Description : Rock Chick Revenge
Bad Ava, Good Ava
I sat in my hunter green Range Rover, hands resting on my steering wheel, forehead resting on my hands, wondering what in the hell I was doing. Not only that I was parked on 15th Street outside the Nightingale Investigations offices, where Luke worked, but any of it, all of it, the whole shebang.
Do it, do it, you know you want to do it. Teeny, tiny Bad Ava, wearing a lacy red teddy, red stockings, spike-heeled, patent-leather red pumps and devil’s ears, sat on my right shoulder and whispered in my ear.
Don’t do it, go home, do yoga, light candles, meditate. Teeny, tiny Good Ava, wearing a white satin teddy edged in soft, fluffy feathers, gold high-heeled sandals with straps that crisscrossed up her calves and sporting a glittery gold halo, sat on my left shoulder and whispered in my ear.
“I’m going nuts,” me, the real Ava, said out loud.
You aren’t nuts. You want to see him. You’ve wanted to see him for four years. Girl, you are shit-hot now. Let him get a load of you! Bad Ava reminded me.
This was true (not the shit-hot part, the other parts).
Go home, call Sissy and tell her you can’t do it. Then call Luke and ask him over for dinner like a normal person. Don’t do this. Don’t! Good Ava said.
Do it, go in there, suck him in, chew him up, spit him out. Men stink! Bad Ava encouraged.
Luke doesn’t stink. We like Luke, Good Ava protested, leaning around my neck to glare at Bad Ava.
Bad Ava gave Good Ava the finger. Good Ava poked her tongue out at Bad Ava.
I ignored them.