She’d posed for Giorgio a few times, but that was before his Dolce & Gabbana phase, before he’d gelled his black hair into a thick screw, fastened at the nape of his neck by a clear elastic. Today, his neon green and black, geometric-print shirt—unbuttoned one, or maybe two buttons too many—was tucked, haphazardly, into his fitted leather pants, secured with a grossly-oversized belt buckle blasting the logo of his brand du jour. 

I was just sitting on the patio watching the bats fly around when her car pulled up.  I didn’t know it was her at first, which was a bit of a gift.  Another few peaceful moments enjoying the serene chirps as the bats blindly circled.  A faint glow still hung in the sky, but she had her headlights on.  I noticed the vague illumination through the thin bamboo fence bordering the patio. 

He wakes up to the sound of rocks hitting his window – scarcely more than pebbles, not enough to do damage, but enough to wake him up. Sure, Dylan’s a light sleeper, but it’s still a ridiculous maneuver and that can only mean one thing. Harper McLeod, childhood best friend and platonic soulmate, is back in action and needs an accomplice.

A man in a spherical red bodysuit perched across the street from the art museum. Binoculars pressed rings into his eye sockets. Six stories below, a white van disgorged black-clad passengers. The blue flame of a blowtorch illuminated a ground level door. The round red man’s chest jutted out.  A cape fluttered behind him as he cut a silhouette against the full moon. He punched a number on his cell phone.