Shelby's sigh is half strangled cat this time. "I don't want bail," she grinds out with the stubborn set to her jaw returning. "I'm not leaving this delightful Disneyesque establishment." She gestures around with a sweep of her arms. "I just need you to let Daisy out and feed him. If you do, I'll owe you a favor."
A favor. That's priceless. I look at her. She's dressed in jean shorts more conservative than any prostitute wears and a rainbow tank top that shows off her well-endowed breasts. White deck shoes do nothing to detract from her long legs. This outfit does not scream s*x for hire but maybe some men have a thing for the yuppie look. Hell, I'm aging myself. She's one of the gen Ys and thinks a quick smile and large eye blinks will make me fall in line. I disregard how strange it is
