| BOOK ONE OF THE VENANDI SAGA | A DARK MAFIA ROMANCE |
Teeth scrape over skin as he nips at my earlobe, "I told you..." Threading his fingers through the strands at my nape, he rolls my head to the side and his lips continue their exploration, "...
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Greyhound Bus Station Max Meadows, Virginia 2,161.9 miles from Las Vegas, Nevada 369.9 miles (8 hours) from Nashville, Tennessee
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Gravel crunches under the weight of the Greyhound as it pulls into a small parking lot situated next to an unimpressive building. A prefab manufactured unit, the Max Meadows station is nothing more than a grey rectangle with blue trim and a single ramp leading to a single door. In truth, it looks like a post box and considering it represents another phase in my deliverance, I suppose the comparison is somewhat fitting.
Rising to stand, my body screams at me, begging for relief from the stiffness that accompanies a fifteen hour bus ride. As I stretch and twist to work out the kinks, my new admirer salivates in his seat, slathering his greasy lips with gelatinous spittle. The sensation of his beady eyes sliding down my body makes me feel icky and exposed and my fingers itch with the impulse to slap the leer off his obnoxious mug. Slinging my duffle across my torso, I motion for him to, "Excuse me."
His lips peel back in a salacious grin and buttery teeth flare under the small dome light. Refusing to move, he pats his thigh, "Sorry, Sugar. Bad knees. 'Fraid you'll have to climb across." Each syllable pours from his mouth like the drool on his chin - slimy and semi-transparent. Once more, his shiny eyes roam freely, feeding his perverted appetite.
Bowing so we're nose-to-nose, I sneer, "Get. Up."
Stale, putrid breath puffs from his podgy lips, "...or what? What's a little thing like you gonna do?"
Angling closer, my mouth hovers inches from his sallow complexion. Whatever dime-store scent he's wearing permeates my airway as I inhale, "This..." and sneeze all over his chubby, stunned face.
"Gaaaah!" Screeching, "You bitch!" he spills in to the aisle pawing at his eyes, nose, cheeks, anywhere my snot rocket made contact. "Crazy little slut!"
The elderly woman seated a chair over hands me a tissue along with a broad grin and an approving nod. Grateful, "Thanks." I return the smile before pivoting to square off with the human snot-rag. His shark-like eyes, glare at me with thinly veiled contempt. Wiping my nose, I shrug, "You should've moved."
A couple of coeds in their early twenties cackle at his expense and seething, his ruddy face darkens - blush to rose, rose to crimson, then, crimson to berry. Shifting to block the aisle, he pulls out a small, narrow object; the unmistakable flash of metal glints in the dim overheads as he dares me to approach, "...and you should be careful who ya mess with."
Buddy, you have no idea.
The coach sits in heavy silence; wary heads swivel between us. Smirking, Snotty calls me forward, "Here kitty, kitty."
Ew.
Suddenly, his toad-like features bulge, oily, Oscar Mayer digits shoot up in surrender sending the blade clattering to the ground, and the corner of my mouth perks knowingly. Nibbling on a hang nail, I mutter, "Took you long enough."
