Crashing parties used to amuse Vance. He hurled himself into a world of no commitments. When the synthetic blonde offered more of the same, guided by brusque phone texts, he didn’t see the harm in another meaningless fling.
“Rule 1. If I text and you are busy, that’s fine. The rule runs in both directions. No pestering.”
He was okay with that.
“Rule 2. We never attend social functions. I don’t do weddings, though I will crash parties.”
Suited him, just fine.
“Rule 3. No gifts.”
“Five rules. Rule 4. If we see each other with strangers, no questions. No introductions to family, friends, neighbours, colleagues, serial killers…”
Vance had no problem with the fifth rule. He thought his problems began next day.
There, in red lipstick, she’d left a mirror message.
WIPE THIS OFF. STICK TO THE RULES. SEE YOURSELF OUT.
The bar? Reasonable. Didn’t try too hard to be trendy. He knew no one here – not on a Wednesday night. Vance watered at the venue on the odd weekend. Open the door on a world without strings. In.
Scene. The jet minx in front of him shook hailstones from her bobbed coiffure. Melting pellets bounced off his heavy coat. By contrast, she appeared to be wearing a black plastic bag for no protection from the night.
He eyed her tight black jeans. Painted on. Sheathed legs stopped at bare ankles and shiny stab-me black shoes. Hang about…
37,000 words, plus notes.