Hey, guys! Just another friendly reminder that No Grave is coming out in a few weeks!
So are we ready for another sneak peek?
Today we’ll be meeting the secretive Harley, (of the Four Horsemen from Nicole’s Assignment) a non-narrator character caught up in the plot woven between Cyrus, Tristan, and Nicole.
If I had to describe her with a single phrase, I think I’d say she’s “aggro as fuck.”
A descriptor we get right out of the way the moment she’s introduced.
Today’s sneak peek:
[Cyrus had] opened his mouth to ask Miranda his next question when the door swung open and a new customer stepped in. She was a tall woman, five eight or so, made taller by the six inch blood-red mohawk erupting from her scalp. Her face was all angles, pronounced jaw and chin and high jutting cheek bones. She had a thin, narrow nose set between brilliant blue eyes, and standing out against all her pale, paper-white skin, were lips painted in the same dripping red hue as her hair.
The lapels of her leather moto jacket were peaked and sharp, the epaulets crowned with inch long spikes. Her pants were ripped and weathered, held together by pins and old patches, one of which was the printed image from the album cover for ‘London Calling,’ on her right thigh. She strutted across the bar with heavy combat boots, steel toed, and right up to the counter. “I need a drink,” she purred.
Cyrus watched Miranda roll her eyes. The woman looked familiar to him, but he couldn’t place from where. “Any specific kind of drink?”
Her tongue seemed to be the same lurid shade of crimson as her hair and lips, its tip poised between her teeth for a second before vanishing. “Do you do bottle service here?”
Cyrus furrowed his brow.
Miranda snorted and sneered. “’Do we do bottle service?”
The woman turned towards Miranda and said in a chilly voice, “Are you mocking me?”
Miranda quaffed a third of her vodka in one slug and set the glass back on the bar. “Mocking you? The woman who came to Bushwick, Brooklyn, looking for bottle service? No way, not me.”
The woman’s long fingers flicked out faster than Cyrus could follow, suddenly clutching the rim of Miranda’s glass. Miranda let go of it, jerking away from the bar. The woman’s hand flexed, tendons popping. “Mock me,” she demanded.
Cyrus took a step backward toward the register.
“Th—that’s my drink, you—” Miranda stuttered.
“Mock. Me,” the woman snarled in reply.
“Who the hell are y—”
The woman’s hand clenched down, fissures forming and splintering across the rocks glass until it shattered. Stinking vodka splashed across the countertop, exploding out from the jagged foundation. Shards stuck in the woman’s hand, and tributaries of thick, dark blood ran from the wounds and dripped into the pool of clear alcohol. Miranda jumped back with a yelp and the remaining patron quietly ogled the scene. Nobody moved.
“You don’t know me well enough to mock me,” the woman said, plucking a jagged fragment from her palm and licking the dark blood from the wound. She set the broken bit down on the counter and started picking other small slivers out of her hand one at a time.
Cyrus backed up to the register and slid his hand underneath, clutching the grip of the revolver. He started to peel it away, and the woman’s eyes flicked towards him. “Do you want to talk about bottle service?” she asked.
“I want to talk about you getting the hell out of my bar.”
She dropped the slivers of broken glass into the pool of spilled alcohol and dug her bloodied hand into her jacket.Share This: