The Redheaded Shrew
Author's note: Please review. This is my first time writing anything and would like as much critism as I can get.
Disclaimer: I own absolutely nothing! save for Anne of course.
Chapter 1: Did I Stutter?
Anne glared at the ceiling fan of her dingy motel room, the abrupt ring of her alarm clock waking Anne on the "wrong side of the bed." A frustrated hand shoots out from under the covers and flings the cheap appliance across the room. Her thoughts still a bit muddled and quiet she thinks, that's not my hand. Then a face surfaces from beneath the blankets. A very handsome, hung-over face. Well shit, at least he's not ugly. She sarcastically compliments her good taste. Anne smirks at his sloppy appearance, "Good morning stranger." No reply. The fact that he doesn't answer makes her want to fling him across the room. A good morning was the least he could say after destroying her alarm clock. It was cheap sure… but shit it was her property. Instead she pushes past the pounding in her head and sits up. She pulls on her underwear and makes her way to the tiny bathroom.
As she reaches the door the stranger in her bed says something. The raging headache makes processing his words damn near impossible. She closes the door an turns the cold water spicket when the words seem to convert themselves from gibberish to English. Slamming the door back open against the wall she stomps out. Quickly throwing on a fluffy, black robe she unlocks the door to her motel room and pushes the door open. "Get the fuck out! Ya little fuck stain!" She screams. Hoping the whole neighborhood could hear her. The stranger simply stares, wide eyed back at her. Mouth hanging agape and hair askew Anne can't help but laugh at her guest's shocked appearance. "I'm sorry did I stutter? Get-The-Fuck-Outtt." She says slowly, her words dripping condescension from every syllable. And as if he'd suddenly grown a proper dick he replies gruffly, "I leave when I'm good and ready whore." With that he turns over, apparently content to ignore the brewing storm behind him for which the feisty redhead was known for. Nearly foaming at the mouth a twisted plan begins to string itself together in her mind's eye. She closes the door. Only briefly noticing the line of motorcycles outside. She gets dressed. Barely noticing what she's putting on. Red raver pants and a black, lacey top that vaguely imitated a corset. Boots on, hair brushed, and a thin coat of lip gloss completed the look. She filled the coffee pot with water, skipping the grounds. Why waste good coffee? She thought. She opened the door again. The first step to her prod and carrot plan. The sunlight flooded in and must have annoyed the man in her bed because he grunted loudly and pulled the covers over his head. Sifting through his belongings she found his keys. Ignoring the cat calls she stepped outside and clicked the little device.
A Porsche beeped not far from the room. She grabbed his stuff and carried it out to his car. Once she had his stuff in the passenger side she closed the door and mentally prepared herself for the fun to be had. Inside the room the soft sputtering of the coffee pot let her know her "prod" was ready. And with a cheerful heart she took the pot of scolding water from the machine. Anne carefully and quietly peeled back the covers of her bed. And gazing upon the peaceful slumber of one giant douche bag she tipped the coffee pot over his face. Thought was impossible for Anne at that moment. Only two feelings resided. Lust and joy. The screaming filled her heart with childlike wonder. Her mind rolled around in the silky softness of revenge. His face was so contorted in utter pain that Anne thought her side might burst from laughter. But all things have an expiration date. Her thirst for revenge quenched she wondered when he might see his carrot. She took a step back and observed him. How silly people looked in their little moments of panic. Would he even figure it out? She did not feel like dragging him. He fell out of bed and scrambled on all fours toward the door. Then he saw it. The carrot. His way out of this mess he'd made. He got up and ran. Ran to his cute, douchy little porsche and drove away. Leaving one little redhead leaning against the open doorway to her motel room. A smile playing across her lips. A manics smile. And there were the bikers. Some laughing, some shocked, one throwing up at the moment, and one with a nearly identical smile. A manics smile, and above it, two bluer than blue eyes.