Angelina said from the bed, squeezing her breasts until her nipples were as swollen and pouty as her lips. Johnny hadn’t slept in forty-eight hours, and he was being fueled by cocaine, fear, and adrenaline. He sucked down half of a monster line of pure Colombian cocaine with a rolled twenty, and hit Send on his computer. He then erased the execution, unplugged the phone, and pulled out the microSD card. He’d trash it, along with the BlackBerry, later in the day. His entire body was vibrating, and he feared he was having a heart attack. Angelina slid out of bed, her naked tattooed body glistening in the reflected light from the nightstand. She had draped silk scarves over the sixty-watt bedside lamps earlier in the evening to create ambience in the shithole of an apartment Johnny called home. Angelina vamped over to Johnny with moves that she had seen runway strippers use. When he still didn’t respond, she pulled one of the scarves off a lamp, and, like a sad version of Isadora Duncan, whipped it around her head like a lariat.
