- Posting Speed
- One post per day
- 1-3 posts per week
- One post per week
- Writing Levels
- Intermediate
- Adept
- Advanced
- Prestige
- Adaptable
- Preferred Character Gender
- No Preferences
- Genres
- Fantasy, Sci fi, Romance, Historical, Modern, Supernatural
JAXON ORTEGA
Location:Jaxon's House
Jaxon's head lolled to the side. He fished around in his pockets some, staring blandly into space as his fingers found solace around a pack of cigarettes. The gang life had molded him into a social smoker. He never touched the hard drugs, no, but he found most gangsters could share a more natural conversation over a good cigarette or cigar. It was something to keep the fingers working and the mind running while you hid your true thoughts and feelings from the enemy.
The enemy. Ha. Even knowing Claire could be the death of him, his brain still refused to associate her as such.
The woman meandered around his living space as if she had always belonged. The gangster watched her, unmoving in the face of her joking tone, his face having grown naturally stoic. It truly was a sin to know someone so well they may as well have shared your body. His eyes roved over the curves, the dimples, and the brown locks that had once been his.
She was a stranger to him now, as estranged from him as he was from that loving boy he'd once been over ten years ago.
"No," Jaxon replied curtly to her question. There was the click of his lighter; a glowing red bloomed from betwixt his fingers, and he pulled away from his palms in a heady cloud of smoke, exhaling lightly off his cigarette. He glanced away. "I think I've had enough."
Except he wasn't talking to her anymore. He was talking to himself, gearing himself up for the next conversation. The alcohol still had him in a slump, but his mind was slowly returning. Slowly.
He blinked gradually, his thoughts forming sluggishly. The words came to him, and soon after, the conviction.
"Claire."
He exhaled her name with a puff of gray, his eyes placid.
"Who sent you?"