“Ten dollars, not a cent more”, Joe said leaning backwards in his swivel chair; his big belly undulating as he ogled the young woman.
She shook her head while reaching for her thick wedding band.
“Unless…”, Joe’s tongue traced the parchment of his lips.
“Do you even know the significance of Faberge?”, her voice laden with contempt. “Back home you would be shot”.
“Fifteen dollars for your ring… “, he paused. “… and you spend the night with me”.
Zara’s hand closed on the hilt of her hidden knife as she nodded.
Men on route 66 were no different from Bolsheviks. Scum.
I love a little twist, I hope you do the same.
Friday Fictioneers is a group of blogger led by Rochelle who write stories to the same picture every week. I try to hit the 100 word mark sharp.
November 2, 2016