Chapter 1

“Take me home, James,” she said with a scowl, “I’ve had enough — *HICCUP!* — of this bullshit!”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said cordially, “but I’m not James. I’m Evan.”

“Who? — *HIC!*”

“Even, ma’am. James has the night off.”

Clearly inebriated, the very wealthy Miss Madeline sat silently for a moment with a confused look on her face, hiccuping intermittently. “Oh, whoever you are — *HICCUP!* — just bring me home!”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Looking back at her in my rear view mirror, I couldn’t help admire her beauty. To say that she looked like a million bucks would probably be a low-ball estimate; her dress alone had to have cost at least twenty grand. It was this low-cut sequined number that let her enormous rack come jangling out all over the place. Every time she hiccuped it looked as though they’d come closer and closer to spilling out entirely. As drunk as she was, her hair, nails and make up were all still in tact and looking impeccable. When I tell you that she is an absolute knock-out, you better believe I ain’t whistlin’ Dixie!

Miss Madeline went riffling through the small liquor cabinet in the back of the limo, coming across a large magnum of chilled champagne in the icebox. She quickly pulled the top off and began chugging it down straight from the bottleneck. After taking a hearty swig, she put her hand on top of her very well-endowed chest and let out a huge belch. Normally when someone did something like that in front of someone else they’d excuse themselves, but not Miss Madeline. As far as she was concerned she was all alone. It was as if I didn’t even exist in her world.

“Tough night tonight?” I asked, briefly making eye contact with her in the mirror. Instantly I saw her reach forward to grab the switch to raise the tinted window that separated the front seat from the back, but rise it did not. The thing’s been broken for years. She oughta know, it’s her car.

“You know,” she said cooly, “one of the things that I — *HICCUP!* — like most about James is that he — *HIC!* — doesn’t try to talk to me.”

“Hey, sorry,” I said with a sly grin, totally not sorry at all, “it’s just that you look so nice, it’s a drag that the party was so lousy.”

“Ugh!” she scoffed, throwing herself back against the seat, her long main of thick blonde hair flapping all around her, her large jugs bouncing up and down in her barely-there dress, “I’ve been to so many of these — *HICCUP!* — stupid things! I don’t even care anymore! Who cares if — *HIC!* — every rich eligible bachelor under the age of forty is going to be there? They’re not — *HIC!* — interested in me, so why should I be — *HICCUP!* — interested in them?”

Miss Madeline came from a very wealthy family. The youngest of seven, she was the last of her siblings to still be unwed, all at the ripe old age of thirty-two. As such she was seen as something of a rebel, and she had a real party-girl public image. Seeing her like this though, I began to get the sense that her image was something that had been thrust upon her rather than something that she’d cultivated for herself.

“Well if you don’t mind me saying so,” I said to her, turning up the old Evan O’Malley charm a bit, “any guy’s gotta be a fool not to be into you.”

This got her attention, as I knew that it would. She looked up at me, still leaning back against the soft leather cushions of her backseat, not saying anything but still hiccuping under her breath, her breasts bouncing up and down like it was the third quarter at Madison Square Garden.

“I mean, gosh,” I said, “just look at you. You’ve got to be the most gorgeous lady on this planet — or at least this side of Manhattan.”

“You’re funny,” she giggled, turning to look out the window at the city as it blew past us.