Old No.7 | An Alastor x Reader Story

Turn Signal

There is a certain kind of rush you get when bootlegging. It's almost as if there is electricity in the air putting the hairs on the back of your neck on end. 

I rode shotgun in the seat of the discreet yet sleek car. One perk to having survived so long in Hell was the fact that I got to bring in some new technology to the operation. Outside, sinners went about their lives without noticing us. It allowed us some flexibility with our routes. 

"Take a right at the next light," I said to Lester, glancing at the rearview mirror to make sure Ian was right behind us in the box truck. 

"Yes ma'am," Lester grunted in reply, making sure to use his turn signal. He knew I was strict about turn signals. We may have been cast into Hell, but that didn't mean we couldn't use some manners. 

Some of the anxiety I still got lessened as we pulled up into an alley behind a swanky looking jazz club. The owner, Jasper, and I went way back to the early days when we both had arrived in Hell. Even though his club catered to the elite, he still preferred the wares I brought in over more legal fare. 

"Come on," I said to Lester, "The sooner we get this over with, the sooner we can go home."