Chapter Six
“Likes or loves,” Harry asked when his Chevy hit the blacktop and headed toward Elk Heart Bend.
As much as she tried, Cora couldn’t bring herself to define either word, she supposed, love more proper. John had called her his Mary, had told her she looked like his Mary at nineteen, and had voiced he loved Mary more than anything in the world. Cora pulled her mind from Mary, from thoughts of washcloths and soap suds and spurting orgasms, and tackled Harry’s question head-on, “Love, Master.”
“Course, love, Cunt-Jump,” Harry mocked, his jaw jutting and his multicolored body shirt puffed out like a peacock. “He f****d you, didn’t he?”
On the question of who f****d whom Cora resolved to stay silent and unless Harry asked a direct question, she would not say a word about her bath
