The lipstick couldn't cover the lies.

No matter what time she woke up, Lucy always seemed to be late to work.

"It's whiskey weather," he told me in his cracked, wheezy voice, handing me a tumbler as I slipped on a sweater.

Their violent ways consumed their souls and doomed their cause.

They only found time to talk when mutual friends would die.

He hated haters.

The high from the danger and drama had worn off.