Before a further piece of wisdom I poke the chromed muzzle of my .45 calibre Auto-Ordnance into the front angle of her neck, between jawline and a noticeable laryngeal prominence.
“You know only six-point-two percent of women have them?”
The brunette’s return comes out surprisingly confident despite the question mark. For my money, I reckon I’d be all croak if the positions were reversed. Examining her pretty face for sign of nerves leaves me impressed. Only the blue eyes let her down — the long-eyelashed lids blinking faster than usual.
Then again, some people do that.
“Have a prominent Adam’s apple,” I say.
Ought to pull the trigger now and have done with it. Shame to mess up the good-looks, but worse things do happen.
“Gets me in trouble,” she muses, gazing straight back along the barrel.
“How?” The query pops out before I think.
“Well, the odd paramour gets to thinking I’m a man in drag.”
“You’re kidding me?”
Heart’s hammering. Voice isn’t much better than the croak I mentioned earlier. She’s a looker, no matter the Adam’s apple.
“Sadly? No kidding. Some men get frightened.”
That’s not what frightens me. It’s the weakness enveloping my limbs while I take in the red, Cupid’s bow mouth and a lot of perfect skin that clings just right.
That mouth purses, almost a pucker, like she’s mulling over something and blowing me a kiss at the same time.
Before I know what’s happened she’s wrapped her right fingers around the pearl-handled pistol, gently removes it from my fist, twists the thing about, and has it pointed into the front angle of my neck — between the jawline and a likely bulging Adam’s apple.
The pout becomes a smile as she uses her southpaw to straighten the collar of her shirt to better cover the throat, and then the gun presses hard into mine.
“You know a hundred percent of men have them?”
“That so?” I mumble, flummoxed.
“Yep.” Her eyes now narrow, a breeze of grievance winging my way. “Forbidden fruit, my arse.”