Shapely. Full. Soft-looking.
Not that I was looking.
Too hard.
Her face? Pale, like winter glass, with eyes that could cut a man clean if she knew how to use them right. That hair—it shone under the streetlamps like it was still alive. Deep red streaked through it from the gash on her head, maybe from slipping on the ground out of panic when her crackhead dog was missing. The color was wrong, but on her… even blood had a way of looking beautiful.
Yeah. I was losing it.
Still, I helped her climb onto the back of my bike. She was woozy, trying to hide it. I could see it in the way she blinked a little too slow and gripped the seat a little too tight.
I didn’t call her out on it. I just kicked the stand back and started the engine.
Then I looked over.
“It helps if I know where I’m hea
