Page 73 of Paint the Town, Dove

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Whether I liked it or not.

“Hi,” he smiled. “Going a little fast there.”

“Was I?”Charm, on.“God, these heels officer” – I scanned his nametag – “Ricky, these heels have so much weight to them I can hardly regulate the pressure.”

He tapped my hood, eyes never leaving my face. “You have a speedometer.”

I clicked a bunch of buttons, red nails flying over my Aston’s touchscreen. “These new cars, so complicated.”

He chuckled, leaning forward. “You were going thirty-eight over limit,” then pushed off my door, “I’ve got to write you up, no matter how pretty you are.”

And this.

This is why I hated men.

Couldn’t grab a good one to save your life.

Except Ryden.But fuck Ryden.

Charm, off. “Alright Ricks,give me the damn ticket so I can be on my way.”

I handed over my license, he jotted some bullshit down on a yellow notepad and ripped off the fine.One-twenty, huh, took it easy on me.I’d charge it to the label anyway.Small blessings.

“Hey,” he tapped my window as I revved the engine, “You could give me your number.”

You could.

I could?

They all start it that way.

You could do me a favour.

You could fuck me for change.

You could fuck me for a room.

You could fuck me TO SAVE YOUR LIFE.

I smiled so bitterly I could taste the poison in my breath. “I’d rather rot in prison.”

And I shifted into sport mode, flying faster than before, all the way to WakeWood Cemetery.

I’d rather rot in prison, God.

I have.

Day in, day out.

And I fucking survived.

… Barely.

***

I slept in a graveyard shed for two weeks before Sinead found me.

It was before we moved to Slater street, well before Ryden and I met.

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