LOVE Machines

A Flash Fiction Playlist...

SURPRISE! We’re bringing back the flash anthology format for something I have been thinking about all year. We have quite a few couples running around Base (and at-large), and I felt it would be fun to look into the days that these unbreakable bonds began.

The Twist: We’re looking into their courtship thru the soundtracks of their lives. Each story is titled after a song, and that song plays a role within the story, whether big or small. And while print collections will lose this last dimension, the beauty of web fiction is that I can LINK the songs in the story titles. Hope you enjoy this romantic bout of experimentation.

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A1. ALL NIGHT LONG

Open nights at the Oasis were the kinds of musical carnivals that could do just about anything for anyone. Make a career or break a career. Pack the tables or send aurally terrorized patrons shrieking into the hills. To any act in Central, getting a slot at Doc’s was a rite of passage. And for the teenaged five-piece stepping on stage, it wasn’t just publicity on the line tonight. For a young Harry Garret, it was a mission of paramount importance.

Before joining Hell Patrol, before even knowing the two maniac metalheads in his future, the brown-furred delinquent rocked a cover band named “WEYL” (“Whatever You Like”). It was after the modest embarrassment and surprising success of a gig at the local watering hole (run by Harry’s mom Bette) that he spotted a quite the catch. She was a white wolf, about his age, dressed in a red one-piece bathing suit. There was something in her eyes every time he looked her way. It took the nudge of his black bassist Deak for him to realize “oh shit, she digs ME.”

Wherever the band played, the young lady was there. No matter the time, no matter the place, there she was. Third time was the charm when Harry finally came offstage to meet her after a gig.

“Right then,” the cowboy mutt smiled. “What’s your name and what’s up?”

“Name’s Scarlet. Scarlet Jones.” she replied. “And I think you’re cool.”

He wanted to play it cool, to pretend he wasn’t that interested for the sake of some tension, but the showmanship only lasted the show’s length.

“You look pretty cute from where I stand.” he smiled. “Wanna hang out some time? Swim the Hole, get somethin’ at Doc’s. Maybe have you there when we play on Friday.”

“Only if you sing.” she teased.

“Whaddya—”

“I mean, I want you live-n-on the mic.” the petit white wolf pressed. “I wanna hear ya really go for it.”

For most of WEYL’s existence, Harry was a backing vocalist, content in his riffage and baroque noodling. The fact anyone wanted him to sing upfront was enough to make him blush or hurl. Fortunately, he was in control of himself long enough to not blow chunks at point blank range. When a chick this good looking asked, he couldn’t say no.

“Alright,” he shrugged nonchalantly, “ya got me. One song. You better be there for it.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” she beamed. He leaned in for a kiss, only to get passed clean by as she sauntered over to her slick red coupé.

“You can come collect if the song’s good.” she winked before peeling out.

And so, for the first time, Harry Garret took to the stage, and marched right to the center mic. In front of a packed house. In Doc’s Oasis.

The fact he managed to not piss himself felt like the monumental achievement. The short brown guitarist fumbled his cream-colored Strat over his head, tightened his strap, picked off each string to make sure she was tuned, and took the mother of all deep breaths.

“Right then.” he spoke plainly, popping the collar on his leather jacket. “This is Whatever You Like, Greg’s gonna be screaming for ya the rest of the night, but me and the boys got a little business to take care of. And if we do it right, shit’s gonna ring your ears.”

Their stout gray drummer counted off, and the rest was a marathon.

It wasn’t a matter of coordination, nor of screaming over his own amps. If he could have seen the whole venue, he would’ve been met with a thousand jaws flat on the floor. He was a belter. He sang like a gale-force wind powered by a V12. He sang like a tornado in heat. It was rockabilly, heavy metal, howling blues. Even some of his bandmates hadn’t seen him lay it on like this.

When he finally did look down during his blistering solo, he saw her. Scarlet was there, and her face was just as jam-packed with astonishment as the rest. And when the smile crept across her face, he felt it wrap around his hands and send his guitar singing. Furiously he shredded, building and building into that final verse where he was on top of the world.

He made the mistake of looking at her during some of the more vulgar lyrics, and immediately looked away. He kept going, but a knot began tying in his stomach. Then his voice cracked on a high note, saved by a raspy shriek. And then, by the grace of God, it was over. To the audience it was a well-earned bow he took, but it was the stress of the final run that doubled the guitarist over. When he came back up for air, and saw the reaction, he smiled, and brought the band in for their bow as well.

