Gina
I stood outside the Pink Priest, or more accurately paced, for forty-five minutes. A steady flow of patrons entered and exited, as I waited, like an i***t in an outfit I felt five years too old and ten pounds too heavy to be wearing. I checked my phone for any missed messages from Clutch and had decided to leave before I heard his voice call out, “Hey, Doc!”
Even though I was not pleased with his lack of punctuality, his smoky voice made my lady parts ache. I, however, wasn’t about to let him know that, so I turned around sharply to face him and made sure to wear my mood plainly on my face.
“Sorry, I’m late. Please don’t shoot,” he said, putting his hands up. “I was talking to Minus, and—”
“I’m freezing, my feet are killing me in these stupid shoes, and I’m starving,” I barked out
