"I'd rather you messed with my heart than my money."
The woman twisted the volume dial to its max, before slamming down on the gas. It was high noon in a Californian desert, the perfect backdrop for her thrilling adventure.
Jean Neuman made a trip to sin city every weekend. She had quit the smokes years ago, and never touched opium. But there was one drug she couldn't get enough of, and it was stacked and pressed neatly in several cases in the trunk.
Neuman had flirted with the law all throughout her life, flirted with ruin and misfortune, but nothing had bruised her just yet. Not even the lover she had stolen from this morning. The scene was clear in her mind.
"You cold hearted bitch!" He screamed, forehead flushed red against the rising sun. Crust was still embedded in his tear ducts. He attempted to retrieve his pistol from the apartment— but she had taken his keys, too. Neuman revved the engine, adjusted her shades, and drove into the dawn.
Money and love were detached affairs. Simply put, they were life's most potent drugs. Sex, love, family— money, material, and the American Dream. Chasing highs and escaping lows.
Men lie, live, die, and kill for love? A Shakespearean tragedy. Men lie, live, die, and kill for the dollar? Depravity.
No addiction is noble. Romance or profit, a smart woman would know that she cannot have both. And a rich woman would know that she only needs one.
Neuman withdrew a tube of lipstick from the glove compartment, swiping it across her bottom lip, before pressing the pigment onto her top lip. She ran her fingers through the ends of her acid mint wig, which seemed to match the hue of the sky.
Neuman was quite beautiful, but ungraciously gaudy. She enjoyed ostentatious jewelry, was never seen without some unnaturally bright lipstick, and preferred to match her hair length to her temper on any given day.
Today's was her shortest cut.
Her age was a mystery, as was her past. She had neither the air of privilege for a woman born into wealth, nor the pious fear of losing for a woman who knows the meaning of poverty.
But for Neuman, the past was inconsequential. What mattered was between now and her night at The Venetian. The high beam sunrays seeping into her skin, and the blaring guitars of the Zeppelin record. The blinding lights of Vegas, and the next slot junkie she'll meet.
But most importantly of all, enough cash to bury her corpse in.
YOU ARE READING
2021 Writing
General FictionI've challenged myself to try and write (not every single day because I have miserably failed T_T) consistently in 2021. Hope to cultivate my craft as a writer! c :
