her.

Her thumb paused mid-text, and her fingers tightened around her keys. A packet of morphine-loaded syringes sat in her black bag, back seat of her car.

Those weren’t doled out for self-defense, but they would certainly work better than keys.

The man swiveled mid-step, turning to face her fully. “Hey.”

He was coming back. She had stared too long and now made eye contact.

Her mistake, of course—the powers that be put responsibility on her to not encourage him.

“Checking me out?” he asked. “Same.” His eyes undressed her up and down.

“I’m flattered,” Doc said. “But I’m not in the mood.” She had played this game better in Kentucky, but she’d been in her late twenties then and more flexible. Nine years on, she had little patience for throwing on a smile to soothe roaming egos.

He stepped close enough to reach out and touch her again.

She clutched her keys and glared into his eyes, too set in the lot’s darkness to see their hue. He had to be twenty-seven, twenty-eight. At best, he had no idea what he was doing, but the world was telling him Go for it, go for it or you’re a loser. His hand rubbed at his two-day cheek stubble. When it dropped, he was smiling. Probably some women found that charming, a sleight of hand that passed his grin to their faces.

Doc wanted to tell him that wouldn’t work, that he needed to settle back and see the big picture before he went hounding every woman he took a fondness for like an unneutered dog.

Instead, her eyes settled on a darkness deeper than his eyes and farther away, wandering among parked cars. They weren’t alone in the lot. The man didn’t notice the shadow’s approach until its mouth opened.

“She doesn’t want to fuck you.” The shadow slid from darkness, familiar in voice, face, and lavender suit, now tattered and stained, yet still Yaya’s. One of Doc’s old winter coats hung from her shoulders.

The man turned and raised an open hand. “Mind your business.”

Tension yanked at Doc’s shoulders. “I know her,” she said. As if he cared.

But Yaya’s shout drowned her out. “Why do you want her, man? Why not me?” She stepped closer. Her fingers traveled up her lavender jacket, opening it button by button.

The man looked again. His eyes trailed Yaya from bottom to top, and then he chortled. Not amused, but relieving tension.

Doc expected Yaya to look her way, get some confirmation to intervene,

but Yaya stayed fixed on the man. Another car slid past them, its headlights shining on the man’s skin, Yaya’s hair. White mist trickled from his mouth, but it steamed from hers. She was hot, maybe feverish? Except breath didn’t work that way.

“What if I’m not good?” Yaya asked, a taunt in her voice. Her fingers finished the final button, and both sides of her jacket parted from her black top.

“Come on, man, aren’t I hot? My brain doesn’t work the way it used to, so I don’t know. Please tell me.” She reached for the hem of her top, curled it in her fingers, and yanked it up her chest. “Am I hot, or not?”