Rone

Chapter One

Rone

Chapter One

I had a bitch of a hangover. 

A fact I discovered soon after waking up on the floor of my motel room. I had a nasty habit of falling out of beds—and into them. I swore as I pushed myself up, cringing as the morning light seared my eyes and made the base of my skull thump painfully.

"Fuck," I swore, perching on the edge of the mattress as I pushed my long, copper hair over my shoulder. I didn't own pyjamas at the current moment so I was dressed in nothing but my bra and underwear. Last night's dress was discarded, inside out, on the floor with my heels not too far behind.

I stood and stretched, catching my reflection in the mirror and cringing. I looked like hell. Hair mused, eyes lined with last night's makeup, cheeks dusted with both freckles and mascara crumbles. It was a rough sight, especially the faint ring of my dark long-lasting lipstick that was still smudged on my chin.

I pulled the blinds down over the room's window and frowned before plucking the blanket from the bed, hopping onto a chair, and pinning it as best as I could so that it blocked the morning light out. I grumbled to myself as the room was once again plunged into darkness—this was my preferred setting.

I made shit coffee and it wasn't just because I was using the motel's old kettle and instant grinds—I was just terrible at anything remotely related to homemaking. I sipped on the bitter cup I made, cringing as a few grinds rolled around my mouth. I took another large sip, caught more grinds, and repeated the process.

A cold shower was next on the hangover list. I crouched under the weak stream, my shoulders folded inwards as I closed my eyes and let the water run over my face. I used a travel sized shampoo and conditioner, barely squeezing out enough of either to lather up my hair which stretched just past my ribs.

Wrapped in a scratchy towel that smelled stale, I sat on the bed and heaved my suitcase onto the mattress. I rifled through what little I owned and found what I needed; hairbrush, makeup, fresh underwear, outfit.

I typically wore all black. Black, ripped skinny jeans paired with knee high black boots and a distressed black tank. Thrown over it all, a black leather jacket and a thick pair of sunglasses. The look was formed with a distinct hatred for color and a deep-rooted fear of looking chubby. I had my mother and her heartwarming pep talks to thank for the latter.

My hair hung wet down my back, darkening to a rusty, brick red. I adjusted my bra underneath my shirt and pulled the front down slightly. I frowned and adjusted again, rolling my shoulders until I was satisfied.

When I was ready and presentable, I flopped back down on the bed and set about getting a game plan. Currently, I had just over one hundred and forty dollars. A number that was rapidly declining with each night I stayed in the motel and each bouncer I had to bribe.

I shivered as memories from last night drifted back. The rowdy group of men, the crowded club, the tall bouncer, the dancing, the threats, the bouncer's rough hands, the bouncer's tongue, the bottle of vodka I'd shared only with myself. I stood up and grabbed my bag, slipping it over my shoulder as I left the motel.

My hangover thanked me for the sunglasses as I walked down the main street of Britton. It was a quiet city with just under fifty thousand residents. It was a place to disappear in, with enough people to still guard your anonymity but small enough that it wasn't a happening tourist destination.

I found a quiet café on the street and entered, cringing at the sound of bells chiming overhead. It took about two cups of coffee to get me going in the morning, four when hungover. The barista was a young man with thick glasses and an older sister whom he stole concealer off of to hide his acne.