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His jaw shifted from side to side and beads of sweat formed along his brow as his fingers tightened around the gun. Stilling his shaking hand, he gripped the ivory of his pistol. He walked to the end of his truck and waited in front of the rolls of steel that made up the back door. The lot echoed with the grimy, electric cry of amplified piezoelectric as his door flew open and Dalton got out. Killing the hum of the engine, he laid on the horn. Cutting across rows of empty spaces and bouncing over concrete block, Dalton backed his truck against the delivery bay. Hopping over speed bumps and careening through the roundabout at the end of the drive, Dalton turned right at the empty fountain-a boulder and horseshoe that doubled as a terrible work of art-and disappeared into the subterranean lot beside the building. Dalton turned onto Oxnard and into an unlit office complex. It wasn’t long before they had wound through the city, got off the 101 Freeway and headed north on Topanga. Once it made its way through his throat, Dalton turned the key and the truck roared to life. Crumpling it all into a small ball, he tossed it in his mouth, leaned back his head and choked it down in heavy dry heaves. Tearing into it, Dalton pinched a bit of the powder between his fingers and shoved it into the paper in his hands. She handed him a small Ziploc that glistened and sparkled like sugar beneath the tiny light bulb in the glove box.
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“Glove box,” Dalton said as he tore a corner of tissue from the box between the seats. She said nothing and only smiled back at Dalton, completely submissive to his requests. Her hands moved to her breasts, cupping and releasing them as though she’d just discovered their purpose. His breath filled the cab with an acidic burn, a chemical sting, but it didn’t bother Amy. Coming around to the other side, Dalton climbed behind the wheel. Dalton slammed the door as soon as her legs were tucked beneath the dash.