She Rode at Dawn—Because the Men Were Too Busy Plotting
Jenna Beck didn’t ask for revolution. She came to Boston in search of powdered wigs and powerful men who knew their way around a musket. What she found was a city too focused on British tea and not nearly enough on American thirst. The morning was humid, the patriots were shirtless, and Jenna—draped in a scandalously tight coat of red velvet—rode through the cobblestone streets delivering secret letters marked “BWC Dispatch.” She passed generals too busy drawing maps to notice her curves, but not too busy to stare as she trotted by with a smirk that said, “Liberty isn’t the only thing I’m about to take.”
The Tavern Meeting Got… Heated
By nightfall, she was leaning over a tavern table, bodice teasing rebellion as the Sons of Liberty debated freedom and trade routes. “Gentlemen,” she purred, dropping a dagger into the table right through a parchment labeled “BWC,” “I believe this nation deserves independence… and thick representation.” Jefferson choked on his ale. Sam Adams spilled coins all over the floor. Paul Revere couldn’t look away. The candlelight danced across her chest like it was trying to declare something too. She toasted to “the pursuit of happiness,” and from the look in her eyes, the Declaration was about to get a very steamy addendum.
One Lantern If He’s Hot, Two If He’s Packing
Later, down by the harbor, she hoisted a lantern with one hand and her corset with the other, sending a new signal into the night. Not about redcoats—but red-hot intentions. Dock workers paused mid-barrel roll. Sailors muttered prayers. Jenna stood atop a rum crate like a founding goddess, daring Boston to make a move. “One if by land,” she whispered, “two if by BWC.” Somewhere in the distance, a cannon fired prematurely. Jenna didn’t blink. Her mission was clear: secure the future of the republic… and sample every colonial sausage along the way.
