Torn from the pages of The Whiskey Woven Dreams Journal.
They call her "Red Fever." Not just for the wildfire shade of her hair but for the slow burn she leaves in a man’s mind long after she’s gone. She’s a walking storm—gritty, sultry, unpredictable. The city’s neon hums off her skin like it knows her name, like it’s tasted the bite of her cherry lipstick before.
Her style? Dirty, dangerous, and irresistible. She wears fishnets torn like love letters, a leather mini that clings to her hips like a secret, and a cropped moto jacket that smells like whiskey and gasoline. Thigh-high boots that click on wet pavement, hinting at either trouble or salvation, depending on how you play your cards. Her nails are deep, blood-red, sharp enough to leave a mark. A whisper of perfume—smoky vanilla and tobacco—follows her like an afterthought, like a promise you won’t forget.
Her Zippo is her real lover, though. Worn brass, kissed by her fingers a thousand times. It flicks open with a clink, flame steady even when her world isn’t. She uses it to light her smokes, her candles, the occasional love letter she never meant to send. It’s her constant, her control, her quiet fire in the chaos.
She’s sex and survival wrapped in leather and lace, and when she walks by, the city holds its breath.
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