Naughty Girl

J.W. McKenna

Chapter One

She’d come into the downtown Santa Barbara bar that night with a man who oozed money. Carl Harman immediately pegged her as a gold digger—how could he not, the way they were so mismatched? He could see the same thought in the eyes of the other single men in the crowded bar.

Honey-Blonde—which was how Carl thought of her at first—was young and sexy while her companion was older and more oily. His body, once muscular, had gone soft. His thinning black hair was combed straight back over beady eyes. His only saving grace was a row of white, even teeth, perfect for a false smile. He reminded Carl of a used car salesman. To attract a gal like that, he had to be loaded. Women who’d trade their youth for old money usually didn’t interest Carl. But she was the exception.

Car Salesman led her to the bar a couple of stools down from Carl and ordered a stiff scotch for himself and a white wine for her. The man spoke in a loud voice and seemed to treat the girl like an accessory.

Carl, sitting at the bar nursing his drink, tried not to pay attention to her. That quickly proved to be impossible when he noticed she wasn’t wearing a bra under her gray silk blouse. He could see the round shape of her breasts and the hint of her nipples. She was in her late twenties and had medium-sized breasts, so she didn’t really need a bra. Still, a woman who walked into a bar braless made Carl wonder about what else she might be missing underneath her navy blue wrap-around skirt.

Now that she had his full attention, he took in other details. She stood about five-seven, so Carl, at six feet, imagined that he wouldn’t have to lean over too far to kiss her, and her perfectly heart-shaped ass would be at just the right height to run his fingers over it. His hand itched at the mere thought. Her face reminded him vaguely of Faye Dunaway in her prime—beautiful blue eyes, strong cheekbones and jaw, although softer somehow, more demure. Her honey-blonde hair seemed natural to Carl, though he wondered if the drapes matched the carpet. He smiled at his own crude joke and took another sip of his martini.

Carl noticed that when Car Salesman wasn’t looking, the young woman’s eyes glanced about the room as if she were searching for someone. Only later did he find out she was looking for someone to rescue her—or why she couldn’t rescue herself.

Car Salesman proceeded to get drunk in short order. Perhaps he could tell that his grip on Honey-Blonde was slipping and he was determined to be a real horse’s ass before it all ended. Or perhaps he just couldn’t help himself—maybe he treated everybody this way. Carl minded his own business, nursing his drink.

He was in-between girlfriends at the moment and feeling a little sorry for himself. He’d been idly thinking about renting a video on the way home. After he spotted Honey-Blonde, he thought perhaps an adult video might be better. She had that effect on him. He never expected he’d get any closer to her than he was at that moment, two stools down in a bar full of TGIF’ers.

But when Car Salesman suddenly tossed the remains of his drink on her and, in a loud voice, accused her of flirting, the White Knight in Carl woke up. Everyone else seemed to stare then edged away, as if they didn’t want to get involved in a lovers quarrel. Or maybe Car Salesman’s sudden rage made them fearful. Though going to seed, he still had the look of a brawler.

Carl couldn’t stand it. He came off his stool and approached them before he was even aware he had moved.

“Hey, now,” he said, trying to be chivalrous without seeming like he was trying to steal Honey-Blonde away because, frankly, he wasn’t at that moment.

Then he saw her sad, tired expression and how the man’s drink had splashed over her chest, causing her left nipple to show clearly through the sheer material. Carl fell just a little bit in love with her right then.

Car Salesman turned his sudden fury on Carl. “Mind your own fuckin’ bizness or I’ll shove your head up your ass.”