Page 138 of Devil’s Disciples

I glanced over each shoulder, and then looked at her. “You’re hanging out of both ends of it,” I whispered.

She looked down her nose at me. “It fits perfectly.”

When she tugged at the hem, her boobs all but fell out. When she adjusted the neckline, her ass cheeks were exposed. The miniscule piece of black fabric was clearly meant to be worn by someone much younger – and much more promiscuous – than my fifty-year-old neighbor.

“You don’t need one like that.”

She looked in the full-length mirror and grinned. “I think I do.”

I let out a sigh. “What’s going on?”

She adjusted the shoulders, and then looked at the reflection of her exposed butt cheek.

“Nothing,” she said over her shoulder.

She faced me. For being fifty, she looked damned good, I had to give her that. Wearing that dress, however, she looked like an overzealous short, blonde, tan, prostitute with oversized boobs.

“Have you got another Match dot com date?” I asked.

“I told you, I’m done with that.” She exhaled, allowing most of her exposed breast flesh to settle behind the skin-tight black fabric. “I want a well-hung biker to come over and give me some dick.”

“Go stand in the street wearing that, and you’ll have the entire block trying to give you some dick,” I said with a laugh. “Is that what you’re after?”

She glanced in the mirror. “That’s what I want, yeah. But, not from just anyone. From a biker.”

Her relationship with Frank was an on again-off again affair that had spanned over a decade. They couldn’t get along for more than ten minutes but couldn’t go six months without fucking one another. The five months and thirty days of inactivity that separated their sexual sessions were difficult for her.

She needed to meet someone else, no doubt. She didn’t need to use the postage stamp sized dress to do so.

I looked her over for amusement’s sake, and then shook my head lightly. “What is the deal with this sudden fascination with bikers? You’ve been watching that ridiculous show, and now you’re obsessed with them. You’ve spent four years bitching about the guy down the street. What changed?”

“I met one face to face,” she said. “He looks like trouble, walks like he fears no one, and smells like pure adrenaline. What’s not to like?”

I couldn’t agree with her more, but I wasn’t about to agree with her out loud.

“He’s okay,” I said. “But that doesn’t explain the dress.”

“Bikers like skimpy dresses, so I want to have one.” She sucked in a deep breath, caused her breasts to heave, and stole a look in the mirror. “Just in case.”

“I think the dress is too much. Too little, I mean. There’s not a time or a place that you can put it to good use.”

“I’ll wear it the next time he comes over.”

I couldn’t believe she said it out loud. Thinking about it was one thing, but saying it was another. If there wasn’t a girl code to address wearing undersized clothing in front of a woman’s sexual interest, there should be.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” I wrinkled my nose at the thought. “It’s just some weird fascination you have. It’ll pass, no differently than the surfers you lusted after, and the businessmen that were before them.”

“No, this one’s going to last.”

I glared. “Since when?”

“Since I met Dolla Bill,” she said with a laugh. “Watching him walk gives me hot flashes.”

“It’s not him, it’s menopause.”

She gave me the stink eye. “It’s not menopause. He’s mysterious, and it makes me sweat.”

“He’s far from mysterious. He puts it all out there. There’s not much left to the imagination.”