Yeah, well, that part could be simple enough because in the first book(I love saying that!) I set up that father and daughter had not been speaking much at the time of his death.

Hard one. Harder than usual, believe it or not.

Heroin (One Question I Never Asked Him)

You tie off, first. It forces the vein up to the surface, makes it easy to hit, yeah? Right there, blue, pulsing away, alive.

Get your works together, cut it, mix it, take the strength up or down. Straight into the vein.

The rush - bloody hell, so hard, so fast. Doesn't matter if you're sick - it can't fucking touch you. It's you and the moon. And the sex? With that shit, I could fuck you for hours, leave you begging me for a few hours more. Brilliant shit.

Help me stop, love, will you? I need to stop.

Topic?

Tep?

Sorry! Me slow. And I took a nap after work. My brain is all foggy.

However!

It is drabble time once again, and with it, you get a small glimpse into the inner workings of my weird mind.

Challenge #65 (blood) is now closed.

For challenge #66, the number itself made me start humming Nat King Cole ("Route 66"), which led to this week's topic: driving.

Please keep both hands on the wheel.

Steph, if I thought you read my LiveJournal I would think that was just for me.

(Yes, I have issues. Which may turn into a drabble.)

Dude. I love my car.

Play THIS!

In the left turn lane, going home.

Next to me, through lane: four boys, driving their mama's tarted-up Mitsubishi Eclipse: spinner wheels, chrome trim, overamped bass system. They're pumping hiphop: bump BADA bump; to my ears, BORING bada DUMB. I glare.

They're amused - crank it! piss off the old white lady! Oh, infants, you have no idea...

I lower Ripper's passenger window. They open their mouths.

I turn the volume up - it's an 8-speaker Bose - and hit CD-play. Tool: I KNOW THE PIECES FIT! They're so surprised, they pop their clutch.

I flip them off, and keep on driving.

Ha. That reminds me of the day I drove past a Mormon church on a Sunday with "Highway to Hell" blasting.

to my ears, BORING bada DUMB

Oh hell yeah! One day, deb, one day I will have a car that I can do that with. I look forward to that day.

1 AM, Sunday morning, no cars around. Atop the hill south of Camp Williams the urban world falls away. The cankerous subdivisions are ten years in the future, and the nearest building ahead of me is five miles away. Unreclaimed desert grasslands surround me.

The full moon lights the dead straight, empty road flowing down the long slope ahead.

I roll down the windows and turn off the radio to hear the wind and the crickets, then I ease into the center of the road, straddling the two lanes. The headlights go off, and I slide the gearshift into neutral. If someone coming my way is likeways running dark, we'll never see each other in time.

I dream of it sometimes, flying in the dark.

I'm such a little me-too lately...my mom bought me this book of vampire stories and today I've already tried my hand at it...people that know me would totally spot this as mine, though...

It's not finished, but should I bother?

For the sake of this story, you can call me Jane Wayne. It’s not my name, but it has been in the squad since I started working Vice; the guys think it’s funny to see a woman who hustles more than they do and they think I’m a cowboy, so...instant nickname. I should only have to live with it for twenty years or so and by then the sound of perps making sucking sounds and kissing noises at me will have faded. I hope so.

Till then, there are guys I fucking love to lock up...the ones that call me mami and make obscene suggestions that I can’t tell if they want me to understand. Not that this is a racial thing; the assholes looking for a souvenir other than a t-shirt from the fancy hotels can be way worse because no matter what sicko shit they like they still look at me like “Don’t you know who I am?” If it’s true that a stiff prick has no conscience, I don’t think it has a pedigree either. I think they’re all the same. I used to like men once, before this job.

Not that I found myself loving anyone on my special detail. Dressed like a hooker, on the first genuinely “chilly” Phoenix October night, my love for humanity on absolute negative digits...this wasn’t an ordinary sting taken on to placate the city fathers. We were looking for somebody special.
The kind of sick bastard who tore up women’s veins like cheap hamburger, and weirdly enough, drained them. Exsanguinated, according to the cutter’s report. The more I read I longed for the protection of my uniform and my Glock. Maybe I am a cowboy, trapped in Miss Kitty’s body.

“This is my corner.” The hooker standing next to me said. She was younger than she seemed, little more than a girl, and she’d be far more beautiful without the crap on her face.I had to laugh at myself for thinking of that, like I could solve anybody’s problems, even mine.

“I’m not moving in on you,” I explained, flashing my badge discreetly.