1
His hands are on me, moving over my leg in smooth strokes. I want to purr – but purring is for kittens, and instead I find myself holding my breath to keep from making any sound. One finger at a time he traces lines along the edge of my short shorts; over the thin seams, he makes his way to my waist and along my stomach. His lips gently meet mine – too gentle. I arch my back and hope he gets the picture – just take me. Now! Before I rip you apart!
He stops.
“Time to get off,” he says.
I open my eyes, but he’s gone. It’s all gone, vanished.
“Damn” I spit the word out, followed by “shit, Rowena.” I’m on a bus – please don’t tell me I was moaning out loud! And did I just curse at myself – I’m still half asleep.
My cheeks flush bright red and I jump to my feet.
“Hurry up” the bus driver grumbles, his voice exactly like the guy in my dreams, and my checks go redder.
Yep! Seattle sucks! The midnight express bus pulls out behind me and I hoist my backpack over one shoulder considering the two options that I’m left with – none of them are as good as my dream. Choice number one, the road to my left, or number two the road to my right. Or I could just plonk my exhausted teenage ass down in the bus shelter and have a nap next to the bum snuggled under his heavy brown coat.
I shiver, yeah no, not going to happen, and I start walking to the left.
Finding that twenty on the ground in Sacramento was a stroke of luck, and I thank whichever goddess was responsible for it as I stretch my stilly sleepy arms and legs. Walking this far, or rushing as my little skill in magic happens to be, would have left me ravishing. And without a cent to my name the next step would be stealing some food, followed by being chased by the police; my life gets not pretty real fast when I’m hungry. As it is I’m half a day’s bus travel from my last lot of troubles – a month’s unpaid motel bill, and the hospital bill from breaking two fingers that needed surgically re-breaking and re-setting. All this from punching one of the raiding police officers on the night Bare Fists Street Fighting Rink; which was now officially closed for business – but at this moment I can probably last another day or so without food. Providing I don’t rush . I probably should count the warrant out for my arrest as a problem too, but somehow officers never seem to communicate well over state lines. A day’s bus travel should have me in the clear.
The town is practically dead, well it is the middle of the night, but halfway down the street and down a little hill a doorman stands guard over the heavy metal entrance to a night club.
The sight of that one guy, dressed all in black with an earpiece sitting casually out of his ear, makes me smile. I could do with some fun, and walking aimlessly down the street without any clue where I am going doesn’t really compare to some dancing and conning strangers for a drink. I slick the band out of my hair and tug the front of my shirt just a little lower. With my cleavage popping and my hair flowing I walk up to the door. He offers a knowing grunt and lets me in. I sling my bag onto the counter and take the ticket offered for lockering it, but I don’t bother looking at the guy. My gaze avoids the others that fill the hallways too; dancers, kissers, guys in tight jeans, girls in short skirts; I reserve my attention for someone worth my while.
In a world so crammed full of beating hearts and mumbling mouths very few human offerings interest me and a banished witch like me is not left with any choice but human company. The tattoo on the back of my hand brands me as invisible to my kind – and my kind are invisible to me.
I tug my sleeve down lower and loop my thumb through the hole; hiding most of the blind-eye mark.
The music offers a frantic dance beat which my body begins to respond to. Passing a tall guy with spiked red hair, I swipe his drink from his hand and disappear into
His hands are on me, moving over my leg in smooth strokes. I want to purr – but purring is for kittens, and instead I find myself holding my breath to keep from making any sound. One finger at a time he traces lines along the edge of my short shorts; over the thin seams, he makes his way to my waist and along my stomach. His lips gently meet mine – too gentle. I arch my back and hope he gets the picture – just take me. Now! Before I rip you apart!
He stops.
“Time to get off,” he says.
I open my eyes, but he’s gone. It’s all gone, vanished.
“Damn” I spit the word out, followed by “shit, Rowena.” I’m on a bus – please don’t tell me I was moaning out loud! And did I just curse at myself – I’m still half asleep.
My cheeks flush bright red and I jump to my feet.
“Hurry up” the bus driver grumbles, his voice exactly like the guy in my dreams, and my checks go redder.
Yep! Seattle sucks! The midnight express bus pulls out behind me and I hoist my backpack over one shoulder considering the two options that I’m left with – none of them are as good as my dream. Choice number one, the road to my left, or number two the road to my right. Or I could just plonk my exhausted teenage ass down in the bus shelter and have a nap next to the bum snuggled under his heavy brown coat.
I shiver, yeah no, not going to happen, and I start walking to the left.
Finding that twenty on the ground in Sacramento was a stroke of luck, and I thank whichever goddess was responsible for it as I stretch my stilly sleepy arms and legs. Walking this far, or rushing as my little skill in magic happens to be, would have left me ravishing. And without a cent to my name the next step would be stealing some food, followed by being chased by the police; my life gets not pretty real fast when I’m hungry. As it is I’m half a day’s bus travel from my last lot of troubles – a month’s unpaid motel bill, and the hospital bill from breaking two fingers that needed surgically re-breaking and re-setting. All this from punching one of the raiding police officers on the night Bare Fists Street Fighting Rink; which was now officially closed for business – but at this moment I can probably last another day or so without food. Providing I don’t rush . I probably should count the warrant out for my arrest as a problem too, but somehow officers never seem to communicate well over state lines. A day’s bus travel should have me in the clear.
The town is practically dead, well it is the middle of the night, but halfway down the street and down a little hill a doorman stands guard over the heavy metal entrance to a night club.
The sight of that one guy, dressed all in black with an earpiece sitting casually out of his ear, makes me smile. I could do with some fun, and walking aimlessly down the street without any clue where I am going doesn’t really compare to some dancing and conning strangers for a drink. I slick the band out of my hair and tug the front of my shirt just a little lower. With my cleavage popping and my hair flowing I walk up to the door. He offers a knowing grunt and lets me in. I sling my bag onto the counter and take the ticket offered for lockering it, but I don’t bother looking at the guy. My gaze avoids the others that fill the hallways too; dancers, kissers, guys in tight jeans, girls in short skirts; I reserve my attention for someone worth my while.
In a world so crammed full of beating hearts and mumbling mouths very few human offerings interest me and a banished witch like me is not left with any choice but human company. The tattoo on the back of my hand brands me as invisible to my kind – and my kind are invisible to me.
I tug my sleeve down lower and loop my thumb through the hole; hiding most of the blind-eye mark.
The music offers a frantic dance beat which my body begins to respond to. Passing a tall guy with spiked red hair, I swipe his drink from his hand and disappear into
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