WITH A TIGHT BLACK mini-skirt and little-left-to-the-imagination blouse, the artificial blonde came out of the liquor store carrying something Theron felt sure was not ginger-ale. She walked down the night-blackened sidewalk in her stiletto heels, trying to project an air of superiority. Ah, but Theron could read her soul: her heart ached. She was grieving. She needed him. He needed her.
When she turned the corner down a lonely street, he decided to make his move. Parking his car, he opened the door, unfolded his large frame from behind the wheel, and closed the door quietly behind him.
Silent as a shadow, he appeared in front of the woman. She stopped, the click of her metal heels upon the cement dying a quick death. “Who the hell are you?” She took one look at the tall, dark figure blo
