Eve watches him from across the bonfire. She likes long-haired guys, and this
one's delicious, fey and whiskey-voiced. He's flirting and talking bluegrass
with Mel, though, humming and laughing over fumbled chords. Eve sips her drink,
wishing she'd learned guitar instead of doing musicals at school, and worn a
halter-top like Mel instead of her sweatshirt.
"Going to law school next year, hon?"
Eve smiles for her aunt. "No, that firm where I'm interning offered me
a position."
Mel grins. "Jeez, Eve, loose the modesty. 'That firm' is only the biggest
law office in L.A."
Suddenly he's looking at her.
*
Stone heaves. Flashlight strobes across pale hair, sharp pretty features, girl
jumps down. Callused fingers skim her body, stone heaves, her ankle's free,
she groans with a dry throat, girl calls, "I need your shirt, Spike,"
black drifts down, and the dull pain, spilled and smeared, snaps — bam!
— back into agony, but her socket's full of shoulder, held with a ripped
tee. She's lifted like a doll into arms strong as tigers, through the hole,
into arms safe as houses, her enemies' safe arms. "Still alive, Eve?"
Spike's night-eyes sparkle darkly. The city smells like rain. "Lucky you."
December 18, 2004
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