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  • Mia Lyttle Twysted

Short fiction: Victim to Victor: One Woman's Triumph over Heartbeat and Betrayal

 Short Fiction piece by Mia Lyttle Twysted
Don't Mess with a Woman who has a Code Word for "I'm Gonna Need Bail Money."

When Tiffany's new co-worker asked her out for drinks, she accepted; she'd had a rough week after all. Her new single life was murky, as she and Bill had been together for five years, and she wasn't sure how to navigate. She let out a silent growl, startling her companion. 


"Sorry," Tiffany said.


"I get it," Marge smiled, "break-ups are tough."


Closing her eyes, Tiffany took a long drag of her joint, inhaled, and exhaled. The crowd inside erupted into applause as the band performed a song. After a small silence, the lead guitarist strummed his guitar, shaking the ground beneath their feet. 


The ends of the redhead's mouth curled into an evil smile as the band began to play her favorite song. Bobbing her head to the beat, she took the last drag of her joint before snuffing it out and then placing the roach in the pocket of her blue jeans. 


"Let's dance," Tiffany said, standing. 


The newly single woman's molded round hips bounced to the beat as she sighed mournfully. Her body swayed across the patio and back into the bar. Signaling the bartender, she glided to the bar to pick up another cold beer for her and her comrade. Weaving in and out of the crowd, the two women made their way to the dance floor. 


The pounding bass of the live band vibrated under their feet. Letting go of all her drama, Tiffany moved effortlessly to the music. Noticing the stunning woman on the floor, the band's guitarist moved downstage toward his new prey. Locking eyes, Tiffany smiled at the shirtless musician, watching his sweat glide down his athletic body.  


The bar faded into darkness as Tiffany gyrated to the rhythm. Running her tongue over her wet lips, she fluttered her thick eyelashes. Thrusting his hips, the guitarist all but made love to his guitar while Tiffany ran her hands along her luxurious curves.


Forcibly spun around, Tiffany wobbled, gaining her footing. 


"What the hell do you think you are doing?" Bill said, pulling her off the dance floor.


"Who the hell do you think you are?" Tiffany snapped.


"To be dancing like that in public," Bill threw up his hands, "in the middle of a crowded bar, it's absurd."

"You gave up the right to have an opinion the moment you slid your dick into another vagina."


"Don't speak like that."


"What, you don't like the facts?"


Pausing momentarily, Tiffany redirects her gaze to the blonde on the stage. Smiling, she winks, holding up her index finger.


"Oh, for God's sake, stop acting like a horney teenager."


"Why?" Tiffany pulled her phone from her back pocket and dialed. "You seem to enjoy it so much. It makes me want to give it a try."


She placed her phone to her ear, hearing it ring once before being answered.


"What's up?" her sister Jena spoke. 


"Peas and carrots."


"I hear you. I'll get the card, meet you at the station, and send someone to pick up your car at the bar."

The line clicked dead as Tiffany put her phone back into her pocket.


"What the hell was that about?" Bill said, sneering at Tiffany.


"I just needed to make sure someone would be there to bail me out when they book me."


"Book you?" Bill shook his head in annoyance, "Book you for what?"




Without another word, Tiffany pulled out her earrings, handed them to Marge, and stuck Bill square in the face. Bill stumbled back onto the dance floor as Tiffany leaped on her ex, landing blow after blow. In a shocked haze, Bill fumbled, failing to stop the incoming attack. 


The band picked up the rhythm to match the tempo of the beating. The crowd split apart as two large muscular bouncers pushed through the masses. Wrapping his thick arm around Tiffany, the senior bouncer pulled the firey redhead off. Throwing her over his shoulder, he escorted her to the back. Raising her middle fingers, Tiffany waved them at the beaten and bloody husk of her ex as he was carried from the building. 


Handcuffed, the bouncer placed Tiffany in the squad car.


"I'd like to take you out for coffee," the charming enforcer cleared his throat. "You know when you make bail."


"I'll be out in a couple of hours; how about tonight?"


"I can't wait."


"Me neither."


"By the way, I'm Peter."


"Tiffany," she said with a wink.


"Alright, Officer Connor," Peter said, slapping the roof twice before they drove away.


"A bouncer and a guitarist." Tiffany said, leaning toward the front half of the car, making conversation with her driver, "Single life's not looking so mad after all."


Original Short Fiction by Author Mia Lyttle Twysted


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