Hunter sat in the chair, smoke curling between his fingers.
He didn't smoke often since quitting at the Christmas party.
But tonight, his veins itched with the craving for patience, and since he wasn't going to get that here. Since he had his beautiful evening interrupted. The cigarette gave him something to do with his hands.
Hands that wanted to rip the guy who called him away from Stacey to shreds.
Naestra hissed, and the guy in the chair looked like he was going to cry or piss himself.
Frankly, Hunter didn't care if he did either.
He probably wasn't going to be walking out of her with less than a handful of trauma's if not death.
Across from him, the man tied to the chair shivered under the warehouse lights. A busted lip, one eye swelling shut. Sweat dripped down his temple onto the cracked concrete floor.
Hunter exhaled slow. The smoke curled in silver threads toward the ceiling.
