Read Online Flash and Burn: Second Five (Flash and Burn #2) by E.J. Swenson - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: E.J. Swenson
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There’s also a small cot, a
toilet, a sink, a mini-fridge, and a small bookcase lined with
dog-eared paperbacks. She’s holding a small pack containing two
changes of clothes and travel-sized toiletries.
“ Honey, it’s getting late! Have
you secured yourself?” His voice is nervous. Weak. Like a
mosquito’s whine. She takes a step into the room. The chains will
be cold against her wrists. She will struggle against them for
hours as she fills with a terrible and euphoric energy. She will
exhaust herself and then read until she falls into a sweaty,
restless sleep. The next morning will be just another
Monday.
“ Honey?” calls her husband, the
whine taking on the cadence of exasperated anger. “What’s going
on?”
There’s an open window down
the hall from the little room. A summer breeze breathes gently
through the mesh screen.
Fuck
it
, she thinks. Her husband shakes
his fists as she drives away.
***
The bar is crowded, but she stalks
through the crowd like the graceful animal she is. It’s a Sunday
night, but most of the desperate characters who drink at Loki’s
Revenge–bikers, dealers, addicts, thieves–do not live according to
workday rhythms. She removes her hair clip and shakes her head
slightly, enjoying the sensation of thick, jasmine-scented hair
cascading down her back. She can feel the eyes on her, hungry and
questioning.
She glides to the bar, other
patrons tumbling from her path. The bartender, a thickly muscled
man with a hooked nose and a black eye patch, grins broadly. “You
just can’t stay away, can you?”
She licks her lips and grins back.
“I’m fucking thirsty, you one-eyed bastard.”
He chuckles and lines up three
shots of tequila. She downs them, one after the other. A predatory
gleam shines in her yellow-green eyes that, on most days, are the
dull color of moss. “When does your shift end?” she asks
slyly.
“ Right this fucking
second.”
***
The camper is unkempt and smells
like stale weed, but she doesn’t care. She opens the door and runs
naked in the moonlight. He sprints after her, following her into
the woods. She lets him catch her and spin her roughly into his
arms. He smells musky, like a wild animal, and his lips bruise
hers. His erection presses into her belly, and she leans into it.
He groans and pushes her against an ancient oak. The bark scores
her back, but she doesn’t care. In fact, she revels in
it.
His hands rake against her heavy
breasts and belly, and find the damp cleft between her legs. His
touch is the opposite of gently and clearly unpracticed, but she
rocks her hips, rubbing her clit against his callused palm and
allowing two fingers to slide into her. With a gasp and a groan,
she wraps one strong leg and then the other around his waist. Their
selves fly away, melting into sensations that are hard and soft and
hot and cold, all at the same time.
Spent, they fall to the damp
ground in a tangled heap.
***
She awakens on a stained purple
couch in a tiny trailer. Her back is tender and covered in
abrasions. Her mouth tastes like cotton soaked in varnish. Worst of
all, an itchy rash burns down her thighs. She finds her backpack
and pads to the tiny, unclean shower, hoping to wash away even a
little of the self loathing that seems to coat every inch of her
skin.
It’s five a.m. on Monday
morning, and she’s herself again.
Fuck.
3. Lost and
Found
Her style has always been
understated: straight, blunt-cut brown hair, minimal makeup,
tailored pants and jackets in shades of charcoal and dusky pearl.
She even covers her phone in a demure black case, lest its bright,
gaudy screen attract the wrong sort of attention. As she leaves the
tiny cafe where she always has Saturday brunch in the company of a
Bloody Mary and a good book, she has the indefinable feeling she’s
forgotten something.
She reaches her hand into
her black matte Coach bag and feels around. She has her keys, her
Kindle, and…
oh, shit.
She left her phone at the cafe. She
toilet, a sink, a mini-fridge, and a small bookcase lined with
dog-eared paperbacks. She’s holding a small pack containing two
changes of clothes and travel-sized toiletries.
“ Honey, it’s getting late! Have
you secured yourself?” His voice is nervous. Weak. Like a
mosquito’s whine. She takes a step into the room. The chains will
be cold against her wrists. She will struggle against them for
hours as she fills with a terrible and euphoric energy. She will
exhaust herself and then read until she falls into a sweaty,
restless sleep. The next morning will be just another
Monday.
“ Honey?” calls her husband, the
whine taking on the cadence of exasperated anger. “What’s going
on?”
There’s an open window down
the hall from the little room. A summer breeze breathes gently
through the mesh screen.
Fuck
it
, she thinks. Her husband shakes
his fists as she drives away.
***
The bar is crowded, but she stalks
through the crowd like the graceful animal she is. It’s a Sunday
night, but most of the desperate characters who drink at Loki’s
Revenge–bikers, dealers, addicts, thieves–do not live according to
workday rhythms. She removes her hair clip and shakes her head
slightly, enjoying the sensation of thick, jasmine-scented hair
cascading down her back. She can feel the eyes on her, hungry and
questioning.
She glides to the bar, other
patrons tumbling from her path. The bartender, a thickly muscled
man with a hooked nose and a black eye patch, grins broadly. “You
just can’t stay away, can you?”
She licks her lips and grins back.
“I’m fucking thirsty, you one-eyed bastard.”
He chuckles and lines up three
shots of tequila. She downs them, one after the other. A predatory
gleam shines in her yellow-green eyes that, on most days, are the
dull color of moss. “When does your shift end?” she asks
slyly.
“ Right this fucking
second.”
***
The camper is unkempt and smells
like stale weed, but she doesn’t care. She opens the door and runs
naked in the moonlight. He sprints after her, following her into
the woods. She lets him catch her and spin her roughly into his
arms. He smells musky, like a wild animal, and his lips bruise
hers. His erection presses into her belly, and she leans into it.
He groans and pushes her against an ancient oak. The bark scores
her back, but she doesn’t care. In fact, she revels in
it.
His hands rake against her heavy
breasts and belly, and find the damp cleft between her legs. His
touch is the opposite of gently and clearly unpracticed, but she
rocks her hips, rubbing her clit against his callused palm and
allowing two fingers to slide into her. With a gasp and a groan,
she wraps one strong leg and then the other around his waist. Their
selves fly away, melting into sensations that are hard and soft and
hot and cold, all at the same time.
Spent, they fall to the damp
ground in a tangled heap.
***
She awakens on a stained purple
couch in a tiny trailer. Her back is tender and covered in
abrasions. Her mouth tastes like cotton soaked in varnish. Worst of
all, an itchy rash burns down her thighs. She finds her backpack
and pads to the tiny, unclean shower, hoping to wash away even a
little of the self loathing that seems to coat every inch of her
skin.
It’s five a.m. on Monday
morning, and she’s herself again.
Fuck.
3. Lost and
Found
Her style has always been
understated: straight, blunt-cut brown hair, minimal makeup,
tailored pants and jackets in shades of charcoal and dusky pearl.
She even covers her phone in a demure black case, lest its bright,
gaudy screen attract the wrong sort of attention. As she leaves the
tiny cafe where she always has Saturday brunch in the company of a
Bloody Mary and a good book, she has the indefinable feeling she’s
forgotten something.
She reaches her hand into
her black matte Coach bag and feels around. She has her keys, her
Kindle, and…
oh, shit.
She left her phone at the cafe. She
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