Gotta Stop Meeting Like This:
@pcttydabblcr {Continued from Here XX}
“Da’s wha ya keep tellin’ me haole boy,” she says as he slouches into a chair, his breath laboured under that tie and the plain white shirt and the trench-coat. She blew a stray lock of dark hair from her face as she bent over to work on his arm. The tweezers bite into a fragment of what she thinks is a chip of bone, but is in fact a very razor-edged tooth. Reminds her of a shark’s, and she has to bite her own lip to keep from asking how that was even possible. Because knows the truth, that it wasn’t a shark and that John was likely never going to share the story. Men like him enjoy the thrill of the hunt, and the blood and the agony sometimes, makes them feel mighty, but oddly, they don’t like to share the tales with people they consider strangers. Or delicate. Funny though, how he turns up on her doorstep though, isn’t it? Must not be that strange, or that delicate. When his eyes focus on hers, and his breath is warm on her cheek, she knows almost before he says it, what he wants. And she’s already prepared to give it. She’s told him before, she’s good at her job. Besides, it’ll make her own magick easier, it’ll keep him still. “Whiskey or vodka,” she asks, slanting him a gaze.
She knows it’s gonna be the start of a long night. So why is it that when she turns her back on the grubby, second hand, petty dabbler, she’s smiling?
