The Devil of Whiskey Row
“Olive asked, plopping down to join her for breakfast. It was a hearty plate of rice and beans with fresh-squeezed orange juice. The Spanish had planted oranges in California and they grew well—producing the most delicious juice. Cora still remembered her first taste of it when they'd arrived from Chicago. There weren't any groves in Dorado Hills—it was barely a town then—but the traders brought oranges from San Francisco and she remembered peeling and biting into that first delicious fruit, the... shock of sweetness making her whole body come alive in ecstasy. She'd told her mother it tasted like pure heaven.She savored the taste of the juice in her mouth now, and then gave Olive a shrug. “He was a trick.”Olive snorted. “Mine was horrible.”“What do you mean? How so?”She snorted again, but a look of amusement animated her face with the promise of a story. “He is a talker. We call him 'The Narrator'. He describes the whole act like he's reading a book. Like, 'You're taking off your stockings' and 'you're holding my cock' then 'I'm grabbing your ass' and 'I'm fucking you so hard'.”MoreLess
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