GINGER DROVE LIKE A mad woman. We screeched around curves, blew through red lights, and once we were on the interstate our intrepid driver did an admirable job of pissing off truckers by cutting in front of them and then slamming on her brakes. Amid all the mayhem, the trouble twin slowly but surely shook every last barfly off our tail.
And, then, once the final outpack male was a distant memory, the real trouble began.
“So, what are your intentions toward Fen?”
Glen’s throaty murmur from the far-back area of the car barely carried to my shotgun position, and Ginger cleared her throat irritably. Her lupine-assisted ears wouldn’t have had any trouble picking up the conversation, but she knew as well as Glen did that my own hearing wasn’t similarly enhanced.
Agreeably, the latter raised