He whispered to the real lead singer, Greg, if he could take on one of the four-piece tracks, and the towering white wolf obliged. When Harry looked up, Scarlet wasn’t there, but when he came backstage to rest, there the cute bitch was, still dressed in that crimson one-piece, sandals tied tight. And before he could say anything, the kiss she planted on him said it all. The next four minutes of unvarnished make-out recharged the mutt’s mental batteries. He leapt back onto the stage in time to finish the set, and gave nothing less than 110%.

For every show after, and for every band after, he counted on his Scarlet to be there in the back, waiting for his one time to shine. And no matter the knots tied in his gut, the sweat pouring from the pads of his hands and paws, it was all worth it to see his girl smile the whole night long.

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B2. EXCITER

“AH! There’s the sonofabitch!”

For the speckled, earth-toned soldier Evelyn Blanc, it was a face she’d been trying to find all day. The scruffy tomboy hound knew he was a biker, but every time she asked for his description, it was always the wrong guy. It was only a chance glance through the Sickbay window that she finally spotted him. He wasn’t laid out flat, at least not anymore as the nurses helped the tan hellion into his leathers. He was young, though not much younger than Evelyn, both still in their 20s. His muzzle was a lighter shade than his head, and the tips of his ears hung forwards a bit.

Those pointed ears heard the exclamation, and with it came a sigh. “No sir, I won’t do it again sir. Apologies sir for the inconvenience and—”

“Hollup!” Evelyn shot back in her sharp, smoky tones, “I ain’a superior, just got a few things to chat with you ‘bout.”

The tan soldier nodded, and beckoned her on.

“First, what’s your name?”

“Gibson,” he said.

“Second, you a newbie, right?”

“Yeah,” he nodded, “Just enlisted a coupla months ago.”

“Then how the FUCK do you pull that shit on a U1 on a bike?”

He couldn’t tell if Evelyn’s tone was one of admonishment like a superior officer, or one genuinely impressed with the maneuvers.

“You mean tactics or just in general?” Gibson shrugged.

“I mean you gliding on air, nailing turret rings left and right.” The young woman paused, trying to find the right words to say, before all the bravado dropped. “And saving my ass from being turned into Swiss cheese—”

“Wait,” Gibson interjected. “Black and bronze AMC…Rebel Machine—yeah, that’s the one—flanked right, cargun jam.”

She nodded with clenched teeth, not particularly fond of the last detail.

“Well I—”

“Lemme guess,” she cutoff, “‘happens to lots of people your age,’ hmph?”

The tan-furred biker blinked before erupting into a snort of laughter. “Wasn’t gonna put it that way, but alright! Fair enough!”

“Two drink minimum, tough guy,” she smiled, patting his shoulder.

“And hey,” he recovered, “Not for nothing, but you did rebound just in time to save the whole unit’s green-ass. Didn’t know the fuck those guys were thinking boxing me in with a live turret still on the ground.”

“It was nothing,” came Evelyn’s proud reply. “Eye for an eye and all that good shit, right? Shoulder came out fine?”

Gibson winked playfully. “She’ll buff out. Taken worse dives back in the digital bitch’s fun factory.”

“Shit, you from Haven?”

The conversation’s jocular tone dropped on a dime. “Yeah. I was.” he sighed, looking off into the middle distance of medical equipment and empty beds.

For all her brashness, Evelyn could still read a room. “No worries, not gonna ask. What I did wanna ask you is what song you was blasting before we got called out? I could hear it from over in the Auto Corp unit.”

“Oh, shit, yeah!” Gibson perked up. “Named my hog after it too. ‘Exciter’s’ the name. Been digging the hell outta it since one of roommates shared it with me. Shit, the tape better be on me!”

He fumbled through his jacket, careful not to draw his twin Colt revolvers. With a heaving sigh of relief, he pulled the tape out. “There,” he grinned. “Ain’t cracked, tape ain’t unspooled, and my Walkman’s still built to kill.”

“Got a coupla tapes like these in my hot rod,” Evelyn smiled. “If you down for a listening party, I’m down.”

“Just one request,” he answered, coming in close. “Can you keep it a secret?”

Evelyn came in close. “Lay it on me.”

“Edge of the driving range, after dinner, ready for anything.”

The bandanna-wearing bitch was speechless. “How’d you know that—”

“Chick with a car I been wanting to drive since I was five comes waltzing into my hospital room, you bet your ass I’m gonna ask for a go-round.”

