For Everything

01//she's addicted to the prettier things

"CHARLOTTE FUCKING WEATHERS– your parents are going to kill me."

"Andrew," she teases with a laugh, "it's a pretty damn clever pun."

And it is; slathered across her body, in red paint, are the words this is tree-son. Andrew Thompson refuses to break eye contact. Not only is he a police officer, but he's her older sister's boyfriend, and looking at her very exposed body doesn't bode well for either position.

"Jesus. You can't just tie yourself to every tree you come across. Especially in my district."

Charlie adjusts the fraying rope that is currently tying her to the tree. It now rests low on her tiny hips. She tilts her head slightly to the left, allowing her brown hair to sway with her. She rolls her eyes. She's not using words, but her face is certainly saying yes I can.

"I'm not going to be invited to family dinner for a while, huh?" Andrew says with a sigh.

"If it makes you feel better, neither am I."

Her eyes crinkle ever so slightly as she laughs at her own joke. She doubts she'll be be invited back for a while. But Andrew raises an eyebrow, not missing the slip of bitterness that drips off her words.

"Get off the tree, or– I'll have to do my job."

"Is this the friends and family deal then?" Charlie mocks.

"Charlotte," he warns.

His use of her full name puts a sour taste on her tongue. "This is the motherfucking oldest tree in Manhattan. They want to tear it down to put a direct path through the park. Because people apparently can't walk the extra one hundred feet."

"I don't want to arrest you." His words are supposed to be a threat. However intent doesn't mean much, as suddenly they come out as desperate and pleading. Charlie knows that her mother is scary after-all, and arresting her daughter, even if it's her least favorite, won't do anything to help him.

Charlie closes her eyes, sighing. She loosens the rope, stepping over it as it falls to her feet. Where the rope has rested lays a crimson red rope burn. Its color matches the words on her chest. She rubs it, attempting to mitigate the stinging. "You're an ass, Andrew."

"Shit– am I starting to grow on you?"

Charlie almost growls at his choice of words. "Believe me Andrew, you do not want to talk about growing."

She tosses on a jacket, not caring that the red paint is going to smear on the inside. Andrew's tired eyes soften. They say thank you. 

Charlie runs her hands through her hair. She fights back a small smirk. The park is closing in thirty minutes, anyways, and much to his disappointment she'll be back the next day. She can save the world tomorrow. And after a bottle of merlot and a night of sleep in her California king sized bed, she'll be far more equipped to do so.

"Am I good to leave you Charlie or will I come back in ten minutes and have to arrest you for public indecency?"

Charlie throws her head back and laughs loudly. She doesn't believe he actually would dare to; his bark is louder than his bite.

She watches him walk away. He moves towards the pond. Perhaps it's to watch the satan's spawns (geese) play or perhaps (and probably) to yell at the poor children feeding the geese bread right next to the do not feed the animals sign.

Charlie delicately twists her hand into her pin straight hair debating her next move. It's not long before she's wandered onto the overcrowded sidewalks. She's far too lazy to argue with the poor underpaid and overworked people handing out pamphlets, and just grabs one of everything.

Within the span of five minutes, and in one hand, she's gathered the information on a magic show, three strippers, and a questionably looking diner that is quite possibly a brothel. It is the magic of New York, after-all.  But it is what's in her other hand that captures her attention.

And when Charlie finally gets home, she recycles the all of the pamphlets. Except one. 

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CHARLOTTE WEATHERS is burning up.

Her heart hopes it is from seventy-five dollar bottle of wine she's been sipping at since seven, but her head knows its from standing in the cold without a shirt all day. There's nothing more in the world (besides a violation of animal, women, children, and human rights) that she hates like being sick. 

It's not that anyone genuinely adores being ill; but, ever since Charlie was a child she's had an aversion towards it. And it's not that she has anywhere else to go, but she's officially decided to stay the night in bed. It's a good thing though, because now Charlie has the chance to look at the pamphlet handed to on the street.

"Save the Acacia," Charlie murmurs, reading the bolded words in front of her.

Five minutes is all it takes to convince her. She types the name into google. The brownstone building is a bit dated, but inarguably gorgeous. What was once a library for New York's elite, is now a petite auditorium for speakers. Prestigious artists and authors alike have come to speak about their work.

Charlie runs her fingers down the pamphlet. "THE DIRTY AND CORRUPT IMBUE BANK IS TRYING TO DESTROY THIS HISTORIC RICH AND POTENTIAL LANDMARK," it reads in all black.

 Her mind is now set.

There is no way that money grubbers are going to mangle and maim history. There are thousands of other buildings, other lots, and other areas in New York to build on. She's committed now, and there's no going back, not for her, and not for the people at Imbue that are now stuck with her.

Charlie opens up her email. Her nose scrunches, as her eyes squint, to try and read the print at the bottom of the pamphlet. "EMAIL ARA (PROJECT HEAD) AT ARALOVESCATS29@YAHOO.COM."

And so she does.

 After all– Charlotte Weathers is for everything.

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Hi peep(s)– 

This isn't very long and I'm sorry. But I'll have chapter two up soon! I hope you enjoy the newly written version! I think it will be better for their characters, as it will be easier to differentiate who is who and they won't blend too much any more. 

10 bucks for anyone who can name what the chapter title is from. 

with love, t.