S.F.
Patreon
LOVELACE
An excerpt from an untold novel
The freeway hums above her, a distant, mechanical growl. Below, under the weight of its concrete belly, the world is quieter, lonelier. The late afternoon light slants in harsh from the west, slicing through the underpass.
She leans against the corrugated wall, shifting her weight from one leg to the other. Then, crouching, she perches a cigarette between her lips, dragging slow and deep like she's in no rush to be anywhere at all. A scuffed heel catches her attention, she stands, brushing the dirt from it before slipping it back on. The Eastern Freeway sign looms overhead. Her leopard print coat is parted just enough to tease what’s underneath. The old school glamour of a woman who belongs to no one but plays the game like she does.
A car slows. A sedan. Dark coloured. The kind men drive when they want to be inconspicuous. She doesn’t move, just exhales smoke through parted lips and watches. The driver hesitates, hand tight on the wheel.
“You lost?” she asks, voice low, sultry, touched with boredom.
He wets his lips, shakes his head.
“Just looking.”
She smirks, letting the coat open wide, the lace underneath catching the last of the day’s light.
“Looking’s free,” she muses. “Anything else costs extra.”
The car lingers another moment, then rolls away, disappearing up the road.
She exhales, shakes her head. They never commit.
She pushes off the wall, faux fur shawl draped over her shoulders, and strides toward the side of the road. The light spills over her, warming the edge of her cheekbones and the line of her jaw. She throws a glance over her shoulder, playful, dangerous. She puts her hand out and motions like she might hitch a ride, or maybe just take someone for a ride.
Another car comes towards the underpass, its engine reverberating off the walls, bass heavy, slow moving. This one doesn’t hesitate, it slows to a crawl, window rolling down.
“Hey, sweetheart,” a voice calls.
She doesn’t look right away, just lets her fingers dance along the lapel of her coat.
“Hey, asshole,” she replies smoothly, then turns her head, a red lipped smirk pulling at the corner of her mouth.
He chuckles, emboldened.
“You got a name?”
She lets the coat slip. A flash of temptation before she pulls it back into place.
“Yeah,” she says, tipping her chin up, waiting for his reaction.
“Lovelace.”
The name lands heavy. He raises a brow, smirking.
“Like Ada Lovelace?”
She scoffs.
“Like all of them,” she purrs. “The genius. The whore. The street sign you didn't notice on your way here.”
That gets a laugh. He leans against the wheel, sizing her up.
“What if I pay for a bit more?” He flicks his wrist, and a bill floats out the window, catching the late sun before landing at her feet. A twenty. Cheap bastard.
She picks it up and opens her coat more, this time sliding the lace fabric off the bra to raise the stakes.
“That all you got?”
Another bill follows. Then another. He’s testing her, but she’s holding the cards. She grabs her breast with one hand, throws him an Italian two finger salute with the other, and pulls a face that lands somewhere between a tease and a dare.
She cocks her head. “Really? That's all you got?”
Another bill flutters out. A twenty again. Still too cheap. Then, slowly, methodically, she peels down the final piece of the game. The breeze kisses her exposed skin as she stands framed by the underpass.
“Go on then,” she taunts, voice dripping with amusement. “Make history.”
His fingers tighten, curled around the wheel.
Then an apparent change of heart.
“For you?” she smirks. “Not for sale.”
And with that, she’s gone, striding toward the corrugated concrete wall, her heels clicking against the pavement.
The last light of the day catches her on full display, a vision meant for no one and everyone at once.
