And a few more epithets I immediately ignore.
I spot the lone drunk girl in time to see Pudding escort her around the corner between two buildings.
Nothing good ever happens in an alleyway. Shit, shit, shit.
When I finally catch up to them, Pudding has the young woman backed against the exterior wall of a bar and grill, and I watch in horror as his hand slides down one of her hips.
The girl’s eyes are closed and not at all in ecstasy.
“No. Wait. Who are you again?” She’s half-laughing when she says this, but that’s still not a yes.
Adrenaline makes me forget the pain in my feet, and I move in.
I’m not fucking around today. And especially not with someone named Pudding.