conveyance | perrie & hank
He was rarely attracted to skinny girls. Something about their knobby joints and the starved glint in their eyes that illuminated their gaunt cheeks evoked a twinge of disgust in his stomach. But Perrie wasn’t fashionably thin. Hank knew she lived on a dilapidated houseboat with her brother and deadbeat uncle, who spent most of his disability checks on Bud Light and Oxycontin. She attained her sunken shoulders and leathery skin not from fad diets and spray tan, but from impoverished hunger and manual labor, and he could respect her beauty in that sense.
He spotted her swiftly padding down the property line, the wind ruffling her shabby T-shirt and tousling the curtain of dirty brown hair that flowed almost to her waist. He attempted to politely glance away as she climbed the fence, but his eyes fixated on her naked legs and the dimple where the top of her thigh ended and the bottom of her ass began. His eyes closed, briefly entertaining sexual fantasies, until he heard her footsteps. Hank didn’t speak to her until they were both in the shed. “You’re like an hour late. Lucky for you Cordelia’s not here right now. Did D.L. double my order, like I asked?”
Perrie didn't even bother to roll her eyes at the clipped, tough-guy edge in his voice. "Lucky for you he did." She slung her bag on a rickety table that was jumbled with tools. A flashlight crashed to the floor and rolled toward Hank's feet. "Sorry if I kept you from your busy schedule of doing nothing and jacking off." She threw in a suggestively-raised eyebrow for good measure. The mention of anything remotely sexual usually added a few dollars to her tip. Reaching into the bag, she stacked two plastic sandwich bags on the table, each bulging with clumps of dried marijuana leaves. "That's 300 you owe me."
