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Tina ran hard. She was in good form, pushing her body at a fast, steady pace. It felt good. Her anger alone had propelled her for the first 20 minutes. Now she just laid back into it.
She had put on a femme rock playlist and was listening to Pat Benatar belt out Love is a Battlefield.
She tried to put Bette Porter out of her head, but it was no use. The more she thought about it the more she realized what a fool she had been. She would probably never see Bette again. And as hard as that might seem, she would have to be ok with that.
Tina ran harder, impressed with her time. She was feeling the heaviness in her legs as she got closer to her neighborhood, but she was going to clock in 10 miles in just over an hour.
Tina pulled onto her street. She had backed off to a fast jog but was still breathing hard. She noticed the car before the woman. It was a metallic blue Tesla Model Son wide tires, parked diagonally across the street from her townhouse. She saw the dome light come on as the door swung open right into her path. She slowed up a little more when she saw the slim upper body in all black lean out and vomit into the gutter.
She was almost bewildered by it. Like a mirage. It couldn’t be real.
Bette leaned back in the car and closed the door tentatively; she was still queasy. She sent another menacing message to Shane. Why the fuck she couldn’t get satellite imaging on the streets of Los Angeles within a matter of minutes was beyond her. And it had been an hour. Tina was on the street with no protection, no tracker. She was a failure. She would have to call Tasha now. She wanted to scream. The espresso had been just one more bad idea in a string of them, especially combined with her near panic. Or maybe it was the ratio of espresso per hour on her ravaged stomach. She closed her eyes and leaned back against the headrest.
“Bette? What the fuck.” Tina breathed hard into the window.