Pale Harvest. Braden Hepner

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      —You’re marooned on a remote set of standards that you’re neither close to nor willing to forsake, said Heber. How long will you keep it up?

      —In my estimation she’s got what I’m looking for.

      —Spoiled goods, said Heber. You don’t want spoiled goods.

      —I didn’t say that.

      —Be that as it is, in my opinion there is great glory in either possibility. You might try it. She might give you her kingdom. You’re still in the market for kingdoms, aren’t you? She has pearls, does she not? Indeed.

      Heber resettled himself on the ground and let out a guttural grunt of satisfaction. He chuckled to himself and said, Would it change your view of her if you found out she’d fucked a score of men through high school and college, that she tasted it at fourteen and hasn’t gotten enough since?

      —You make a passable dipshit, said Jack.

      —My guess is somewhere close to but under fifteen. She’s got the attention for it, no doubt. Question is, how’d she respond to it.

      —She’s a good girl, said Jack. There ain’t many like her.

      —My estimate is only so conservative because she’s the kind that will stick with one partner for a while. But I’ll bet she’s been fucked hundreds of times.