The grin that split Gibson’s snout said it all.

“Are you sure you don’t want anything more than just a little time at the wheel?” quizzed Evelyn.

“Like you said,” Gibson smiled. “Whatever you’re down for, I’m down for.”

She snapped him to her lips like a bear trap, and she was met with leather-clad arms wrapped tight around her. For someone who took a swan dive mid-battle, there wasn’t a muscle on him that wasn’t fine-tuned for peak performance.

“This how they always thank each other out here?” the tan biker interjected.

The speckled brown hot-rodder nipped at his neck one last time. “I’m sure there’s some ol’ Chinese proverb about being forever in one’s debt for saving the other guy’s hide.”

“Guess we got a lot of dues to pay,” he winked. “Let’s get the hell outta here.”

They left Sickbay arm in arm, with a pair of earbuds split between them, and a thunderous slab of speed metal ringing in their ears. A little pregaming for the mother of all “listening parties” that night.

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C3. THIS BIG HUSH

She had been fretting all morning, fretting all afternoon, and fretting right up until ol’ Doc entered her room. Sabina had become a giant ball of anxiousness, spilling out into the hall. When the grizzled gray proprietor walked in, he saw a most despondent tenant. And when he sat down on the bed, and asked in his old smoky tones “what’s wrong Sab?” she melted right into him.

Everything came pouring out, from worries about where she was in life, to wanting to do something new, but then worrying she wasn’t skilled enough, all of which cycled into one another. Doc held her tight and did his best to calm her down. He looked into her eyes and smiled gently. “What you need is a break.”

When she went to start up again, he shushed her.

“I’m serious,” Doc soothed. “I remember when you started you were all happy as a clam, ‘bout lovemaking being your profession. But if you’s unhappy about it, you got every right to try something new. Matt next door’s got a thing for electrical work, a small press sent a writer down here to get some local color. Don’t forget that I ain’t your pimp, sweetheart, I’m just the landlord. And if you need time to get things sorted, you can have all the time in the world. But what you need right now is a whole-ass night off. Drinks on me. Mill around, have some fun. If you wanna be with someone, and I mean REALLY, go right ahead. Don’t worry ‘bout billin’ and all that bullshit. Just do what you want.”

“Gracias,” she sniffled.

“De nada,” he smiled in kind.

She got changed out of her gypsy rags, and into something a little more sleek. Her dark blue jeans, cropped leather coat, and black leather sandals. She traded all the costume jewelry for the few things she enjoyed. A bracelet here, a toe ring there. When she stepped out into the diner's bustling main floor, there at the ready was a vodka martini, brought to the empty table she took a seat at. A strange, breathy song was playing over the speakers, the jukebox a haze of neon and glistening synths as she sat, sipping the striking beverage. It had been ages since she savored the drink the way she was, the music mingling with the flush of warmth. And no sooner had she her tall glass and her comfy booth, that a stranger walked in.

He was a red wolf like her, though built taller. He was a true-blue weekender, dressed for a day at the beach. Red Hawaiian shirt, suede sandals, stonewashed jeans. He crossed the room, spotted Sabina’s booth as the last of the free seats, and asked “mind if I pop a squat?” His voice was smooth as silk, and when Sabina looked up from her drink and was met by that gentle face, she cocked her head and slid over.

“Joint sure is jumpin’,” he sighed, shaking his head. “Miracle I was even let in. Say, what’s your name? I’m Marcus. No sur-nonsense, just plain ol’ Marcus.”

Sabina hesitated, petrified at the thought of her reputation preceding her. With a wink from Doc behind the bar, however, she went ahead. “Sabina,” she smiled, flipping the curly black hair from her eyes. “Jus’ plain ol’ Sabina.”

“Nice to meet you Señorita,” he nodded. “Come here often?”

“Well, work anyway,” she sighed. “Tonight’s a night off.”

“Hey, an’ a Friday too!” he perked up before leaning back in the seat. “Always the best day for a night out.”

“You off the clock too?”

Marcus shook his head, crossed his legs, and balanced the heel of one paw on the toes of the other. “Never am. Don’t need to. House is all squared away, folks left me plenty to barter and pay into the town. I’m free as a man gets out here short of crime.”

The red-furred lady’s eyes shot up. “Really?”

“Mhm!” he saluted. “No pirates, no robber-barons, just folks keeping a good stock of resources, peeled off the whole kit-and-caboodle, and helped me find a nice pad to live. Leaves me time to dig into all the cool stuff I want to learn.”

