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Authors: Jo Richardson
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not have her pay for my grub tonight?
Including the champagne.
Part of me even thinks I might actually enjoy listening to her jabber on about all of her crazy reporter bullshit. A deep, dark, albeit deranged, part of me.
Maybe I could inquire about where she got that scar just above her left eye. Or why she looks at me all cockeyed sometimes.
I want to inhale her perfume and maybe even let myself get intoxicated by the sound of her hums when I’m doing it. And I have no goddamn idea why.
In the middle of my completely irrational daydream, I remember she’s the enemy. And let us not forget the boy-toy. Whatever he is. So instead of messing with any more dangerous ideas, I pull my keys out of my jeans’ pocket and give her a two-finger wave.
“Nice seeing you, as always, Green.” I head for the car, and before her heels make the first clack against the pavement, I hear her huff out in frustration.
“Wait.”
“No can do,” I tell her over my shoulder. “I’ve got actual work to do.” And a cold shower to take.
“Stiles, if you would just—”
“When I’m in the mood to get my name dragged through the mud again, I’ll call you.”
That’s a lie, of course. I don’t have her number.
Keep walking, Stiles.
I train my eyes on the Chevelle and continue moving forward. Thank God I came to my senses. For all I know, Jim Galley and his goons pointed her in my direction to get me drunk and have me spill all my secrets into some sort of recording device. Next thing I know, my words are twisted, and I get a free pass to some quality jail time for being the guy who killed Donnie Leary.
No. And thank you.
GHOSTS OF VICTIMS PAST
THERE’S NOTHING LIKE a couple days, some easy jobs, and a little bit of self-deprecation to make you forget about the piercing green eyes and enticing grin of a certain nosy─yet intriguingly seductive in her own weird, talkative, highly intrusive personality kinda way─reporter.
Or not.
Emma Green’s attempt to manipulate me the other day might’ve failed, but the lingering effect of her flirtatious tone and inquisitive disposition has, unfortunately, struck a chord with me.
A chord that’s very much in need of a fucking tuning, considering the fact that rubbing one out didn’t get her out of my head. Apparently, a late night visit to Marty Sweetwater’s apartment didn’t either, and she may or may not think I’m into role play now since I accidentally called her Emma during sex.
But I digress.
It’s kinda pissing me off, truthfully. That and the fact she and my brother seemed to hit it off so easily. I’m pretty sure Mikey would’ve liked her, too.
Talk to me, Jackie.
I force the sound of his voice out of my head as I smear the fog from the bathroom mirror. The dark glare of a villain engraved high into my left peck grabs my attention. Its sinister smirk judges me.
He resembles a darker, more twisted version of the Joker from a deck of cards, with a twinge of the Dark Knight’s adversary bleeding through in his expression. People read into what he means, and I don’t correct them. The truth is, he’s a reminder of what I am and what I’m not, and that’s none of their fucking business.
The sound of Marty Sweetwater’s earlier news segment rerun bleeds in from the other room when I start to brush my teeth. It’s enough to keep me from sinking into what is quickly becoming sulk mode and more along the lines of the much needed P.I. mode.
Before I hopped into the shower this morning, I heard the tail end of Donnie Leary’s funeral announcement. Now I’m getting all the deets. It’s being held in a few short hours at Redemption’s South End Cemetery. Good to know, but why in the hell are they making this a segment? It’s not like he was a big player. He wasn’t even a medium player.
The next words out of Sweetwater’s mouth answer my question. They needed a reason to bring up Thomas Flint and his clan of assholes again.
“The gang
Including the champagne.
Part of me even thinks I might actually enjoy listening to her jabber on about all of her crazy reporter bullshit. A deep, dark, albeit deranged, part of me.
Maybe I could inquire about where she got that scar just above her left eye. Or why she looks at me all cockeyed sometimes.
I want to inhale her perfume and maybe even let myself get intoxicated by the sound of her hums when I’m doing it. And I have no goddamn idea why.
In the middle of my completely irrational daydream, I remember she’s the enemy. And let us not forget the boy-toy. Whatever he is. So instead of messing with any more dangerous ideas, I pull my keys out of my jeans’ pocket and give her a two-finger wave.
“Nice seeing you, as always, Green.” I head for the car, and before her heels make the first clack against the pavement, I hear her huff out in frustration.
“Wait.”
“No can do,” I tell her over my shoulder. “I’ve got actual work to do.” And a cold shower to take.
“Stiles, if you would just—”
“When I’m in the mood to get my name dragged through the mud again, I’ll call you.”
That’s a lie, of course. I don’t have her number.
Keep walking, Stiles.
I train my eyes on the Chevelle and continue moving forward. Thank God I came to my senses. For all I know, Jim Galley and his goons pointed her in my direction to get me drunk and have me spill all my secrets into some sort of recording device. Next thing I know, my words are twisted, and I get a free pass to some quality jail time for being the guy who killed Donnie Leary.
No. And thank you.
GHOSTS OF VICTIMS PAST
THERE’S NOTHING LIKE a couple days, some easy jobs, and a little bit of self-deprecation to make you forget about the piercing green eyes and enticing grin of a certain nosy─yet intriguingly seductive in her own weird, talkative, highly intrusive personality kinda way─reporter.
Or not.
Emma Green’s attempt to manipulate me the other day might’ve failed, but the lingering effect of her flirtatious tone and inquisitive disposition has, unfortunately, struck a chord with me.
A chord that’s very much in need of a fucking tuning, considering the fact that rubbing one out didn’t get her out of my head. Apparently, a late night visit to Marty Sweetwater’s apartment didn’t either, and she may or may not think I’m into role play now since I accidentally called her Emma during sex.
But I digress.
It’s kinda pissing me off, truthfully. That and the fact she and my brother seemed to hit it off so easily. I’m pretty sure Mikey would’ve liked her, too.
Talk to me, Jackie.
I force the sound of his voice out of my head as I smear the fog from the bathroom mirror. The dark glare of a villain engraved high into my left peck grabs my attention. Its sinister smirk judges me.
He resembles a darker, more twisted version of the Joker from a deck of cards, with a twinge of the Dark Knight’s adversary bleeding through in his expression. People read into what he means, and I don’t correct them. The truth is, he’s a reminder of what I am and what I’m not, and that’s none of their fucking business.
The sound of Marty Sweetwater’s earlier news segment rerun bleeds in from the other room when I start to brush my teeth. It’s enough to keep me from sinking into what is quickly becoming sulk mode and more along the lines of the much needed P.I. mode.
Before I hopped into the shower this morning, I heard the tail end of Donnie Leary’s funeral announcement. Now I’m getting all the deets. It’s being held in a few short hours at Redemption’s South End Cemetery. Good to know, but why in the hell are they making this a segment? It’s not like he was a big player. He wasn’t even a medium player.
The next words out of Sweetwater’s mouth answer my question. They needed a reason to bring up Thomas Flint and his clan of assholes again.
“The gang
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