Deadly Drafts - CH 50

CAN'T WIN FOR LOSING

Picture Courtesy of Dinkun Chen

Though Alex had literally zero experience with women—'Dear Penthouse' stories of girls and their "college phases" being cis-male bull-hokey—Alex plowing Highley's impostor van through salt and slush felt a little like kissing Kavi. The teal paint, the grey interior, even the dust-covered dash? This second Chevy van was a carbon copy of Kavi's. There was something faintly out of body about the whole experience. Thanks to coffee spills and a forest of pine fresheners dangling from the rearview, this fake van even smelled the same. Except now, instead of directing a forensics search, Alex sat in the driver's seat, needle bouncing at 65.

The Judge lay across the middle bench, knees to his chest. He wriggled against the tape at his ankles, knees and wrists.

"Rule one," Alex smiled to the rearview, "elbows and knees together when you're getting taped. It's your only hope of wriggling free."

Deadly Drafts - CH 49

OUR BRAND IS HORRIBLE IDEAS

"When we asked to borrow her car, Sheila's only words were, and I quote, 'just don't wreck it.'" Arthur had to shout over the Karman Ghia's roaring engine, arms braced to dash. "Those were her exact words!"

"That was just a little dent!" Kavi jerked the wheel, swerving onto the road shoulder to avoid the navy Civic giving chase. Two and a half cups of Shelia’s coffee sloshed through her guts and into her bladder. "Besides, he's the one wrecking the car, not me! Relax! We just need get to Alex! We'll be fine!"

A strange energy swelled Kavi's chest. A burst of adrenaline pushing all her insides to butterflies. For all the noise—roaring engines, spraying gravel, Harris and Arthur shouting—Kavi's mind remained calm, quiet. The Civic and it's flaming red driver swerved back toward them. Kavi bit her lip, counter-steered into the car. The machines came together with sparks and an awful screaming.

Deadly Drafts - CH 48

'HER'

Alex's body absolutely ached. Worse than the time she'd tried cross-fit. Worse than a Jaegermeister-and-beer-pong hangover. Above her left eye, towards her ear, each heartbeat wedged into her skull. A crossed wire between her eyes and brain sparkled electricity.

"Pet a frickin' kitten," Alex cursed. She stretched her arms. Yep, still there. She blinked the world back into being: awful burgundy shag carpet, fake wood paneling. The wall of framed documents pulled her back to full reality. She jolted upright, panic clenching her chest.

Judge Sebastian Highley sprawled on the shag beside her. A red splotch on his leg oozed strawberry jam. The .22 rifle sat like a bounding board between them.

"Holy shit!" Alex immediately clapped a hand over her sailor's mouth. "I'm alive. Oh god. I'm alive!" The grin disappeared. "…And I've shot Judge Highley."