A Thing For Bad Girls

Chanell Heart sits in her living room on the phone, voice dripping with irritation. "Yeah, the date was total trash. I'm horny and pissed—what the hell does a girl gotta do to land a girlfriend in this town? I know, I know, I keep chasing the wrong type, but try telling that to my pussy." A soft click. The front door opens. Chanell tells her friend she'll call back, kills the line. Gianna Dior breezes in, baseball cap low, baggy jacket zipped, backpack slung, face blank and sharp. Her right hand stays buried in the pocket, something hard jutting the fabric straight at Chanell's ribs. "Just hit a bank," Gianna says, calm like she's ordering coffee. "Need twelve quiet hours. I'm staying put till the heat dies." Chanell smirks, eyes flicking to the suspicious bulge in Gianna's jacket. "Prove it. If that thing's real, whip it out." Gianna's jaw tightens. Slowly she drags her hand free—index finger extended like a pistol. Chanell lets out a breathy laugh, heat crawling up her throat. "You robbed a bank with just a finger?" The words sound sticky, hungry. "That's so fucking risky. Cops could bust in any second." Her thighs press together; her voice shakes, not from fear. "What if they do?" Gianna steps closer. "They won't—unless you squeal. You gonna squeal?" "No," Chanell answers, already wet. "I'm at the mercy of your finger now."