Confessions of a Wanton

30 Police, Rats and Rogues

🎶Trouble on the Rise : Blacktop Mojo 🎶

Maze:

The wind bit my exposed flesh as I exit the building in a rush, allowing the double doors to slam behind me in my haste to leave. I shivered, goosebumps riding up my arms making me wish for a jacket, or at least some sort of coverage besides the bondage straps barely covering my nipples.

The looks I get as I saunter down the street make me cringe internally. It's not often I go out in public half nude, looking like I belong on a street corner asking just about any John for a 'ride' to make a quick buck. A lot of white folk don't take too kindly to a woman of color, dressed the way I am, walking around in the middle of the high end district. One lady even covered who I can only assume is her husbands eyes before glaring at me.  If my Auntie had ever seen me dressed like this in public...

Well, it's a good thing she never will.

I mask my discomfort, straightening my spine and walking with purpose, boldly, as if I don't have a care in the world. I belong here, dammit. Nobody is going to dim my shine, especially those racist assholes shouting at me to smile and asking how much for a blowy.

Fuck 'em.

Well, rather don't.

I'll take Charlottes advice about the rule of 5's: taking it five minutes at a time; if after five hours its still a problem; work through it for 5 days; if it's so bad that 5 weeks rolls around, up it to 5 months. Ah hell, she'd been talking about getting over the deaths of those people in her unit she's made it up to about 5 years and still has trouble sleeping at night. That shits for getting over grief; not about the racial slander I'm getting. Fucktards need to shut the hell up with their 'bet you look good on your knees!' Shit.

Damn right I do, but not for you bucko.

My stride doesn't falter, I don't bother looking over at the shit goblins catcalling my way as I make my way down the sidewalk. My senses hyper aware of where they are, not a shifter thing, definitely a woman thing, the kind that has you fisting your keys when you're walking alone to your car at night in case some assclown decides they wanna eat you for a midnight snack. In the shifter world, it's entirely possible to actually be the snack, especially after the virus fucked up everything. At least if I really get desperate I can use my heels in self defense.

I grew up on the outskirts of the Pack. My parents died when I was young but my aunt raised me. I'm sure she'd be turning in her grave if she saw me now. She'd raised me to be a lady in public, well as much as a hood rat kid from Chicago could be a lady.

When I'd moved to New York to join my Aunties pack, my father's sister, it had been a doorway into a whole new way of life. Chicago was a place for Rogues, along the borders of the Mountain lion territories and considered neutral. Chicago, in truth, is anything but neutral, the shifters there would eat you up and spit you back out if you didn't have enough sense to stay out of the Prides way, and any Rogues you might encounter too.

I guess I thought I'd lost the hood when My aunt died. She'd be so disappointed with how right now I look like a lady of the night. All I need is a red light above my head. Blinking.

Shivering, goosebumps littering my arms, I turn the corner. I feel eyes on me from behind. Makes me want to walk faster but I don't. I know if I give chase it will only end with me in a bad position, or dead. Therefor, the little shits can come to me. I'll fight them off in a place if my choosing, turning the advantage around and assfucking them instead.

Yeah, you read that right. Ain't nobody, and I mean nobody, is going to get the best of this chick I can guaran-damn-tee that.

I turned down a deserted alley, not willing to lead anyone to my apartment. Walking carefully until I'm close to the end, studying my surroundings with wary eyes.