only the unvarnished truth remained.

We met at a nearby tavern where we developed an unlikely May-December romance. She played the part of May at a youthful thirty-six. I fulfilled the role of Daddy December at the Grandfatherly age of sixty-mumble.

Through the process of elimination, we become drinking buddies at our neighborhood tavern. I’m not sure “buddies” is the correct word. More often than not, we happened to be the last people still standing when the bartender bellowed out, “Last call for alcohol!”

Initially, geography was our common bond. The tavern, built in the 1890s, featured a walnut and mahogany bar with an odd little ‘L’ shaped hook at the far corner of the saloon. The counter and a back wall of brick formed a naturally cozy alcove spacious enough to accommodate three stools.

According to local legend, the original owner ordered the hook’s construction to allow him to observe activities of untrustworthy bartenders while also keeping an eye on equally unreliable patrons. The voyeur and hermit in me loved the location, and I had it all to myself for several months until the day Darlene arrived. She also loved the strategic observatory.

At first, I was annoyed at the invasion of my secret space. After a while, I looked forward to her companionship. Like commuters sharing an across-town bus, we got used to each other’s presence on the installment plan. Familiarity grew comfortable, and silence gave way to conversation as we observed the ebb and flow of tavern life.

It all started with casual flirting. She flirted. I was casual.

Hell, she flirted with everyone: men, women, and even the bartender’s mangy tomcat. While I enjoyed the sometimes risque banter, I never considered Darlene as potential girlfriend material. She was a young vixen, and I was an old wolf. I entertained myself by trying to sneak a peek down her v-neck or up her skirt when I thought she wouldn’t notice.

One Friday evening, the stars governing our relationship aligned like the bars on a slot machine. Heads turned as Darlene strutted into the tavern: a blur of legs, cleavage, and the predatory smile of a fox. Her apparel left little to the imagination. Her mini-dress could have been a belt in a previous life, and her tissue-thin blouse was unbuttoned down to her navel. She wore no bra.

“That’s a nice outfit you’re almost wearing.”

I did a double take when she hopped up on the adjacent bar stool.

“Panties optional dress code?” I asked with a nod of my head as I filed that image into my long-term memory vault.

“Like it? I’m getting laid tonight. One of these stud-muffins is going home with me,” she chuckled with a little shiver and scanned the tavern for targets of opportunity.

I grimaced; my envious glance flavored a bit oddly by jealousy. What a curious blend of emotions for a virtual stranger. I did an inventory of my own.

The tavern was a working man’s watering hole, and most of the guys looked like drop-outs from Blubber Buddies or some such weight-watching group. Too many six-packs left many on the fat side of flabby. Over the last few years, I had gone from weighing two-hundred-seventy-six to a slimmer hundred-sixty-seven. I felt authorized to gloat.

Wives or girlfriends escorted most of the men. Boyfriends accompanied several others. Darlene’s field of viable targets appeared limited unless she lowered her standards or went in for a threesome.

I pitied the lucky guy who won Darlene’s attention. She had the uncanny ability to read people like a book and play them like a deck of cards.

“Compliments of the house.”

Our ogling barkeep did a visual inventory of his own as he placed a beautifully mixed and handcrafted White Russian in front of Darlene.

She took a small sip and savored it like a gourmet. “Splendid!”

She tilted her head back and wolfed it down in one long gulp. Yikes! Talk about thirsty. Darlene bounced down from her seat and like Alexander the Great, set out to conquer the known world.

I had to admire her style. She was the Alpha-Fox loose in the hen house, radiating sexual availability like a neon sign in the night. Darlene was in a class by herself, and that was a problem. She sparkled like a diamond in a coal bin and scared the crap out of the men she approached.

If anything, she was too beautiful and too self-assured. The males she flirted with while she worked her way around the tavern were flattered, flustered, and fearful of her aggressive attention. None of them dared to take the bait.

After ten or fifteen minutes of flagrantly flirting, Darlene returned to her seat to regroup and refuel. Our bartender presented her with another complimentary White Russian as his sacrifice to the gods of Wishful Thinking.

“Thank you so much! You are such a sweetheart. Can I have another one to keep this one company?”

Darlene touched his hand, and if her smile had been any warmer, the barkeep would have erupted into flame. A few moments later, our generous drink master reappeared with a trio of tall White Russians.

“One is for you and the other two are honor guards for the dead soldiers.” He pointed to the two empty glasses.

“I love this drink.”

She inhaled the beverage, chugging it down in one long gulp. I widened my eyes in puzzlement. How can anyone love a drink without taking the time to appreciate the subtle by-play of flavors?

Thirst quenched for the moment, Darlene resumed her quest for the night’s bed partner. Her second expedition of seduction ended in bewildered disappointment.

“What the hell? I usually have to beat men off with a stick.” Shaking her head in disgust, she demolished another White Russian.

“Maybe you should offer to beat them off with a stick, you know, Fifty Shades of Kinky?”

Darlene’s eyes gave me a hard look. She was not amused. “Why? Do you want to get beat off with a stick?” she smiled coyly before dispatching the last White Russian.

“Hell no! I hate splinters,” I said.

“He shoots. He scores!” Darlene laughed as she raised her index finger and traced a point on the invisible blackboard in the air. “Nice one.”

I shrugged my shoulders. I could feel the rising heat of a blush as I squirmed in my seat under her gaze. As Darlene studied me, her dark look of frustration gradually brightened, and her emerald eyes glistened as her grim expression transformed into the predatory smile of a fox once more.

“I’m as horny as hell. Wanna screw?”

She leaned into me until our noses brushed while her hand moved to my knee and slowly slid along the inside of my leg. I answered by placing my hand on her thigh and mirrored her journey of exploration.

“Your place or mine?” I whispered.

It was as cliché as shit, but I couldn’t help myself. What could I say? She had just made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.

Thus began our strange love affair. We became romantically involved as much out of laziness as out of lust. Neither of us cared to invest the necessary time to search for the ideal mate, so we settled for close enough for now. After we moved in together, I would joke about “robbing the cradle” when I took her to bed. She would always giggle and respond, “I guess that would make me a grave robber.”

A few things attracted me to Darlene. The first was her personality. She was so easy going that I once tried to give her the nickname “Lake Placid.” Still waters run deep, and it didn’t end well.

“Enough! Dennis, that was a twofer.”

The book she was reading sailed across the room, missing my head by not even an inch.

“Watch it, you nearly hit me! What the hell is a twofer?”

“A twofer is the first and last time something happens. I loath nicknames. Why the hell would I want to be named after a stagnant pond?”

Her smile was a funky combo of mischief and annoyance. I took pet names off my to-do list.

The other thing was her attitude toward lovemaking. Everyone needs a hobby and sex was her diversion from work. She accumulated orgasms like some folks collected postage stamps.