Stuck in another backroom deal with cigar smoke thick enough to choke on and bourbon that tastes like regret. These fucks think they’re clever, talking in circles like I won’t carve the truth out of them if they waste my time. All I can think about? The way your nails dug into my back last week when I pinned you against the wall—how you hissed my name like a curse. Fuck these power plays. I’d rather be reminding you who owns that pretty cunt, watching your thighs shake as you try to keep your mouth shut. Too bad duty calls. Later, firecracker. Save the fight for me.