“C’mon. Just a little tit. Ain’t often we get privacy.”
Boom-Boom Rappaport’s knockwurst-fingered hands groped at Sweets’ thighs, the calluses running a trail of gooseflesh underneath her tights into the dark and wet he hoped to discover.
She shoved his hands away, playful but forceful.
“This is what you call privacy?” she nodded at the patient on the bed next to them.
The new arrival was asleep. The edges of his sparse beard singed and black. His right hand was wrapped in a thick bandage, a combination of the wooden cabinet slicing through his palm and the heat of the metal siding giving him second-degree burns. The skin around his mouth and neck was stained blue from toilet water.
“You and I both know you’ve made it with more company,” Boom-Boom said, giving up his beaver hunt for a