What followed was a mini-dissertation on everything from his native ancestry, dating back to the Navajo and Comanche, to the love he lavished upon the car outside (“this real honey of a rod from 1960”) to a peculiar set of hobbies that included skeet shooting, fine cuisine, and beadwork. He pointed to the two-strand choker about his neck, made from long tubes of light-colored hair pipe with black, brown, and silver beads.

All the while, Sabina felt her head slip into her bejeweled hand, not from boredom or tiredness, but pure fascination. She looked into his eyes as he spoke, and saw within a rainbow of excitement. Whatever he spoke of, he was absolutely enamored by it, and her in kind. She thought of all the idle talk with her Johns, all the cheap “God, you’re goods,” and before her was the antithesis of the whole thing. Whatever he ordered, she ordered one as well, and in kind, the strangers shared another vodka martini. Upon his first sip, he was drumming on his chest to a Tarzanian beat, the sight of which sent Sabina into hysterics.

“Whoof,” came a dazed Marcus. “You a tough nut sister if that goes down smooth.”

When he turned to face her, he found that the mirth become something quite different. Her eyes softened, the snout-splitting smile drew back to a gentle grin. Her dark curly hair curtained part of her face. She wasn’t trying to be pretty or cute in the gin-joint’s hazy lights; she just was.

“Well,” continued the tall red wolf. “Seeing as I just waltzed into a date, how ‘bout you and me go for a ride? And if you ain’t scared by my driving, maybe you and I can keep the pow-wow goin’ at my pad?”

The grin vanished, and worry again sat in. When she looked over to the bar, Doc wasn’t there. The next decision was all hers to make. Sheepishly, Sabina turned away, parting the hair from her eyes. With a gulp and a deep, deep breath, she spun round and said “by all means.”

Marcus paid for his meal (and almost paid for Sabina until she explained the employee perks), and escorted the lithe red lady out the ride he had gushed about. The 1960 in question was a DeSoto Adventurer. Long and low, with Space-Age fins, four wide-eyed headlights, and a thick smiling bumper. Marcus counted “three, two, one” under his breath in anticipation of a response he knew to a T.

“OH MY GOSH!” Sabina gasped. “You’re a cutie, aren’t you!?” She crouched down and looked the metal beast right in those sweet electric eyes. She knew full well the car wasn’t alive, but the sheer quantity of character it possessed at captured her imagination to the fullest.

Marcus crouched down beside her, beaming. “I did just the same when I found her, and my folks thought I had went loco.”

“¡Está muy bonita!” she playfully growled. “You’re lucky to have such a car.”

“Where’s yours?” Marcus asked. Sabina’s face dropped a little.

“I don’t have one,” the little red lady sighed. “I don’t actually drive. Never had to.”

For a moment, nothing but abject perplexion filled Marcus’s face. The thought of anyone in the desert not driving at all had never occurred to him. His inquiring mind wanted to ask why, but when he caught the sullenness in those Latina eyes, he knew just what to say.

“Would you like to?” asked the red-furred gentleman. “I can help fill ya in if you need refreshers.”

She felt the pull of that miserable spiral from earlier, only to be yanked free of it by that simple question. She looked over to him, and threw herself upon him, both hitting the ground with a thud.

“I’ll take that as a…” was all he got out before he dove headlong into those misty brown eyes, and she into his piercing blues. He wrapped his arms around her, and shared a tender kiss. He didn’t savor it, he didn’t beg for more, he simply shared it.

Marcus helped her up to the driver’s seat, but got in first. “Seat’s a bit of a devil, so I might have to hit the pedals for ya.”

Sabina took her place between his long, denim-clad legs. “Are you sure that’s as far as the seat will go?” she asked.

“Scooch over and lemme see.” he sighed as he jimmied the handle, finally getting the seat slid forward more. They swapped seats again, and Sabina was ready for her first drive.

“My Lady’s a bit special,” Marcus smiled. “She don’t got a stick at all. Get them paws on the brake, turn the key.” Sabina did so, the engine rumbling up her leg and upon her spine. Marcus then pressed a thick red thumb on the button panel next to her. “There, she’s in reverse,” he smiled. “Back ‘er and let’s go.”

She dipped her sandaled paw onto the pedal like it was a ice-cold pool of water. Gently, the Adventurer slid from her spot and was turned around.

