It could have worked between Alysha — Redd — and myself, Jeffrey thinks afterwards, nursing his remorse with a gin and tonic from the bar atop the filthy yacht.
Alysha in the clean one had moved on too. Inspired by the art in the neighboring galley over in Terriergate, she’s decided to get a tattoo, a tree one, on the back. Red green blue yellow, she recites in her head, reviewing the thing. No orange, no purple. Let’s make this shit happen.
Sunklands 