Wicked Little Words

I slowly turn to look at her. "Yep?"

"Any normal woman would climb that man like a tree. I mean, hell, what, are you a virgin or a Jehovah's Witness? Are you into girls or something?"

"No." I take another sip of my drink, staring at the piece of overly processed meat sizzling on the griddle.

"Okay, so I don't understand the problem here. He—" She places her hand on my shoulder and spins my chair to face her. "What was his name?"

"Jax."

"Sexy name." She smiles. "So Jax was obviously interested. You were interested. I mean, hell, you two were basically eye-fucking each other."

Covering my mouth, I choke on my drink. To be so crude, she sure as hell looks put together. "I'm not really a people person."

Janine rolls her eyes. "Yeah, yeah. I haven't met an author yet who is a 'people person.' Did you give him your number?"

"Hell no… he gave me his."

She arches one of her perfectly sculpted brows. "Interesting."

"What's interesting about that?"

"That he gave you his number instead of asking for yours." She shrugs. "I like to analyze people, figure out what makes them tick. That's the only reason I work well—huh, as well as one person can work—with EA. You have to learn what drives someone, you know, and the fact that he gave you his number, well, he put the damn ball in your court…" She smirks before lifting her drink to her lips. "Life is about experiences, Miranda. Do something that takes you out of your comfort zone."

"Oh." I laugh. "I assure you this entire ordeal with Edwin"—I wave my hand—"way, way out of my comfort zone."

Shooting a disapproving look at me, she shakes her head. "Just call the damn man, would you? One call. Ask him to have coffee with you or something." She turns back to the counter just as the waitress sets a plate filled with soggy fries and a gigantic burger in front of her. "Coffee and a quick fuck, is that too much for a woman to ask for?"

Easy enough for her to say. Not in a million-fucking-years would I call him. No matter how badly I may want to.





“People Are Strange”—Goodbye Nova



"You're fucking sick, man. I'm telling ya. A fuckin midget? Really?" Tommy asks, scratching his slightly balding head.


"A hot one? Yeah, what's there not to get here, man? You can spin them. Carry them around. There are all kinds of benefits," I say, my eyes counting the cracks in the sidewalk, my brain anywhere but engaged in this ridiculous conversation. If I had known my comment after passing a shop with a midget stripper billfold in the window would've led to this conversation, I would've kept my mouth shut.

A migraine is rocking my skull right now, and my aviators do little to keep the noon sun from making matters worse. Nightmares kept me up most of the night. The kind that make you feel like you’re right there in it. Living and breathing the nightmare, fighting to get out. I sat up and drank and stared blankly at some shitty TV rerun until the sun came through the shades.

Cruising Tenth Street for prostitutes with my chatty partner is not how I want to spend my day.

"You just wanna see them tiny carnie hands around your junk so it makes you feel like I do every day." He laughs heartily, pulling at his junk then putting both hands to his gut. With each bit of laughter, jolts of pain tear through my brain.

"Fuck, Tommy, can you keep it down? I'm fucking dying over here."

"Yeah, you don't look so good. Long night?" he asks, a pep in his step that makes me hate his ass right about now.

"Yeah."

"Nightmares and shit again?"

"Don't you know it," I say with a bland tone as I make the turn down an alley peppered with half-clothed prostitutes.

A few of them scatter, trying their best to act inconspicuous. One drops what's obviously a joint and follows them.

"C'mon now, ladies. No one’s in trouble here. We just wanna talk," Tommy calls.

"Ain't nobody wanna talk to you, pig!" one of them yells, leaning nonchalantly against the brick wall. Her bleached-blond hair is in pigtails, and a tiny black mini skirt hugs her tight ass.

Tommy just laughs as we approach her. He looks over at me. "Well, ain't she sweet, partner?" He looks back over at her. "You on your period or something, sweetheart?"

She flips us both the bird before slinking around the corner, disappearing into some old shop.

“They’re not gonna talk to us,” I say as I turn toward Tommy, whose attention has been drawn to the hot dog stand on the corner.

"Partner…" he says without looking. "Fucking hot dog time."

I follow him as he's guided by his gut to the rickety little cart with a white-and-yellow striped umbrella. The man behind the cart is busy slopping wet hot dogs onto buns. He opens one of the containers, and the smell of chili wafts up in a cloud of steam.

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