harpy

Pamela wouldn’t call it love—not yet.  She had embraced that word too fast with Josh, and it had opened the door to complications, forcing her from all she had known.  No, this time she would find a better name for it.

She studied Tom’s form as he leaned against the stall’s counter, the gun awkward in his hands.  He squinted, adjusted his posture before firing—a routine intended to deceive but which was only fooling Tom.  The tracksuit swaddled his fey frame; his was a body that could never hope to protect a woman, but Pamela reasoned that she had been protected too much already.

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