September. Buttercup wished that it would cool just a little, but in Florida at eight-thirty in the sweaty a.m., it was still humid and sticky, the coolness of night never lasting long. She was glad she wore her dark hair back in a ponytail as she could imagine what a drenched mess her neck would be while she sat on the bench at the Harbor City Transit Stop 52. A giant oak covered the stop with its branches offering a minuscule amount of shade, but heat was heat regardless. She kept trying to adjust the business skirt she wore, not used to anything so…covering.
She took a deep breath. What on earth was she thinking? She had no business trying to be something other than what she already was, a street hooker who earned her keep by spreading her legs for any john who came along with twenty b
