𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐑𝐀 𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐑𝐀 — ( @sihnon )
HOW FAR SHE'S FALLEN. once, she'd have been happily swanning around the affluent districts of new york, or particularly privileged towns of california. shopping bags in hand, adorned with jewellery and fine clothes. now she keeps her head low, wearing outfits that mostly hide her beauty and help her stay out of the limelight. the only shopping she regularly carries are small plastic bags filled with illicit substances, sold to her by a schoolboy.
it isn't the life inara had dreamt of, nor that she was used to. making a few wrong choices, mingling with the wrong clients everything you ever know can fall apart so quickly. from one of the most prized escorts in the country, to hiding out in a backwater town near to indianapolis.
❝ ... high? ❞ she offers the twitch of a wry smile, knowing that isn't exactly what he's asking. she doesn't often talk about her past, nor her present. honestly, she rarely talks to anyone nowadays; this is the most social contact she's engaged with this week.
$50 is pushed over to him. ❝ i'll take an ounce this time, if you have that much in your little box. ❞ may as well enjoy the money, while she's still got it.
𝐃𝐎𝐆 𝐃𝐀𝐘𝐒 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐘𝐄𝐓 𝐓𝐎 𝐂𝐎𝐑𝐑𝐔𝐏𝐓 the final throes of spring. verdant tidings that kept the indiana air a mild blanket on the skin. sunbeams were gentle spotlights cutting the trees, still stretching loose the laziness that tempered them during the winter lounge. birds were sporty with their songs and actively chased airborne insects, keeping the airways mostly clear of the irritable buzz. but the favorable ambiance stopped there. sinuses were under siege. eyes swollen with gluey tear ducts and the urge to itch loose the soreness. pollen motes, the evil benefactors of this delicately cursed time of year, hung on the shallow breeze, awaiting unsuspecting hosts with clothes or collars to carry them like trojan horses to spread their virulent suffering.
on the cusp of change. it was apt time to be sitting across from a very adult woman offering him very adult money for an ageless escape.
eddie lingered on that pale green fifty. dull nails dragged across his lower lip, catching on the ends of dehydrated skin. the dealer studied old man grant’s faded vignette. he had no doubt the bill was authentic. no jeopardize serial numbers, no hint of hilarious anomalies in the minor detailing of the seals. given a chance to properly check it, eddie was certain he’d feel the raised texture under his thumb. it was the real deal she was promising, and that’s what was needling his nerves.
❝ uh, yeah, uh-huh, ❞ the word was dragged from the tip of his tongue as his knee wobbled to and fro. with scrupulous brevity, his metallic hog bopped densely against his chin before both a pair elbows pronounced themselves on the table, ❝ see, here’s my thing. my usual clientele still get lunch money from mom and dad. you’re not exactly walking around with a jansport strapped to your back. but you’re not a cop. or at least, not a good one. because everything you need to book me, ❞ eddie wrapped a knuckle against the tin lunch pail, ❝ is right there. yet here we are, in the midst of round two. ❞
crossed arms slid a little closer across the wooden surface. dark eyes glimmered thoughtfully from beneath a curtain of fringe, ❝ so, i’ll happily take that fifty off your hands. but i wanna know why me, why not someone more . . . your speed ? ❞
