#lil old lady perm with insane highlights. nails to strip the skin off god.

[the-everqueen]

sneak peak of LA guard dog pt. 2 because i find it amusing that Coco reliably hits on milfs:

“Sure thing.” The Corinthian hands her the car keys while she jams her feet into sneakers. “Don’t worry, Rosebud, we can hold down the fort.” She laughs, bounces on her toes to kiss his cheek. Then she’s gone, and the house is quiet. Well, except for the dog. It scratches at the front door and looks up at him hopefully. Corinthian curls his lip at it, but the dog is too far removed from its more capable ancestors to read that as a threat, and it waggles its hips in response. Play? Out? It gives a thready whine. Need. He snags the leash from its hook by the door. The dog pisses as soon as its paws touch the scrubby front lawn, so Rose’s intuition was correct on that front. The Corinthian is tempted to just take the animal back inside, except then it darts after a crow with a surprisingly loud bark and, well, those are the kinds of instincts that should be encouraged. Of course, the crow takes flight, but the dog isn’t discouraged, just turns its nose to the ground and starts sniffing for new prey. The Corinthian follows behind at a leisurely pace. “Billie,” as Rose keeps reminding him, “she has a name,” except it doesn’t have legs, not really—Billie trots with single-minded focus. Its long sausage body is good for poking into gopher holes and under bushes. It’d be useful for ferreting out rats or foxes, if either of those were a problem here. As is, it manages to snag a half-empty package of fries and hork down a couple before the Corinthian can wrestle the bag away. “Puppies keep you on your toes,” says a raspy voice. The Corinthian turns. Gives a little wave. “Hey, Mrs. Moreno. You do something new with your hair? It’s looking good.” “Psh. Flatterer.” But the older woman pats at her curls, framed with a colorful headband. “Didn’t I tell you to call me Jackie?” She did, when he first encountered her during his initial scope of the neighborhood. He hasn’t taken her up on it, mostly because her greenish eyes sparkle whenever he drawls her surname or calls her “ma’am.” Jacqueline has the voice of someone who started smoking as a teenager and hasn’t stopped despite her doctor’s best efforts. She sits on her porch at odd hours but always spares a friendly word for Rose. If the Corinthian were hunting her, he’d take her out to Employees Only for drinks and K-town for karaoke. He imagines those honey-flecked irises taste like an appletini. His smile widens. “Now where would a Southern gentleman be without his manners?” Jacqueline’s gaze travels slow and deliberate over his body. “Mm, I’m sure you’d get by.” “Yeah?” She waves a hand at him. “I’m not gonna stroke your vanity unless you stroke something of mine—and I know you belong to that sweet Walker girl. Is that her dog? Doesn’t seem your type.” “What’s my type?” Her grin is all teeth. “Some kinda hound.” She clucks at the dog and it, idiot creature, runs straight for her, tail wagging. “What’s her name?” “Billie.” “Lady Day. I’m more of a Vaughn girl, don’t tell your friend. Though I’ve got some records if she ever wants to listen.” “I’ll let her know.” The Corinthian watches as the dog wriggles with joy at her attention. Jacqueline laughs at its antics, flops its velvet ears between her fingers. The lines at the corners of her eyes crinkle. “Her mom was a big Holiday fan, apparently.” He’s not sure what makes him offer this tidbit. Maybe the hope that a human will know what it means, clue him in to its significance. But Jacqueline just hums, moves her hand to rub the dog’s belly as it rolls onto its back. Her acrylic nails scritch gentle, gentle on that exposed flesh in a way that makes the Corinthian’s eye teeth ache.