Overexposed

Dropping Like Flies

Book 1: Air Brushed

Book 2: Whitewashed

Book 3: Overexposed

Prologue:

Someone is following me. I can hear their footsteps, but they don’t know that.

I keep my pace casual, rubbing my index finger against my thumb, feeling the completely smooth pads of my fingers that ironically gave me my name.

Never leave any finger prints.

That’s my motto.

Well, now it’s impossible and I don’t need to worry about it. I have none to leave.

I give a small hum, making the turn onto the street that will lead me to my destination. Middle of the night cargo move. Who decided THESE things? I know where I’d rather be. It starts with an ‘A’ and ends in ‘sleep.’ Asleep, if… if you didn’t get it. Right. Anyways, Tommo said the pick up would be right around here-

I freeze, my hearing honing in on a second set of footsteps.

Interesting.

Maybe a direct route won’t be in my best interest. Haz always used to tell me that when something seems suspicious, there’s probably a reason and I should trust my gut. Turn around and double back. That should work. I had seen an alley about half a block ago. I’ll have to cross paths with whomever is stupid enough to try and trail ME, but whatever. That shouldn’t be a problem.

I swing around on my heel leisurely, expecting to find someone a few yards back, but I don’t see anyone.

At all.

The skin at the back of my neck prickles.

I hate going out alone. Usually, POGs would come with me, but Tommo said the Irishman was busy and that I needed to do this with the least amount of noise…

My body naturally spins around again as I hear the sound of a trashcan being knocked over. I naturally drop one of my hands to my pocket where I find the dashboard hula girl tucked in her normal place.

Okay, Lucille, we can do this. We don’t need Tommo and his gun or Haz and his freaky neck snapping biceps.

My eyes dart around the empty side street and I pull my own firearm from my waistband. I’ve never had to shoot it before, but this is too odd for my liking and I’m not going to be caught defenseless.

Maybe it’s not smart, but I need her. I need her to relax and if Tommo taught me anything over these past couple of years, it’s that: to be at the top of your game, you can’t be stressed.

AND BOY AM I HELLA STRESSED.

One of my hands slips into my pocket and I find Lucille, bringing her up with the gun so that my thumbs hold her in place against the grip. The artificial grass of her hula skirt tickles my palms, but I don’t feel it.

Instead, all I feel is my heart in my throat and gazes burning into my skin from every direction.

I can’t see them. Fuck. Not again.

Where are they?

What’s going ON?

“Prints! How good to see you. I didn’t know you knew how to use one of those things,” a familiar voice laughs and I spin around, finger twitching to pull the trigger, but it’s too late.

A loud bang rings around and I crumple. My vision blurs as pain sears through every part of my being.

All I can think is: not you. It can’t be you. We TRUSTED you! I trusted you!