He was holding an open half-quart can of beer and an unlit cigarette was dangling from his lower lip. It stayed there as he spoke, held in place by th... wetness of the beer he'd obviously just finished. "Went like clockwork, huh, Henry?" he inquired, dropping the emptied beer can into a plastic trash can lined with newspaper that was positioned by the bedroom door. "When you think she'll be ready? I wouldn't mind a piece o' her ass myself. Did you see those legs? And tits! Man, she's got a pair. Afterwards, he’d put more wood on the fire blazing in the fireplace and took out his guitar to play and sing her a few of his compositions as well as tell her about his childhood. She never knew or imagined he’d gone to private schools. The sadness and resentment of not having a father figure in his life came through his stories of how the other boys would tease him at his awkwardness in sports. Thankfully, he’d used music as a refuge. He set the guitar aside and took the cello. If Abigail. More

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