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He’d often wondered how her face would look
He’d often wondered how her face would look—her back against the balcony rail, her gun in his pocket. Staring down a cocked pistol, she was defiant even in defeat. He weighed brushing away the sweat that glistened on her nose. “On your knees, please.” He resisted his usual cadence, instead leaving his consonants softened by regret. “My mother’s using you.” Curious fingers worked her dress until the disk appeared. “Is it still me we’re talking about?” “You have a choice,” she implored. He wiped the beads from her nose, then dragged his thumb across her lips. “That, I do.”
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