Ramona was greeted by a cloud of smoke the minute she pushed the door to the bar open. Perhaps there had once been a time where that would have made her eyes water and her throat itch. These days, it took more than cigarettes to break down the inside of her body. And vaya, did she try.
She peered through the hazy cloud in front of her, to the bottles behind the bar top, the scantily clad bartenders and the neon ‘Budweiser’ signs clamped to the wall. It was busy - well, it was a Saturday, what did she expect? But the press of bodies, sweaty and gyrating, made it difficult for her to spot who she was here to see. Even when pushing herself up onto her tiptoes, teetering slightly, she couldn’t see him.
Just as she was about to tug her phone out of her shorts, it buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out and tapped the screen. A text, the sender’s only identification being the rat emoji. Partly because, contrary to popular belief, Ramona wasn’t an idiot and knew not to save her dealer under any sort of identifiable contact name. But mostly because the tiny little rat image was fitting for Paul.
Running late, was all the text said. No apology, because that wasn’t necessary. Paul wasn’t in the business of being polite and they both knew Ramona was desperate enough to wait. The fifty dollar bill rolled up in the cup of her bralette knew it too.
She reacted with a thumbs-up then clicked her screen off, sighing to herself. Figuring she could slip away to the little girl’s room and thumb away the mascara smudges under her eyes after a long shift at the club, she twisted around the throng of dancers in the middle of the bar, doing her best not to get trodden on or squished in between the heaving mass of clubgoers.
Squeezing herself out, she nearly managed to make it to the bathroom without incident, were it not for a bartender who looked harried and frazzled, skirting by her with a tray full of empty drinks. She dodged out of his way in a poor attempt at trying to make his job easier, only to collide with a body behind her. Quickly, she squeaked and turned around, ready to issue an apology and then bat her eyelashes if that didn’t work in her favour.
The words died in her throat as she stared at the man though. Leather jacket and sharp jawline. Broad shoulders and alert eyes. Suddenly, her mouth was as dry as the Nevada desert she’d grown up in. She stared at him, a heady thrill shooting through her chest. Could it really be him? Something about the picture seemed funny to her in the darkened, dusky club, but that could also just be the shots Betsy had pressed into her hand earlier. She squinted, feeling her cheeks heat up. No, it had to be. That was the same face that had helped her document her early days in Vegas, where she’d been darting back and forth between different venues, bombing auditions and shaking like a nervous filly. He’d been there the whole time to reassure her, to lift her up, to make sure no man at any of the casinos touched her in a way she didn’t like. And now, years later, here he was in front of her.
She swallowed, and tried to find her voice.
snowghoul
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prguitarman
