Busty Clary Moore

In this town, people noticed Clary. It was inevitable. She was a statue of strength and softness, a fact accentuated by a frame that the local tailors struggled to dress. She wore a sensible maroon sweater, but it pulled tight across her chest, a constant source of self-consciousness for her and a source of distraction for half the bar. She hated that. She hated the way conversations paused and eyes lingered just a second too long before darting up to her face. She wasn’t here to be ogled; she was here to work.

"Yeah, Clary?"

Sully laughed, reaching out to tap the copper device. "Come on, honey. Put the toys away. A woman like you shouldn't be playing with wires. You should be—" busty clary moore

The neon sign of the "Rusty Anchor" flickered with a rhythmic buzz, casting a sickly yellow pallor over the wet pavement outside. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of stale beer, frying grease, and the low hum of a jukebox playing a song everyone had forgotten the name of. In this town, people noticed Clary