Page 50 of Firefly
Tinted.
Dangerous.
Not cops.
Something worse.
The driver side door of the front G-Wagon opens slowly. A massive man climbs out first. Bald. Tattooed neck. Suit jacket stretched over shoulders built like concrete walls.Definitely armed.
Then another door opens behind him andhesteps out.
Taller. Older. Sharp dark suit tailored perfectly. Salt and pepper beard trimmed cleanly. Rings flashing beneath streetlights while polished dress shoes crunch against the gravel.
Power rolls off him quietly. The kind that doesn’t need to shout.
He studies me calmly before speaking.
“Hayden Marks?” he asks in a thick Irish accent.
Every bone in my body goes rigid.
“Yeah,” I answer slowly. “Who’s askin’?”
The older man smiles slightly. Not in a friendly way.
“Flynn O’Patrick,” he says smoothly. “The man who got ya outta lockup.”
My stomach drops.
Oh.
Oh, fuck!
The man extends his hand casually like we’re businessmen meeting for coffee instead of criminals standing in the middle of a dark street at three in the morning.
“Nice ta finally meet ya, lad.”
Holy fucking shit!
Ophelia
“Scars-Papa Roach”
Avoiding Hayden has become a full-time job. And I hate myself for it, because every single night I still stare at my bedroom window hoping he’ll climb through it anyway.
Pathetic right?
I spend my days running from him while my nights are consumed by memories of his hands, his voice, his stupid crooked smile. Every creak outside my window makes my heart jump. Every motorcycle engine sends panic and hope crashing through me at the same time, but he never comes back. Not after the warehouse. Not after I left him standing there looking at me like he wanted to destroy me and worship me all at once. So now I avoid every place he could possibly be.
No races.
No parties.
No Dungeon.
Nothing.
Because seeing him alive hurts worse than grieving ever did. At least when he was dead, I could still pretend he loved me the same way.
