Page 50 of Back in the Saddle

The girl was still flicking at the keychains as the guy with her seemed to be having trouble shoving his change into his jeans pocket.

Scottsdale Mama allowed this to go on for approximately point two five seconds before she cleared her throat imperiously.

The guy’s head shot up in surprise that anyone else was in his vicinity (or maybe that anyone else existed on the planet). He tagged the sleeve of his girl and they shunted out.

Scottsdale Mama stepped up to the register and husked, “Marlboro Lights.”

Without a word, the clerk turned, grabbed the smokes and plopped them in front of Scottsdale Mama.

With delicate movements, the better to show off her exquisite manicure of long, rounded, blush nails, she pulled a Prada wallet out of her bag and handed over some money. Even if she could afford it, she didn’t drop the change in the tip jar. She meticulously put it back in her wallet and tucked billfold and smokes into her bag. Then, no mention of thanks, or anything else, she lifted her nose, clickety-clacked back through the store and pushed open the door.

It was at this juncture we saw a white Mercedes coupe with a tan soft top double parked behind the cars at the front of the store, not only blocking them in, but also blocking the thoroughfare. We witnessed this before the door swung closed.

She matched her clothes to her car.

Impressive.

“I’m not sure whether to claim her as goals, or rant on social media about the behavior of the privileged,” Luna declared.

“Goals,” Harlow stated.

“Rant,” Raye said.

“Let’s get this done,” I said.

We moved to the clerk.

“Um…is he okay?” Harlow asked her, jerking her head toward the man among the bongs who still hadn’t moved.

The clerk looked to the man.

She then looked back to Harlow and demanded in a bored tone, “What can I get you?”

Harlow squared her shoulders, psyching herself up.

Ah, there was my girl.

“We need porn,” Harlow announced.

I smiled.

I was so proud.

The clerk made no move and said no words, just stared at Harlow.

Harlow turned to me. “You do this. What do we ask for?”

“What are our choices?” I asked the clerk.

“DVD or print?” she intoned.

“Print,” I said.

“Comics or pictures?” she asked.

“Pictures,” I answered.

“Generic? BDSM? Role-play? And then what type of role-play? Like secretary or school girl? Or school marm or bad bitch boss? Spanking, him or her—?” the clerk recited.

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