She had looked like eighteen when I saw at the lamp post, but now I looked closed and surprised myself. This girl was not eighteen. She was somewhere ...etween twenty-eight and thirty-five.I turned to her and asked the usual question. "How much?" You promised to show me your wallet, remember?" OK, OK, I will as soon as I get this damn seatbelt out of the way, so I can get at it." "Open it," she told me, "I want to see your badge." Hey girl, I told you twice already that I am not a cop. Let me. She falls to the ground without a sound, her training coming back to her."You're a whore, Baby! First among all my slaves, but you're still a whore. This has been a reminder. To the slaves, you're the boss. To me, your dogshit on my heel." I shove her face back down to the ground with my foot as I say this last part. "Understand?"Yes daddy." She replies. I think I hear a twinge of disgust in her voice. It's nice."Stay where you are, turn your face up to me, keep your mouth shut and your eyes. ”“Great! I’ll set up some appointments. Caleb, any thoughts on my selling the old homestead?”“No, Dad. I think you’re wise downsizing. Go for it.”“Great. That brings me to the other thing I wanted to talk about. Your mother ... Mom had life insurance.” I was struggling to keep my voice steady. “I want you both to share the payout from that.”Caleb interrupted. “Dad, don’t you need that if you’re retiring?”“No. I told you the value of my investments and that didn’t include any of the insurance.. We were greeted in French by the maître d’, to whom Kris replied in machine-gun fashion in perfect Parisian French. The man’s eyes widened and he kissed her hand. Truly, he was impressed and so was I.Although we were handed menus when we were seated, Kris took mine and her own and gave them back to the maître d’, accompanying the action with another extended speech in French. The man bowed and left, returning a few moments later with the chef himself. Now all three were going at it. Finally the.
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