Geneva taps her foot impatiently, arms crossed tightly in front of her chest. She does not have the time of day to talk to this woman, she thinks. But if she doesn’t attempt to get a job soon, she’ll never hear the end of it with her parents. She hasn’t had any luck with any of the clubs she’s looked at (we wonder why), so maybe this one will be different. Maybe. She’s slipped into this club almost unnoticed before it was open and has been knocking on the manager’s door with no answer. How unprofessional, she thinks.
What the goddamn hell is that noise.
Everybody at the Palace knows, if the door to Duchess' office is closed, you knock at the risk of death and unemployment. And doing it before noon is basically suicide.
With a groan, Duchess sits up, spreadsheet stuck to her cheek. Last night had hit hard. They always do. There's an empty bottle rolling around by her feet, and smeared lines of white powder on the blotter. That'll have to wait for later, apparently. With only minimal wobbling she stands and heads for the door, lighting a cigarette on the way.
The door is yanked open abruptly.
"What." She looks the girl up and down, frowns, and sucks on her cigarette. "The hell are you. Gimmie one good reason I shouldn't have you thrown out on your ass."
