***
Once Wicked figured he’d put a good distance between himself and his Aunt Helen’s house, he took a couple of glances over his shoulder to see if the police were on him. They weren’t. He took his flask out of the glove-box and screwed off the cap, taking a long drink. He hissed, feeling the dark liquor course down his throat. The alcohol wasn’t because he wanted a drink. He needed it because his wounds were kicking his ass and it was just the remedy.
Wicked screwed the cap back on the flask and tossed it into the front passenger seat. He adjusted the rearview mirror and took a good examination of his injuries. Seeing the work Te’Qui had done on him angered him further and he clenched his jaws. Lil’ mothafucka, he looked over his shoulder and punched the ceiling rapidly. He pulled over
