Bad Girls Club [Editing]

Mr. Very Important Man

Thanks so much to the endlessly talented Deadrot for the mind-blowing cover in the thumbnail picture ^^^  I love it! 

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Charlie strolled into the hectic hotel restaurant, somehow managing to catch a seat at the bar. One of the bartenders wiped away the sweat dripping from his forehead with a rag that had been hanging out of his back pocket. 

The three bartenders were all flustered by the immense size of the crowd. The hotel had been slammed last minute by a convention, a concert, and its unvarying Friday night crowd.

Primping her voluminous mahogany curls, she then proceeded to wipe away the burgundy smudge of lipstick from her chin and readjust her body-hugging dress. She was so unbelievably anxious; the butterflies in her stomach wouldn't break.

Charlie wasn't mentally equipped for the next few hours but the task at hand had to be complete.

The demon that continuously lived in the back of her thoughts emerged, reminding Charlie how wrong she was.

It informed her of how ashamed her mother would be. She had, after all, become a spitting image of her father, the difference being she possessed dissimilar motivations for her actions.

Charlie jerked on her long-sleeved dress to further conceal her bandaged swathed shoulder. Each time she reflected on her mother it was as if the scars were reviving their remembrances as well. Her shoulder seared and she came to be agonizingly self-conscious and mindful.

Charlie shunted her conscience as far back into the depths of her mind as one could.

"Hey hun, can I get ya' something to drink?" The lone female bartender wondered, simultaneously handing two drinks to a nearby customer. She then swapped the glasses out for the twenty dollar bill being held out toward her.

"I'll take an Old Fashioned." The bartender bobbed her head as she rushed to collect the proper ingredients.

"An Old Fashioned?" A disembodied voice quizzed from over her shoulder. Charlie glanced in his direction as he closed the gap between them, propping his elbow against the counter-top. "No fruity cocktail?"

"What can I say?" Charlie shrugged, examining him for any obvious indicators of an imminent threat. "I like my Whiskey."

"Impressive," he grinned, showing off dimples.

"Here ya go darlin', that'll be ten dollars." The bartender informed at the same time that she positioned the glass in front of Charlie. She unfastened her purse, the man removing a twenty from his inside suit-pocket.

"Keep the change."

"Thank you sir," the bartender smiled ear to ear, accepting the bill and progressing on.

"Thank you . . ." She began in an inquisitive tenor, insinuating for him to fill in the blank.