“Hey, least you remember the important bits.” Marcus teased. “Press that ‘1’ button, and lay a patch for me.”

She wanted to. She really did, but there was still that hesitation. Marcus saw it, and pulled her head towards his. “Lemme help ya on this one,” he smiled, thumbing the tufts of her cheeks.

He switched the radio on, the same silky song from the bar flooding the car stereo. The broad-shouldered red slid beneath his slender date, but kept her at the wheel. He kicked her feet off the brakes, pressed his down, and stamped his thumb on the button for first-gear. He felt her shivering against him, and gently ran his hands from the tops of Sabina’s shoulders down to her jeweled red hands on the wheel. “There ain’t nothing to be scared about,” he soothed. “You’s just about to feel alive for the first time in a while.”

She slammed her paw down on the throttle, the car jolted, but it didn’t move. She felt tensed as she heard the tires scream, but relaxed when she saw the culprit: Marcus’s big flat paw was still hard on the brake.

“Sorry,” he chuckled, nipping at her neck. He snapped the Birks off the wide black pedal, and the Adventurer leapt into the night, needle rocketing through the numbers. He put her into “Drive” proper, and kept those broad red palms around her petit fists.

Within her, every sensation came upon her. Fear and worry, freedom and bliss. But above all else, was the feeling the red hound’s hands, and the warmth of his body behind her. She waited for the other shoe to drop, for him to start getting hot under that Aloha collar, for the sweat to pour from the black pads of his hands and paws, for the chattering breath and vulgar seductions made in heat.

Instead, he whispered with a smile. “You’re doing good, keep going.”

And hers came roaring back upon her muzzle. Come what may, she couldn’t worry, for when with this peculiar red hound, there was not a damn thing left in the world to worry about. As they lay in bed together, she had but one thing on her mind: the future. Hers, his, the whole lot. And she couldn’t have seen one any brighter than in those playful, piercing blue eyes.

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D4. SHARPSHOOTER

There were coincidences, Coincidences, and God himself telegraphing fate from Heaven for all to see. Two dark figures chasing two vomitus criminals towards one another was merely a coincidence. The exact same song rattling their stereos, loud enough for each other to hear, was God laying it on thicker than a cement foundation.

For the hippie-punk Lita, sandal-wrapped paws still buried in her blood-red Bug’s footwell, it was a score to settle with a mad bomber. Normally she wasn’t that fussed about arsonists and pyromaniacs, but the death of a few street-fighting friends incensed the vigilante’s ire. Hell hath no fury, etc. etc.

Meanwhile, Nic Ridgefield was giving chase to a serial rapist. A perfectly unsavory target, blessed with perfectly unhinged pursuer. He wasn’t so much a wolf as he was a six-foot slab of black anger driving a fat-tired blue pickup, boot on the floor, ready to crush the crook the second he slipped up.

The desert lawman and Haven vigilante broke out of their respective arenas to make the catch, Lita blasting through the weakened chain-link border, and Nic chasing the thug right off into the Ivory Coast. The desolate cliffs, still haunted by A.C.E.S. and her reign of terror at the century’s turn, were especially overcast as the chaos came careening in from both directions.

Nic’s rapist, a scrawny, bug-eyed white wolf, swung himself over the cliffs and scrambled away towards the city. Lita’s mad bomber, a short, fat tan wolf with his chaos agent toolkit slung over his back, did likewise.

When both drivers skidded to a stop, they looked to each other, then down to the unwitting swap they were about to make.

“FREEZE FUCKFACE!” Lita hollered, whipping out her Wildey and firing streaks of green into the canyon.

The arsonist whipped out a full-on bomb and set it feverishly.

“You can’t take me alive, cu—”

SPLAT!

He never finished his insult for Nic shot clean through his head. With no one left to shoot other than the rapist, Lita sent the scraggly white desert-dweller river-dancing. The borderline pantomime display ended in a single trip, for the bastard fell face first on the bomb, and evaporated on sight.

The air was still for a moment, and in that stillness, Lita could hear the same thunderous bass across the canyon that was coming from the Red Devil. In kind, Nic dialed his Hilux’s stereo down, cocked an ear, and heard the same from across the way.

“NICE MUSIC!” he hollered. “I PLAY THAT FOR A LIVING, Y’KNOW!”

“NO SHIT!” the dark gray punk roared back. “GET THE FUCK OVER HERE!”

