Picking up her small platform, she walked through the bar in an easy strut, showing off her long legs. At twenty-nine she figured they were her best asset. Any weight she’d gained didn’t show much on a toned, big-boned, five-eight black frame, though she could see the evidence in her driver’s license picture. Her face was still striking for its cheekbones, but seemed broader than it had in the publicity glossies five years earlier. She had sultry eyes and a smile she knew could raise the motherfucking dead. Her shoulder-length extensions complemented her boobs and the jut of that money-making booty. So what if size D tits made more money; they were the first to sag. When Marva passed the washrooms and DJ booth, she stopped to talk to Vicky, a slender blonde with bad teeth leaning against the brass rail near the bar. It was then that she noticed the burly guy with the bandanna and spiky jacket she’d danced for the other night checking her out again from a table on the west side of the stage.
