clearly, that was the last thing she wanted. What was called for now was absolute cold detachment. She would show no emotion whatsoever when he came around to see her again.
An image of Ella’s shapely legs wrapped around Casey’s muscular back made her grip the steering wheel harder and push the gas pedal to the floor.
Or fuck that , she thought. Maybe I’ll just kill the son of a bitch.
She could do it. A vivid fantasy formed in her head as she drove. Casey on his knees as she held a gun on him, crying and begging for his life. Then her smiling coldly as she pulled the trigger and blew his worthless brains out.
It would be nothing less than what he deserved.
So why did she have tears in her eyes again as she thought about it?
Rather than going home or returning to the club, she drove for a few more miles and pulled into the parking lot of a bar called Buffalo Ted’s. An ordinary dive from the looks of it. Nothing special. But it would do for what she had in mind. And what she had in mind was getting shitfaced drunk in a place where she wasn’t likely to be recognized.
She grabbed her bag and got out of the truck, her flip-flops flapping loudly on the asphalt as she hurried across the parking lot en route to the bar’s entrance. The sooner she could get that first drink inside her, the better she would feel. Or maybe not, but at least it would be something to do.
A bell chimed as she banged through the front door and took a quick look around. A few faces turned in her direction. Most of the handful of patrons present went right back to their drinks, but a few gazes lingered, which was not surprising. Echo was long accustomed to being ogled by a certain percentage of the population wherever she went. She had tantalizingly long, exquisitely toned legs and a chest that irresistibly compelled the attention of heterosexual males wherever she went.
But she wasn’t much interested in male attention or company right at the moment. Her opinion of the male species was at its lowest ebb ever, and that was really saying something coming from someone who considered almost all men scum or trolls. So instead of sidling up to one of the guys perched at the bar to await the inevitable drink offer, she took a seat at one of the little tables in the small dining area and waited for a server to come by and take her order.
Before that could happen, a forty-something fat man with a skullet—bald scalp ringed by long hair hanging to his shoulders—in a Molly Hatchet T-shirt slid off his stool at the bar and waddled over to her table.
“Mind if I join you for a drink? My treat.”
Echo shot him her most withering, disdainful glare. “Fuck off, troll.”
The unexpected harshness of her response made him take a reflexive step back. Echo detected a note of genuine hurt in his surprised expression. This pleased her immensely.
The fat man scowled. “Fucking dyke.”
Echo laughed.
“What’s so funny, bitch?”
Echo smirked. “What part of ‘fuck off’ don’t you understand? By the way, what is up with the Molly Hatchet shirt? What are you, lost in time? Nobody listens to that dinosaur bullshit anymore. On second thought, don’t answer any of that. Just go the fuck away. You smell like vomit. Did you know that? Again, don’t answer that. Fuck off. No, better idea. Go home and kill yourself.”
The fat man looked stunned. He obviously had not been on the receiving end of this kind of vitriol in a long time. The pathetic loser looked like he was about to start crying. A part of her realized she was being excessively unkind. It was just bad luck and timing on his part. He was a guy and thus was Casey’s unknowing proxy in this situation.
She sighed. “Look, dude, you really don’t want to be around me right now. Trust me. Please just go away.”
The fat man regarded her with a blank look for another long and exasperating moment, but then he did something that surprised her. He dropped a twenty dollar bill on her
An image of Ella’s shapely legs wrapped around Casey’s muscular back made her grip the steering wheel harder and push the gas pedal to the floor.
Or fuck that , she thought. Maybe I’ll just kill the son of a bitch.
She could do it. A vivid fantasy formed in her head as she drove. Casey on his knees as she held a gun on him, crying and begging for his life. Then her smiling coldly as she pulled the trigger and blew his worthless brains out.
It would be nothing less than what he deserved.
So why did she have tears in her eyes again as she thought about it?
Rather than going home or returning to the club, she drove for a few more miles and pulled into the parking lot of a bar called Buffalo Ted’s. An ordinary dive from the looks of it. Nothing special. But it would do for what she had in mind. And what she had in mind was getting shitfaced drunk in a place where she wasn’t likely to be recognized.
She grabbed her bag and got out of the truck, her flip-flops flapping loudly on the asphalt as she hurried across the parking lot en route to the bar’s entrance. The sooner she could get that first drink inside her, the better she would feel. Or maybe not, but at least it would be something to do.
A bell chimed as she banged through the front door and took a quick look around. A few faces turned in her direction. Most of the handful of patrons present went right back to their drinks, but a few gazes lingered, which was not surprising. Echo was long accustomed to being ogled by a certain percentage of the population wherever she went. She had tantalizingly long, exquisitely toned legs and a chest that irresistibly compelled the attention of heterosexual males wherever she went.
But she wasn’t much interested in male attention or company right at the moment. Her opinion of the male species was at its lowest ebb ever, and that was really saying something coming from someone who considered almost all men scum or trolls. So instead of sidling up to one of the guys perched at the bar to await the inevitable drink offer, she took a seat at one of the little tables in the small dining area and waited for a server to come by and take her order.
Before that could happen, a forty-something fat man with a skullet—bald scalp ringed by long hair hanging to his shoulders—in a Molly Hatchet T-shirt slid off his stool at the bar and waddled over to her table.
“Mind if I join you for a drink? My treat.”
Echo shot him her most withering, disdainful glare. “Fuck off, troll.”
The unexpected harshness of her response made him take a reflexive step back. Echo detected a note of genuine hurt in his surprised expression. This pleased her immensely.
The fat man scowled. “Fucking dyke.”
Echo laughed.
“What’s so funny, bitch?”
Echo smirked. “What part of ‘fuck off’ don’t you understand? By the way, what is up with the Molly Hatchet shirt? What are you, lost in time? Nobody listens to that dinosaur bullshit anymore. On second thought, don’t answer any of that. Just go the fuck away. You smell like vomit. Did you know that? Again, don’t answer that. Fuck off. No, better idea. Go home and kill yourself.”
The fat man looked stunned. He obviously had not been on the receiving end of this kind of vitriol in a long time. The pathetic loser looked like he was about to start crying. A part of her realized she was being excessively unkind. It was just bad luck and timing on his part. He was a guy and thus was Casey’s unknowing proxy in this situation.
She sighed. “Look, dude, you really don’t want to be around me right now. Trust me. Please just go away.”
The fat man regarded her with a blank look for another long and exasperating moment, but then he did something that surprised her. He dropped a twenty dollar bill on her
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