"Creep!" Hazel Crenshaw slammed the heavy door on her date's car and stomped up the street without looking back. Before she reached the corner she could hear a good layer of tread being peeled off the tires of Frank Barrington's new El Dorado. If only she'd realized how drunk he was before leaving the Christmas party.

Stranded in an unfamiliar part of town, Hazel squinted to focus on the street sign shadowed by a telephone pole.

"Oh, my heavens," she groaned. Even a newcomer like herself had heard of Orlando's infamous Orange Blossom Trail. Her sister had always warned her that one day her quick temper would get her into trouble.

Glancing nervously up and down the street at the flashing neon signs, she hoped this wasn't the day. For blocks, each side of the street signs advertised Nude Dancing, Topless Go Go, Adult Movies ... Adult Motel. She spotted a public phone on the opposite corner, but had to wait for traffic to clear. As soon as it did, she noted the "out of order" sign taped across the booth.

"Wanna party, Baby. I really dig blondes." Hazel spun toward the husky voice followed by a chorus of feminine laughter.

A tall, big-boned brunette, with an inch of eye shadow and a thick layer of mascara, winked. Standing next to her a petite redhead and an Afro-American with ebony skin darker than midnight loitered against the graffiti marked building. The redhead pointed and whispered something to her companions. From the tittering exchange, Hazel could tell that she was the object of their humor.

"Prostitutes," she whispered to herself. It didn't take a genius to figure that out. In varied colors of equally skimpy outfits, they displayed their wares like cheap jewelry in a bargain store window.

A pretty, but tough-looking blonde stood apart from the others and didn't seem to find whatever was being said that humorous. Her shoulder-length blonde hair was pulled back on one side and huge globe-like earrings dangled to touch skin left bare by the woman's white bustier. The earrings jingled with each clicking step she took in her three-inch heels. With a menacing glare, she ambled nearer. Hazel tried not to flinch when she came to a halt inches in front of her face and looked her up and down.

Hazel lifted her chin in fake bravado. Like weak prey amid a bunch of wild dogs, she instinctively knew better than to expose her fear.

"I'll be damned, if it isn't Miss Clueless," the woman quipped. This gave her audience cause to giggle some more. The blonde worked like an experienced straight-man in a comedy act; not even a curve dented her lips.

Hazel again eyed the phone booth on the next corner, hoping she'd been mistaken about the "out of order" sign. Her luck was running slim-to-none tonight.

Thankfully, the blonde seemed to lose interest. She shrugged and her mini shirt swirled around well-rounded hips as she turned on her spiked heels at a ninety-degree angle. She retreated a half block away. Hazel released a lungful of anxiety when the rest of the women turned their back on her, as well.

A bead of perspiration slid down her spine and another trickled between her cleavage. The red sequined bolero jacket suddenly became suffocating. It was very humid out tonight and she began to feel itchy and warmer by the minute.

December nights in Central Florida, she found, weren't always compatible with warm clothing--the temperature had reached near eighty earlier today and hadn't cooled down much since nightfall. The muggy air and lightning lacing the distant sky warned of approaching rainfall. Hazel hoped to be home before the storm hit. Darlie would need her.

If a cab didn't come along soon, she'd have to walk a few more blocks in search of another pay phone. She pressed a shaking hand against the silk material between her breasts, but couldn't halt another tickling rivulet. Giving in to the desire for physical comfort, Hazel slipped the jacket off and draped it over one arm. Much better, she thought, fanning her face with her matching clutch purse. A perfect complement to the black spaghetti strapped dress, the double-lined jacket had been suitable in the fancy air-conditioned hotel lounge where Frank's Christmas party had been held.

She sighed, remembering the reason she'd bought the fancy outfit. Even if it did come from a second hand shop, she doubted she'd have splurged on the expensive ensemble if not for the fact the dress would also go great with a black and white blazer she already owned. She could include it in her meager collection of work clothes.

"Take 'em all off, Sugar, and you might get a customer." The ebony woman's husky voice grated over Hazel like sandpaper on gravel.

She lifted her chin and glared at them. They laughed at her again, apparently not impressed by her show of daring. She should just walk on, but for some strange reason she felt safer here among a bunch of prostitutes than she did wandering further into the unknown.

However, she couldn't stand around all night hoping to be miraculously transported home. She glanced at the women once more, wondering if she could trust one of them to give her directions to the nearest working pay phone. They all seemed to resent her. She couldn't be sure any one of the group--all looked like bad casting in a B movie--would be trustworthy enough not to send her on a wild goose chase. Mrs. Wallace, her high school English teacher, always said one's apparel gave impressions of one's character.

Miss Ebony Skin wore a poppy red Spandex skirt. The garment bound around her hips so tight, one twist, pop, or snap and the woman could be left with nothing more than a wide rubber band around her waist. The image made Hazel smile.

The redhead's eyebrows lifted and knitted together. Hazel cleared her throat and forced a serious expression even though the woman's neatly penciled brows reminded her of the arched entryway to the Walla Springs Reliance Church. Flesh molding, apple green short-shorts showed an unmistakable female outline.

