The Hard Bi*ch

FACT: It's LA. FACT: Wherever Choo-Choo goes, trouble follows. FACT: It's noir––boudoir noir, that is. For the sex-obsessed & the morally conflicted.

Certainly not for prudes, or the easily offended. 

**EXCERPT**
He walked to Hollywood Boulevard and then continued east for about three or four blocks to where his car sat. He got in his Cadillac, a much later model and year than mine. I got in my Fleetwood.

I tailed him to Western, up to Franklin, then west for three blocks. He made a left turn and parked. I waited in my car and didn’t get out until he was inside one of those two-story buildings. Then I had to run to make sure I didn’t lose the c********r. But I had. I knew he was in the building, but had no idea what apartment. The lights were on in half the units. The tenants were asleep but lights had been left on to ward off burglars. A TV blared from somewhere. I checked out the first floor, climbed the wooden staircase to the second floor balcony and walked slowly. A couple could easily be heard f*****g in the first apartment. I moved on. Nothing in the second. Another TV (or radio… ). I walked. That’s when the fat f**k appeared coming out of the third apartment with a blond in a sheer negligee, arms wrapped around his fat neck. She was clutching some bills in one of her hands. She was smiling and gave him a big smacking kiss before he left. I pretended to be fumbling with some keys at the other end of the balcony.

When the fat man was gone, I rapped on the blond’s door. She opened it, expecting it to be the fat man. She looked at me, wondered if I were a cop. I showed her my photostat. She shrugged.
“I was hired by the fat guy’s wife,” I told her. It was enough to register a degree of concern on that pretty face.
“I’m freezing my ass off out here,” I said.
“What do you want?”
“Well,” I said, “if 'Fatty Arbuckle’s' old lady finds out he’s got a sweet young thing like you on the side, there goes your sugar daddy. Need I say more?”
She stood there.
“Let me the f**k in.” And I pushed her aside and walked in.
“Just what the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“I gotta use your john. I haven’t shit in days.”
“In there,” she motioned. I rushed in, dropped my trousers and dropped a pile and a load off my shoulders. The bathroom was nice and neat and smelled like a rose garden. Lots of pretty figurines and perfume bottles, shampoo bottles, lotions and skin creams. There was a dildo on the floor, a magazine on bondage. I picked up the magazine, leafed through it. The photos were in black and white, pictures of women tied and gagged and being either whipped or f****d by naked studs wearing black leather masks. There were photos of interracial couples.

Not that I was ever into pain when it came to romance, but looking at all that pussy got me pretty hard. I wiped my ass and kept looking. The blond walked in. She was calm, in control, smoking a cigarette.
“That kind of shit turn you on?"

Told with an especially gritty, dark lack of sentimentality, “The Hard Bi*ch” is Kirk Alex at the top of his game.

For mature audiences.

**Cover Design by Melody Simmons of eBookindiecovers**