The #1lineWed theme is **BLEED**. Considering the current plot point in the Mob Wolves WIP, it was a natural and gave me some awesome inspiration. I’m in Chapter 3 and the O’Hara faction is moving to…consolidate, let’s say, the Mob holdings in Boston. There’s a splinter group called the Eastside Rovers, led by Seamus and Jack O’Ferrell, and they aren’t very nice. Ronan, Mick, and some of the boys are paying them a couple of visits, the second time around, this happens… Psst. I will give you a hint here. The girl’s name is Fiona.
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“And what do we have here?” Micky asked, peering into the closet. The other men all paused to look at him.
Bowie’s nose twitched and his eyes narrowed. “That scent. It’s all over the bed.” He stepped closer to the man currently kneeling on the floor, a growl rumbling in his chest. He sniffed again. “And all over Seamus.”
Ronan stared at his brother. “Haul her out here.”
Mick did. And got an armful of hissing wild cat. The girl was a little thing but she was kicking and biting and hitting. Being a smart man, Mick swung her away. She dropped onto the narrow bed covered in sheets so foul he almost felt sorry that’s where he’d deposited her. The girl bounced and came up in a crouch, facing them all.
“I’ll not go down easy,” she hissed at them.
Bowie was the first to see the bruises that covered her and his growl rumbled out. He swung a booted foot at Seamus’s head, sending the man onto his side. “He do that to you?”
The girl’s eyes riveted on Bowie. “Aye. He did. Him an’ his filthy cronies.”
Her Irish was thick and the O’Hara men all took a moment to assess her. Her hair was dirty and tangled but it didn’t hide the vivid black eye nor the purple bruise and swelling that ran from her cheekbone to her jaw. More bruises marched up her arms and legs, along with ligature marks around her wrists, ankles, and neck.
Bowie stripped off his shirt before anyone else moved because the girl wore nothing but a ripped wife-beater. She scuttled across the bed as he approached. “Here, cailín.” He gently tossed his shirt to her. It landed on the bed in front of her but she didn’t reach for it. “None of us will touch ya,” he vowed. Only then did she grab it and yank it over her head.
Ronan favored Bowie with a knowing look before he landed a kick straight to Seamus’s gut. The man had been foolish enough to think he might get away. He returned his attention to the girl. “Are you Seamus’s then?”
Green fire lit in her eyes. “Feckin’ hell, no!”
“What were ya doin’ in the closet?”
“He shut me in there, trussed up like a lamb to slaughter. I got free and was ready to make a break when I heard the ruckus. I figured best to stay put until it was over.”
“What’s your name, girl?”
Her eyes narrowed as wariness crept through her. “That twould be me own business.”
Ronan almost smiled. The girl has spirit, despite the beating. “Bowie. Get her out of here.”
The girl froze. “No. I’ll be walkin’ out of here on me own, free.”
“Do you have a passport?” Mick, ever practical, butted in.
She paled even more if that was possible, and freckles stood out against her pasty skin.
“Ya shouldn’t be here for what’s comin’ next,” Bowie said quietly. “Come with me. I’ll take ya to my sister.”
Some new expression crossed her face. “O’Hara.” She blinked. “Heard them talkin’, I did. You’re from the O’Hara.”
Bowie groaned. The damn girl had just signed her own death warrant but the next words out of her mouth eased his worry.
“I’d damn well hug an’ kiss ya all but I’m a bit skanky at the moment. But I’d see the bastard bleed. And I’ll put the final bullet in his head if you’ll let me.”
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And there you have it. There are times I have no clue who will show up and what will happen when I sit down to write. In this case, I had a note from where I’d left off that said: (There’s one woman left upstairs. Shit hits the fan.) Building on where I ended with today’s prompt, the above is what rattled out. I hope you enjoyed.
Writers, if you have a rift on the theme, drop a snippet here. Readers, how do you feel about blood-thirsty characters?
I used to dream a lot. Vivid dreams. And I usually remembered them when I awoke the next morning. Often, those dreams became ideas for stories. Then I sort of stopped dreaming. I’m not sure when exactly. It’s just…I woke up one morning and there were no lingering memories of what had transpired on the video screen of my mind. It was rather disheartening. It might have something to do with my bouts of depression. It might be stress. Hell, it might just be due to my being older than dirt. Sadly, when I stopped dreaming so vividly, writing became a chore and like most chores, I put off doing it. This recently popped into my inbox and perhaps the Universe is onto something…
Silver James 