The story starts as every worthwhile story starts: with a woman.
The air was stagnant, hanging heavy over the city like a wet, wool blanket over a dying body. Shadows lengthened in the tiny office as the sun slipped behind the highrises. The ceiling fan whirred overhead, off balance from the missing blade. Papers fluttered on the desk, the soft rift the only sound against the ever-present hum. I sat on the busted swivel chair, feet on the desk, sipping cheap bourbon with a vengeance. It was one of those days, the kind of day that starts in Hell and then goes south.
I should’ve known things would get worse the second I heard the knock at the door. My watch claimed it was half past seven, too late in the day for any legitimate business. I glared
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I sucked in a quick breath, weighing my options. Funds were low and rent couldn’t be paid in rainbows and sunshine. The third knock made my decision for me. I finished off the bourbon and yelled for my evening patron to enter. Knowing then what I know now, I’d have barred the windows, hid under the desk, and not opened the door for Huey Long himself.
They say the universe turns on certain moments. My universe turned, spun, jumped, and rolled over the moment she walked into my life.
She was short, barely over five feet, though her heels gave her a couple extra inches, but she walked into the room like bottled lightning. Charged, magnetic, her eyes flashed over the office, looking and judging all in one go. I followed her gaze; the takeout cartons from Jack Wang’s place down the street, a few empty bottles, and a filing cabinet held together with duct tape and prayer. This place was beneath her and it showed in every liquid step she took.
She was a redhead to make a priest kick a hole in a stained glass window. Wearing this little blue number that left a tragic amount to the imagination. She finally deigned to grace me with a glance, taking in three days’ worth of stubble, unkempt hair, and bloodshot eyes with all the emotion of a brick. Her eyes were