Box

2

Dr. Gideon Box.

I’m Dr. Gideon Box. Those who know me think I’m crazy.

That’s why it’s nice to get away sometimes, fly to a city I’ve never visited before, rent a car, hit the back roads, see if I can fuck a couple of the women I’ve been flirting with on social media for the past two weeks.

You do this often enough, every now and then you get a bonus.

It’s late, you’re driving, hungry. You stop at a little hole-in-the wall called Alice T’s, in Bum Fuck, Kentucky, whose sign promises “Good Country Cooking!” You go in, expecting the worst, and someone pops up right out of the blue, someone who was never on the radar, someone who turns out to be better than what you were hoping to find in Ralston, Kentucky.

Like the young waitress lingering at my table.

Trudy Lake.

“Nice watch,” Trudy says.

I glance at my wrist.

She’s right. It’s a helluva watch.

“What is it, a Rolex?”

“Piaget.”

She nods. “I like it.”

“Thanks.”

I like it, too. That’s why I stole it from Austin Devereaux while attending the party to celebrate his daughter’s successful operation.

There’s a story here, a great one, but you’ll have to take my word for it, since I’m still flirting with Trudy, who is not the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.

That’s not to imply she’s ugly.

It’s just that two weeks ago I was in the same room with the two most beautiful women currently gracing the planet Earth: Callie Carpenter, assassin, and Rose Stout, surgical nurse. I’ve known three other truly gorgeous women: Miranda Rodriguez, courtesan, Willow Breeland, con artist, and Dublin Devereaux, billionaire socialite.

In a group comprised of these five women and Trudy Lake, my waitress, Trudy’s sucking hind tit.

Having said that, she’s still the sixth most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on, and absolutely worth whatever time and effort might be required to separate her from her panties tonight.

She’s not very worldly, which works to my advantage. Can’t even tell the difference between a Rolex and a Piaget!

I have other advantages. Trudy’s a backwoods pony-tailed waitress, I’m a renowned surgeon. She’s poor, I’m rich. She appears to possess average intelligence, I’m off-the-charts brilliant.

I know what you’re thinking. I’m full of myself, right?

Not true.

I’m a mess.

I’m petty. Mean-spirited. Vengeful. I have a rotten personality. No friends. And a bad track record with women.

I’ve been flirting with Trudy the better part of an hour. She ignored me at first, but my persistence is paying off. She’s appraising me.

“How old are you?” she asks, going straight for the jugular.

I frown. Besides my personality, my age is my biggest weakness. I’m forty-two. She can’t be more than…

“How old are you?” I ask.

“Eighteen.”

Shit. The last eighteen-year-old I dated turned out to be a seventeen-year-old identity thief.

“Eighteen?” I say. “You’re sure about that?”

I’d go after older women, but those north of twenty see me coming a mile away.

“Eighteen-and-a-half,” she says. “Almost nineteen.”

Going the extra mile to make herself appear older tells me she might be interested. But I’ve been wrong before. In fact, I’m wrong most of the time.

I know one sure-fire way to find out.

I focus my eyes on her chest, and keep them there a long moment before looking up. In my experience, it’s fifty-fifty she’ll either be flattered or offended. Of course, my success rate is padded by strippers and hookers. What I’m saying, my social skills are so lacking I’ve offended half the strippers and hookers I’ve flirted with.

But Trudy’s expression reveals nothing.

She looks at her chest.

“Have I spilt somethin’?” she says. “Or are you just bein’ a guy?”

“I’m just being a guy.”

She nods, but shows no anger, disgust, or any other emotion I’ve encountered when blatantly fixing my gaze on a woman’s chest. Her nod seems to say, “It is what it is. Girls have boobs, guys have eyes.”

Maybe country girls are more worldly than I thought.

“What time do you get off?” I ask.

“Ten.”

“An hour from now? More or less?”

“You’re the one with the fancy watch,” she says, then tosses her hair, spins, and heads for the kitchen.

Five minutes later she comes out with a gleam in her eye, looks from side to side, lowers her voice, and says, “Want to do somethin’ wild?”