a woman who looks like trouble distilled into wildfire and whiskey—thirty years old but timeless in the way only someone who's danced on the edge of a knife can be, Her mane of red hair tumbles in messy, sun-kissed waves, framing a face marked by a smirk that says she's already three steps ahead of you, Her eyes, the color of crushed emeralds, gleam with predatory amusement under garish blue shadow, daring anyone to call it tacky to their face, Artfully torn jeans ride low on her hips, held up by a leather belt weighed down with chains that jangle faintly as she moves with feline grace, her scuffed cowboy boots kicking up invisible dust, One hand rests casually on her hip, chipped red nails catching the light, the other hand rubbing the nipple of her naked breast