Wild.
She’s barely pausing. Just diving in for one bite after another as if she hasn’t eaten in a week.
Or more.
I mentally sigh.
Been doing security in my off-season for extra cash and to keep me occupied for a few years now, but this is a new one.
It’s going to be one of those nights.
But at least she’s alone.
I draw in a deep breath, almost choke on the humidity, and rap my knuckles against her window.
Wide blue eyes meet mine as she shrieks loudly enough for me to hear the muffled reverberations through the glass.
But it’s not the shriek that has me ducking.
It’s the fact that she’s throwing the entire chicken at me.
One moment, she’s cavewomaning the bird, the next, she’s winding up and launching it like she’s a weekend quarterback.
I’m halfway to the ground, out of range of the chicken, when I remember something important.
Her window’s up.
Her window’s up, and the chicken’s bouncing off it back into her lap, leaving a greasy smear all over the window.
And that’s why it takes me a second to realize the next thing.
She’s choking.
She’s choking on the forty-one bites of chicken that she’shoovered into her mouth in the thirteen seconds since I spotted her.
Fuck me.
I straighten, grab the door handle, and yank it open. The scent of roasted chicken spills out of the car and joins the aroma of sweaty asphalt.
Chicken spills out of the car too.
“Swallow,” I order.
She lifts a finger, then manages a feeble cough.
Dammit, Webster. Way to go.
Good news is, if she’s coughing, she’s not choking.
For the moment.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
She nods, still coughing.
“Do you need help?”
Head shake.