Advertisement, Hazel's mother would have said. But even her mother had shown more class than these hookers and Hazel had always been mortified by Madeline's showy attire

The redhead moved into the light and Hazel realized she was little more than a teenager. Much too young to be working on the street. Amusement fled, replaced with compassion. The girl reminded her too much of Christine.

In an obvious attempt to impress her friends, the girl made an obscene gesture by lifting her breasts. Heat crept into Hazel's cheeks and the young redhead stopped just short of popping the round globes out of the skin-clinging, hot pink tank top.

"Jealous, sugar?" the young redhead taunted.

Hastily looking away, Hazel's gaze caught on a saffron tank, mini dress moving up the street toward the group. A seven foot giant meandered along beside another flimsily clad female. She backed up a few steps, instinctively knowing to give them a wide berth on the sidewalk. A gold belt, hugging the short brunette's middle, enhanced her tiny waist. There wasn't much material above or below. The woman clung shamelessly to the arm of a man dressed in a shiny silk suit. He wore a fedora with a bright orange feather trailing over the side, and Hazel realized his height had been illusive.

"Flashy clothes must be in vogue with the downtown set," she mumbled, unable to take her eyes off the fancifully dressed pair. She should be desensitized to such flashy trappings, but nothing in her background prepared her for what she'd seen here tonight.

As the couple passed and the woman caught Hazel staring, she puckered her lips and made a loud smacking sound, sending the others into another peal of laughter. The man looked as if he were going to approach Hazel, but the woman with him nodded toward the blonde in the bustier and mumbled something that must have convinced him to move on. He shrugged his shoulders and winked at Hazel. Embarrassed and uneasy, she faced the street.

For a moment, she prayed for that miraculous transmutation, a Scotty beam-me-up sort of wishful thinking that she knew wasn't going to happen. She'd have to come up with a more sensible plan. But what? With no friends, no family that she could rely upon to come and get her, her only hope for rescue would be to catch a cab. If the ride cost more than twenty bucks she was in serious trouble.

She would call one and worry about price later, though, as soon as she determined in which direction to go to find a working pay phone. She eyed the coarse talking women gathered nearby. Would they help her if she asked, or delight in sending her down a darker and more dangerous street? At least, Orange Blossom Trail was a main thoroughfare, and she had a vague idea of where she was right now.

She swiped at the fine line of perspiration beading above her upper lip. Dear God, if a cab came by right this minute, she might seriously consider kiss-tipping the driver. Too bad this wasn't a city like New York where cabs roamed the street for fares in long yellow caravans. Hazel had never been there, of course.

She'd never traveled outside the panhandle of Florida before moving to Orlando two months ago. However, television these days educated even the most backwards communities in street savvy. Remembering the New York cop movies she'd seen, she shuddered, thankful to be in Orlando instead. It was just her luck, though, to pick an unsavory section to be abandoned.

Staring with longing down the dimly lit street, Hazel consoled herself with the possibility Frank might come back for her when he calmed down. Or when he thought she'd calmed down. Or when he sobered up and realized the danger she could be in left alone on this shadowy street.

Somehow, his groping hands and indecent suggestions no longer seemed as threatening. If he'd not been half lit from all the free booze he'd downed at the party, then maybe she could have handled the situation a little better. She knew from experience that horny drunks were difficult to control.

Drunk or not, she'd take her chances if he decided to come back for her. Just in case he did, she eased toward the curb so he wouldn't miss seeing her. She leaned forward and searched the line of cars coming down Orange Blossom Trail. A yellow vehicle with a sign on the roof, turned off a side street blocks away. Hope swelled and Hazel stepped off the curb and lifted her hand to wave the car down. Then as the vehicle came closer she realized the sign read: Domino's. A pizza delivery, not a taxi.

Disappointed, she slowly lowered her hand to her side. While her attention was trained on the receding yellow car, a dark sedan pulled beside her and stopped. At first she thought it was Frank and she waited for the dark tinted electric window to glide downward.

The driver mumbled something.

"I beg your pardon?" Not understanding his words, Hazel peeked into the open window, but stepped a safer distance away when the man leaned over into the ray of the streetlight and she realized it wasn't Frank.

He lazily checked out her figure from head to toe. For the second time tonight, Hazel felt heat rise in her cheeks.

Reaching for the top of his fly, the man unzipped his pants. Mesmerized and shocked by what he was doing, she barely heard his lewd suggestion repeated.

Coming to her senses, she stumbled backward over the uneven sidewalk, shaking her head in apprehension as well as disgust. The man placed his hand on the door handle and Hazel felt sure from the look he gave her he was coming after her. Then suddenly, the redhead brushed her aside and swung the sedan's door open. The girl snagged her fake hair on the door exposing a glimpse of blonde hair beneath as she purred, "Lena will take care of you, Sugar."

The car sped away, and Hazel shook with relief. In spite of her sympathy for the young girl, she couldn't help but whisper, "Thank you, Lena."