I know that girls are made of sugar and spice and everything nice.
Yeah. Sure.
Not me.
Not at all.
I put out my cigarette on the picnic table in front of the food truck and swing my short, black-denim covered leg over the bench. I jump onto my motorcycle and pulled out of the gravel drive, sending a shower of gravel rattling against the truck.
I come up behind a station wagon, tykes in the back seat. A car is coming in the opposite direction. I don’t care, I pass the family anyway, sliding in front of them a second before I feel the whoosh of air from the vehicle coming in the opposite direction.
It was close.
I’ve had closer.
I rode to the parking lot of The Twisted Tit. It’s a dive bar on route 666. I pull my bike next to the row of Harleys. My combat boots squish in the mud as I dismount my bike. I don’t bother to wipe them as I enter the run-down, wooden place.
I’m small, a smidge over five feet. But I’m fierce. I keep a butterfly knife in my back pocket where most girls my age keep a glitter-covered cell phone. I have a can of bear spray in the pocket of my black leather jacket. It’s like pepper spray, but it’s meant to take down a bear. Yeah. I don’t fuck around. Can’t. Not when I’m dealing with these types--five burly 6’-plus leather-clad guys with unkempt facial hair and beer bellies sit on bar stools as I walk by.
Unvarnished, rough wood planks creak as my combat boots clunk on them. I head to the back.
I stiff-arm the door open, never breaking stride and turn to face him. My boss. Fucker is doing a line of coke as I walk in. I smile.
“Morning, boss.”
He finishes his snort and looks up. “You have a beautiful smile, Selina. It’s a shame I don’t see it more often.”
I lose my smile. Back to a poker face. Back to business.
“Now, now, girl. I have a job for you. One that these blokes can’t do.” His eyes motion toward the row of bikers in the other room. My boss likes to use British slang. He thinks it makes him sound cultured. He’s wrong.
“For this job, I’ve got something special in mind for you..” he gives me a shit-eating grin. Oh, shit. That’s not good. In fact, that’s bad. Very bad.
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