she walked in my office and peeked her head out from under her umbrella. red lips and smoky eyes. she shook her head and touched a few curls back in to place. to hell with the rain. she was impeccable.
she was trouble. they all are.
she was the kind of dame who could travel the world with a tube of red lipstick and a slight swing of her hips.
why was she here?
mixed up with a bad guy maybe. usually. they say that dames love the bad boys. i have my own theories.
it's not the danger they're looking for; it's the sob story behind the man. they want a man they can save. a man who needs love. those men don't really want love. they just want women.
and that's when they come to me. they waltz in with their red lips and black high heels, letting out a tear or two, dabbing them away with one gloved hand.
they're all trouble. she's gonna be a special kind.
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