Interim

She had lied to them. She would be leaving tonight not three sunsets from the conversation. Never one for long goodbyes, or goodbyes in general, Nikki tossed the two duffel bags full of denim and leather and lace into the backseat of the rented Mazda.

Fido followed her out. He was a big, bulldog of a man she'd picked up in Arizona. He had recently kicked his heroin habit, thanks in no small part to Nikki and her tough love program, which had earned her his devotion.

“Need anything before you go, Boss?” He asked, flicking his cigarette into the sand.

“Not that I can think of.”

“You ain't hungry or nothin'?”

She paused.

“That's what I thought.” He approached her, pulling up the right sleeve of his jacket. A few scars dotted his forearm from where she'd bitten him before.

“You're a godsend, Fido.” She said, taking his offered wrist.

“Anything for you, Boss.” His voice was almost a whisper, watching as she first kissed, then bit into his arm. Instead of wincing, he gritted his teeth, restraining himself from using his free hand to smooth down her hair.

When he became unsteady on his feet, she kissed the wounds closed. Without another word, she climbed into the car. Fido stumbled back toward the compound door and Joan Jett yelled from the speakers as she sped away from the compound and into the night, a cloud of dust behind her.