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Blood Don’t Lie

Veronica Grim tilted her head, baring her neck to the musician with the blue tattoos. The scent of vanilla clung to her pulse point. It’s simple to drive a man crazy if you know how. He approached, swaggering. Drunk. Her lips twitched.

“I saw you.” He belched. “From onstage.” His hand planted itself next to her on the grimy wall. He leaned in. Posters crinkled beneath him.

“I’m glad.” She leaned back, pressing her boot heel against the wall and lifting her eyes to his. His black goatee was framed by swirling blue ink across his chin and neck. She tossed her hair and smiled. Child’s play.


Her thighs clenched behind his as they rocketed down the highway on his motorcycle. Images of a different man with a different name shot past her eyes like highway signs. She sneered at the back of his head. Scum never changes.

At his place, he was on her in an instant, rough hands pawing at her chest. She rolled her eyes, shoved him away, asked to use his restroom before things got serious. Grinning, he dropped onto the couch and nodded. Scratched himself with confidence as she walked away.

In his bedroom, she found what she was looking for. The closet: a peeling wooden door, held fast by a rusted lock. Now all she needed was the key. Sock drawer? Cigar box? Underneath the porn mags tucked beneath the bed? A poster caught her eye. The man himself leered at her, grabbing his crotch with one hand, a microphone in the other. Women in chain mail bikinis gripped his legs. Classy. She ripped it off the wall in one fluid motion.

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