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At some point, Charlie thinks to herself, she’s gotta get more discerning about what kinda guy she lets stick his dick up her pussy.
Sure, probably not the most charming turn of phrase she could conjure up, but arguably the most appropriate considering the situations she’s found herself in before. Just because trouble has a face that would look astounding framed between her legs does not mean she should be letting trouble nose around there, literally. No dangerous man has ever been worth it. The everybody else’s? Yeah, alright, some solid orgasms that pretty much made up for the guns being pulled in her face and the murder set-ups and so on and so forth. However, men? Nah.
But maybe the problem has never been men (or at least, not entirely). Maybe, Charlie Cale just has awful taste, always picking body and smooth talk over literally anything else, as if you could blame her. Before she discovered Cliff had shot Natalie, she almost went for it. Now though, (as he is gorgeous, always will be), now she doesn’t know if she’ll ever be able to touch him without feeling like she’s committing some awful betrayal. Time will tell. But either way, it'll never be a good idea.
So, she decides, maybe a nice boy is the right thing to go for. One your mother would like, presupposing you have an all-American, apple pie on the windowsill, white picket fence mother who likes them sweet as sugar and unlikely to break her baby's precious heart; the kind of guy Charlie typically gets bored of within thirty seconds. That is where she should aim.
And as luck would have it - rarely, these days - she has a nice boy right in her sights.
“Okay, can you stop staring at me like that?”
Charlie pauses, taken out of her rumination. “Like what?”
Luca, sitting opposite her in the diner booth, shifts awkwardly in his seat. “Like you’re going to eat me, or something.”
“Now,” Charlie smiles slowly, all languid and feline, “that is an idea.”