Excerpt: a kiss with a fist is better than none

She wore a thick leather jacket and heavy Doc Martens that were faded at the toes from too much wear. She carried an old 7 Colt automatic pistol on her side and a hunting knife in her boot, along her left leg. She wore her hair up most of the time and never bothered to cut it. She sometimes drove, but she preferred her Harley instead, with its silver and black paint job, kept immaculately clean, unlike everything else, which was usually smeared with grease or dirt. Her face was marked up by several long scars (no one knew exactly why she had them, though speculation and imaginations ran wild and it certainly didn't hurt her reputation).

Those who knew her well enough called her Claire, but as there was no one alive that fell into that category, she went by the name of Whiskey (which some said was due to the fact that her favorite drink was a single malt Scotch and others -- those who remembered anything about history -- said it was because in some ways she resembled Tom the Tinker from the Whiskey Rebellion back in 1791 (most thought this was a bit too far-fetched), but no one really knew for sure).

Everyone in town was afraid of her, except for Maddie Costley, who'd had a run in with her last year regarding a jacked car. She'd come away with a split lip, bloodied nose, and blackened eye, but no worse for wear aside from that, and thus counted herself lucky, since most people who tried to lift something belonging to Whiskey ended up in a casket six feet underground (if they could find them that is).

But Whiskey'd kicked her around for a bit and Maddie hadn't cried, which must have been what made Whiskey stop and pull her up by the back of her shirt and onto her feet. Whiskey's mouth, usually turned down in a scowl or set in a hard, grim line, was now displaying something that half-way resembled a smile. Maddie'd brushed herself off and Whiskey'd told her to stay the fuck away from her things, and that had been that.