Nic drove his pickup down the narrow road, and crossed the canyon base. He ran over both wolves’ bodies (or at least what remained of both bodies) for good measure before his trucked climbed back up the other side. One hairy left-hand turn later, and there he was, looking at his surprise deputy for the day.

“Name’s Nic!” bellowed the black-furred cowboy. “Nic Ridgefield. Hell Patrolman for Desert Central, and full-time rocker.”

Lita gave her name and a playful salute of her half-gloved hand. “Didn’t realize you dug the same tunes. You a DJ?”

Nic shook his head, and pulled from out the back seat a bright white bass guitar with the Ace of Spades branded on its rear. The punk gasped. “You crazy bastard, that’s grave robbery!”

“Nope,” he grinned. “Just a one-for-one replica. Real thing would be a couple hundred years old anyhow, pickups would be shot to shit.”

She gawked at the piece of recreated history some more before he cut in. “Mine was a sex maniac? Who was yours?”

“Mad bomber,” the punk scoffed in her husky tones. “I ain’t a pig though. Just a little pinch of justice when we need some.”

“Think I’m a pig?” Nic quizzed, pulling his wraparound shades down.

Lita looked up and grinned. “You’re too tough to be a pig. The pen back here’s made-a more spam than ham.”

“Shouldn’t they have shot you down by now?” pressed the black wolf. “Thought it was more protective about these sorts of things.”

“Eh,” Lita shrugged. “She ain’t worried about ya leaving if you’re on the books as a thug. I don’t think my wrap sheet’s big enough.”

“There ain’t a whole lotta you that’s big enough.” the cowboy teased. “I do see two things though.”

To anyone, the punk would’ve growled like a feral dog and clubbed them to death. To the mystery man who bumped a killer off for her, dug and played the music she did, and dressed like the freest hound on Planet Earth, six-pack set akimbo by a stonewashed denim vest, being told she had nice tits was about the best she could ask for.

“So, whatchu do when ain’t fighting crime?” she asked, sauntering up to the leaning tower of hound.

“Play at a local pub with two cool cats. Playing the same kinda stuff you and I like. I don’t know if I can drag you outta the ol’ prison block though.”

Lita sighed. “Nah…I gotta give cats the good news and get on to the next thing.”

“And I’m probably gonna have to tell Commish the shitbag’s done for.” Nic nodded in kind.

For a moment, they stood there, trying to find a way to keep in touch. The winds whistled, the music grew faint, and only the distant crackle of Haven’s electric infrastructure pierced their pensive silence.

Then an idea came to them.

“Shit, might as well do it now while we can.” Nic smiled.

“Y’know, great minds DO think alike sometimes.” Lita beamed before the two leapt in to the Hilux’s bed and went to town. The truck rocked, the wolves howled, and the bands played on from both pickup and Beetle alike.

When Nic rolled off, the duo winded from the sprint, he looked over to Lita with a big shit-eating grin.

“Alright, NOW we gotta finda way to keep in touch.” he panted. “You guys get cell reception outsida Haven?”

Lita shook her head, digging around for her phone and a joint. “Nah, the damn Tower Network only works in-house. Blocks all reception from outside.”

“Ight,” Nic resolved, digging out a tool kit from beneath his head. “Gimme da phone.” The gray punk did so, and as quick as he could, Nic probed and prodded the flip-phone, trawled through its operating system, and made a few changes on both ends. He found the number and dialed it on his own cell phone. When Lita’s rang, the lovers cackled with mad glee.

“There ya go,” sighed the black-furred cowboy. “Don’t break it anytime soon. It ain’t just fees you’ll be paying to get that thing all hooked up again.”

“I oughta kill you.” Lita snorted.

“The hell you mean by THAT!?”

“For taking care of me like that.” she grinned, cozying up. “You’re the only bastard I ain’t ever pumped-n-dumped.”

“Well, you did me a solid with that Rube Goldberg shit back there. And I think you’re kind cute, even with all them spikes you keep on that head.”

Before they could continue, there came the crash of static, and a news bulletin.

“CALLING ALL CARS. CALLING ALL CARS. CHASE IN PROGRESS! J.G.Z., AGE 43, HEADING SOUTH!”

“That’s my cue.” Nic grumbled, plucking up his cowboy hat. “And don’t you forget to gimme a ring when you can.”

“You’re gonna hear plenty,” growled Lita playfully. When he looked down at those hungry red eyes, and then to his Hilux’s cab, he dropped back into the bed, and went down for seconds, “just to make sure she was real.”

And indeed, she was.

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