Isyra: The Last Outpost

Adriana stood there like a ghost from his past, all curly red hair and dark green eyes. The stupid smile plastered on her face almost made him want to walk out on the woman (again). Leave her here in this filthy backwater to rot like she had intended him to do all those years ago.

It was what she deserved, probably wanted. The bitch would go to excruciating lengths to prove her stupid, profit oriented points. In a different world, she could have really made something of herself.

Today’s lesson he wasn’t quite sure about.

What is she looking to prove?, he thought to himself.

Michael sighed, exhaling the acrid ditch weed’s smoke in a dragon’s tail. His head buzzed. Good shit.

“Are you coming or what?”

She asked, holding open the passenger door open for him.

“Who said you’re driving? It’s my Buick.”

1956, brand spanking new off of the factory floor, all suede interior. It was his pride and joy. It was his baby girl, pastel pink with a chrome fender. To her it might have well been a tractor, covered in donkey shit.

”M, I always drive. Now get the fuck in, will you? It’s cold out here. I don’t have the energy to deal with your bullshit, got me?”

The smile dissolved.

He stared at her blankly and flicked the doobie off into the brush.

Okay bitch, let’s tango. One more shot, and if you fuck me over this time, you’re dead.

Walking up to her the wind started to whip at his coat tails, sharp and cold. He could smell her perfume. It was different, like gasoline marigolds.

“You got it, toots.”

He got in.

She closed the door.

The car exploded.