4
Denise hid in her shop container for a few minutes, trying to gather her composure and wrap it around herself.
“Incredible?” She said it softly, but it rang off the steel walls of the box as if her echo was mocking her. She had nice hair. Men had a weakness for her hair, but then so did she. It was the only thing about her that was feminine other than her body shape. She often reeked of sweat, oil, and grease. For a living she wore a tool belt and jeans. She talked about machines. She was about as alluring as an anvil with a nice wig.
By autonomic reflex, her hands—with their short-cut yet still-ragged nails—began the task of inspecting the container’s contents. MHA had given her a free hand in making sure it had everything she needed. With the contents of the container that was twent
