Book of Alex 2

The second book from a trilogy Book of Alex

The bar’s light flickered like a cheap lie. Her pallor was corpse-white, a kick against the bourbon’s piss-yellow glint. She sat alone, the kind that rips your guts. Scrawny fingers yanked a smoke from a beat-up pack. She lit it, match flashing her dead-ass eyes. Smoke curled, stinking of old fuck-ups.

“Hit me,” she growled. Bartender, face like a busted tire, shoved the glass over. It slammed down, loud as a drunk’s curse. Outside, the city chewed suckers to bone. She didn’t give a shit. Lips hit the glass, bourbon tore her throat; a cheap jolt in a burned-out husk.

She was maybe a fox once. Now? Smeared lipstick, ash, a barstool ghost. The cigarette burned, her last park. She sucked it hard. World stayed a bastard.

Nobody cared. Bar reeked of sweat, bad bets. She blew smoke, gone like her name. Another slug. Another drag. Night crawled like a bum. She sat, pale as death, waiting for a miracle that’d never show.