Page 17 of Hooked

Damn.

There are several sets of matching silky bras and panties.

Hot damn.

She’d been in pink lace yesterday, but there’s an entire bounty here of different colors and styles. My cock gets hard just thinking of her in these and I drop the red lace bra I’m holding like it’s burned me.

Maybe it has.

Mrs. Swenson at the dry cleaner can take care of everything here.

The clothes, I mean.

I put the lingerie out of sight and move on to the second roller bag.

It’s full of Christmas crap, most of it beyond repair. There are wads of paper that probably used to be something more festive, and catalogs of expensive rental equipment that had been glued shut by the salt water, but not before the ink had bled and run all over some heavy looking skirts. Are those skirts?

They seem big for Sia, but what do I know. Extracting those, I put them in the dry-cleaning pile. Maybe the ink could be removed? A few stockings, ceramic trees, and a glass yeti looking guy had survived as well. I clean them before turning to the last suitcase.

I unzip it and find a bunch of portfolios. Five in total, and they’re huge, taking up the entire suitcase. The covers are red and embossed with “SKF Events.” Her initials, I suppose. What does the K stand for? I don’t have a middle name—my parents didn’t bother with such frivolity before surrendering me to the State. People are also surprised to find out that Vinny isn’t a nickname.

It suits me, though, just like the opulence of Seraphina suits her.

I gently open the cover of the first portfolio. The pages have been laminated, so they’ve held up okay, though there’s warping. Given her fancy clientele, these are probably a loss. The drawings on the page are intricate and frankly stunning. Her signature is under them. Why does she waste her talent on idiot rich people’s self-aggrandizement when she could do something useful with this?

It’s unbelievable.

I can’t resist looking through every one of the portfolios. They’re a collection of all the big events she’s done, and it’s a pretty impressive testament, even if I think she could use her skills for something more beneficial. I get to the last page, and it’s a fundraiser she did for a local homeless shelter. It makes me uncomfortable, so I just shut the book. There has to be a way to have these reproduced even if the originals can’t be repaired.

I’ll look into it.

Until then, I need to take a shower and eat before I go to that stupid bar. I only have myself to blame, though, so I can’t even be mad about it.

Besides, can’t hurt to have the distraction from thinking about Sia’s lingerie, either.

8

Vinny

The Dockside is crowded by winter standards. The bar and restaurant overlook the ocean, so in the summer it’s always packed to the gills with obnoxious partiers. The staff makes a ton of money, but if you ask me, the transaction fee it requires by way of interaction with drunk asshole tourists is far too high.

The locals know not to walk under the open windows around closing time, lest they be victims of the Dockside’s famous summer vomit waterfalls.

With such a romantic reputation, there’s no way Kristi and Sven won’t fall in love here tonight.

With my takeout business, I get to decide when I open and close, what I serve, and whom I serve it to. Feed the people, just the basics, and send them on their way.

Simple.

The Dockside has reverted to a townie bar now that the tourists are gone. Not that the townies don’t get obnoxious. It’s just more familiar and on a smaller scale.

The windows are closed because of the cold, though, so the vomit is in only expected places.

Generally.

And people don’t understand why I hate going out.

Kristi’s at the bar. She’s flirting with Sven, not that he seems to notice. She’s wearing a halter top and jeans that have the men around her drooling, but Sven, respectful guy that he is, keeps his eyes glued to her face.

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