Essex [the bad familiar]

6: Drink.Me

The phone would not stop ringing.

Sandelene, hand sufficiently iced and dull under painkillers, finally flipped the damn thing over and studied the list of missed calls. Three numbers she didn't recognize, and all had the right area number and that distinctive, somewhat guilt-inducing feel of 'police department.' There was also the newest number, Margery's, but his messages were text after text of first questions, then unpunctuated CAPS as news had filtered down to him about what'd transpired.

Which left the one call Sandelene didn't mind returning.

"Ronnie," she said, staring long and hard at that darkened safe. "Still up for that drink?"

"Already drank it," came the blithe reply. A steady pulse of something low, something that made your bones want to move, drowned out the rest of her high-pitched speech about what wonders Sandelene had missed, but the general gist of it was, "come on down!"

Sandelene made a quick change in her upstairs apartment, splashed her face, and threw on a little eyeliner so Ronnie couldn't accuse her of not making an effort. It was in her bedroom however, as she held two different tops up against her breasts trying to figure out whether or not the ladies would look good in a v-neck,  that she'd thought, for just a second she'd thought...

She'd thought the coat rack had formed the hunched silhouette of a dead man. But she'd had all the lights on; nothing flickered, no window pane went cold. When she spun around to see what reflected in her mirror, it was just a coat rack.Just her rain jacket, where and how she'd left it last.

"I really do need a drink," she announced, throwing on the first top before she thought she saw anything else. Tonight, at least, she also needed another place to stay.

That was where Ronnie came in. She would convince her friend to take her in for the evening, have a drink or two to steady her nerves, then head down to the police station, feeling better about doing so because now she had a place to rest her head somewhere far away from that curious coin in the back office. Too much had happened tonight. Her life had spiraled out of control in one fell swoop.

And a drink with Ronnie, she hoped, might restore a little bit of order. Clear her head, let her think about what had happened and what she'd done.

At least until the police came charging after her.

Ronnie was waiting outside the curved neon lines of a tipped bottle sign. The bottle rotated from upright to spilled every few scarlet seconds. Drink.Me: Ronnie's favorite bar, a bar for people like her, people that had a wild side written in ones and zeroes. Within the glossy doors was a technological fairytale, mostly buzzing with the right kind of crowd, sometimes with hornets. But it was always entertaining.

Ronnie was known within the club as the 'Conjurer.' It had something to do with her ability to code and generate script and other words that Sandelene didn't know the meaning of and would rather not. She didn't speak the language, but she'd never been unwelcome.

Ronnie's nickname had a little more to do with the fact that she was  skilled in magic. Love potions, specifically, or Sandelene had heard.  She'd never tried one of the stupid things. 'Conjurer' within this electric scene had another meaning, too: mostly to do with Ronnie's ability to conjure up a crowd of men and women wanting those potions and/or her.

Love potions were in, claimed the woman who, to Sandelene, spent more time at the gym than Sandy spent in her own shop. This gal was tight as spandex, a ropey brunette with curls to make Rapunzel jealous.  Ronnie's features were sharper rather than feminine.  She was a fox; you looked at her little nose and sharp cheeks and tiny white smile and you recognized it immediately. But when you saw a woman like that headed your way, most could forgive a tiny bust and a pointed chin for a night or, if they were lucky, a long weekend.