Re: Outside the Drive
She looked down at the shoes (tinkle-tinkle went the earrings, okay maybe she understood the fucking feminine thing a little bit with the shoes, but the earrings bothered the shit out of her) and a lock of hair swept past her chin, tickled her nose and blocked her view of the red shoes right before he hocked another loogey.
"Quit it," she said, taking another step back and wiggling a sneeze away from her nose with the brush of her forefinger, "Or I'll make you." And she smiled, poison-bloom pretty. Strippers waltzed around on fucking skyscraper heels, all plastic and perspex and sticky and these red shoes with the toes peeking out, chipped-paint cheerful, they had nothing on strippers.
The bracelets rattled up to her forearm as she drew one last lungful of carbon and nicotine, feathering through her lungs and held as long as she could and she crushed the end carefully with the toe of one of the red shoes. "You've never seen a stripper," and she gave him a look all smug certainty.