an arrogant ass. Although truthfully, I think I was more butt hurt that I let myself be distracted, even for just a minute, by my hormones. Faith deserved better than that. Faith depended on me and I’d been letting her down for almost two years . My namesake was running out on me but I would be fucked if I would quit on Faithy before I knew for sure where she was or what’d happened to her.
I walked back to the Bed and Breakfast, fueled by my mounting anger, my fury at my helpless inability to find my sister. I changed into a set of workout clothes, wrapped my hands and went out the back of the B&B into the yard. First thing I’d done upon hitting this town was figure out what I could hit and not do any damage. There wasn’t a gym around here to speak of, unless it was a heavy bag and a set of weights in some beach bum meat head’s garage, so I settled for a heavy hand wrap and the use of one of the B&B’s palm trees. This was only the second time I’d been out here… today.
I stretched, warmed up, and laid into the damn tree until my wraps were toast and I was pretty sure I was bruised and bleeding underneath. I didn’t care. The pain helped me focus. I stood, chest heaving, body slicked with sweat and still didn’t feel any real satisfaction. I wanted to cry, but crying was for pussies, and just because I had one, didn’t mean I was one.
I stared out the back gate and over the white sand beach towards the clear turquoise water. I debated heartily for several moments between shower and swim. The sun was hanging low in the sky and the coffee on the beach had definitely worn off. I sighed and started to unwrap my hands. Food had to be next on the agenda. I needed to refuel. Once the wraps were off I flexed my hands. Two knuckles on my left hand were swelling and two on my right were indeed bleeding, the skin slightly split. No more punching things for a day or two. That was okay, I could still kick the shit out of the poor tree.
“You won this time sucka, but next time I’m taking you down,” I muttered at it before trudging wearily back into the B&B, my wraps trailing forlornly from my leaden arms. I took the stairs two at a time to push myself, and once back in my room, treated myself to a hot shower. It was amazing how restorative they could be.
I spent a minute on my hair and makeup, blow drying the mass of chestnut waves kept it from getting frizzy on me and just a touch of product kept it looking sleek and shiny. I did my makeup, emphasizing my large brown eyes with bronze shadows. Some nude gloss on my lips and I felt put together, at least on the outside. I donned the same short dress I’d been in earlier but traded out the simple beachy flip flops I’d started the day in for some gladiator sandal heels. You know the kind, goldish metallic, the kind that wound up the leg. I liked them even if they were stereotypical white girl, trash-tastic. They were my favorite heels to wear if the shit got real. High enough to accentuate my legs, but low enough that I could still throw a perfect round house kick without fear of losing my balance in the slightest. I mean, why worry about function over form when you could have both with just a little extra effort?
I grabbed my purse, the weight of the gun inside kind of annoying, and slung the bag over my shoulder. Keys, phone, wallet, compact and lip gloss were all accounted for alongside the Ruger .38 revolver I was packing. It was a cute little gun, held five shots. I had some spare bullets tucked away but that was wishful thinking. If I were in a gunfight long enough to have a need to reload I was doing it wrong.
I left the Bed and Breakfast and started the walk back towards town. I’d ridden in on my 2013 Ducati Diavel. I loved her so much. She was a glossy black and leaned in the shade looking pretty badass, practically begging me to go for a ride. Wasn’t happening though. Especially with the bikers in town. That would seriously lead me to having to
I walked back to the Bed and Breakfast, fueled by my mounting anger, my fury at my helpless inability to find my sister. I changed into a set of workout clothes, wrapped my hands and went out the back of the B&B into the yard. First thing I’d done upon hitting this town was figure out what I could hit and not do any damage. There wasn’t a gym around here to speak of, unless it was a heavy bag and a set of weights in some beach bum meat head’s garage, so I settled for a heavy hand wrap and the use of one of the B&B’s palm trees. This was only the second time I’d been out here… today.
I stretched, warmed up, and laid into the damn tree until my wraps were toast and I was pretty sure I was bruised and bleeding underneath. I didn’t care. The pain helped me focus. I stood, chest heaving, body slicked with sweat and still didn’t feel any real satisfaction. I wanted to cry, but crying was for pussies, and just because I had one, didn’t mean I was one.
I stared out the back gate and over the white sand beach towards the clear turquoise water. I debated heartily for several moments between shower and swim. The sun was hanging low in the sky and the coffee on the beach had definitely worn off. I sighed and started to unwrap my hands. Food had to be next on the agenda. I needed to refuel. Once the wraps were off I flexed my hands. Two knuckles on my left hand were swelling and two on my right were indeed bleeding, the skin slightly split. No more punching things for a day or two. That was okay, I could still kick the shit out of the poor tree.
“You won this time sucka, but next time I’m taking you down,” I muttered at it before trudging wearily back into the B&B, my wraps trailing forlornly from my leaden arms. I took the stairs two at a time to push myself, and once back in my room, treated myself to a hot shower. It was amazing how restorative they could be.
I spent a minute on my hair and makeup, blow drying the mass of chestnut waves kept it from getting frizzy on me and just a touch of product kept it looking sleek and shiny. I did my makeup, emphasizing my large brown eyes with bronze shadows. Some nude gloss on my lips and I felt put together, at least on the outside. I donned the same short dress I’d been in earlier but traded out the simple beachy flip flops I’d started the day in for some gladiator sandal heels. You know the kind, goldish metallic, the kind that wound up the leg. I liked them even if they were stereotypical white girl, trash-tastic. They were my favorite heels to wear if the shit got real. High enough to accentuate my legs, but low enough that I could still throw a perfect round house kick without fear of losing my balance in the slightest. I mean, why worry about function over form when you could have both with just a little extra effort?
I grabbed my purse, the weight of the gun inside kind of annoying, and slung the bag over my shoulder. Keys, phone, wallet, compact and lip gloss were all accounted for alongside the Ruger .38 revolver I was packing. It was a cute little gun, held five shots. I had some spare bullets tucked away but that was wishful thinking. If I were in a gunfight long enough to have a need to reload I was doing it wrong.
I left the Bed and Breakfast and started the walk back towards town. I’d ridden in on my 2013 Ducati Diavel. I loved her so much. She was a glossy black and leaned in the shade looking pretty badass, practically begging me to go for a ride. Wasn’t happening though. Especially with the bikers in town. That would seriously lead me to having to
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