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Pounded by the Pit Bull
By Nixie Fairfax
Copyright 2018 by Nixie Fairfax
All rights reserved
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
This work contains explicit sexual content and is intended for adults only. All characters in this work are 18 years of age or older.
Audra’s heart was pounding as she stared at the bracelet on the display stand on the counter. Was she really going to do this? If she got caught shoplifting her daddy would tan her hide but good. Now that she was eighteen, he might even kick her out of the house, as he’d threatened to do a few times before. Where would she go then? She’d probably wind up sleeping under the Shady Creek Bridge. But God, that bracelet was just what she was looking for. The jade would complement that necklace Grandma Pierce got her for her birthday last month. But the asking price was just plain ridiculous. Two hundred bucks? Screw that. The old geezer who ran this place was nuts if he thought anybody in this one-horse town was gonna shell out that much for a damn bracelet.
She licked her lips and glanced around the dark, cluttered store. Old Cletus McCoy, the owner of McCoy’s Curio Emporium—Cactus Gulch’s one and only antique store (really just a glorified junk shop)—had disappeared, leaving her all alone amid the aisles of used dresses and dog-eared books and rusting doodads from bygone days. The old fossil had probably shuffled off into the back to change his Depends or take his Geritol or something. And he was too cheap and too old-fashioned to have surveillance cameras or any other security devices beyond his own rheumy blue eyes and hair-choked ears. It was as if he were asking to have his stuff shoplifted. Which was fine with Audra.
She snatched the bracelet off its velvet-lined bed and stuffed it into her purse, then strode toward the front door, her steps clumping dully on the dry floorboards. The door’s dusty panes grew larger and larger, the bright June sunshine making the bleary glass glow like a portal to Heaven.
Mr. McCoy suddenly stepped out from behind a rack of used postcards on her right and seized her wrist in one bony claw. Though the old fart had to be in his eighties, he was a big guy—she had heard he used to be a circus strongman, among other things—and even as wrinkled and stooped as he was, he still towered over Audra.
“Stop right there, missy,” he snapped.
“What!” Audra squealed, trying to twist free. But there was surprising strength in that shriveled grip. “What are you doing? Lemme go!”
He shoved his hand into her purse and plucked out the bracelet.
“Didn’t do anything, my Aunt Fanny,” he snarled, waving the jewelry in her face.