Chapter 2
As she downed glass number four, Bridget Westfall cast her blurry eyes aside and let her gaze then fall upon the nearly empty Pinot Gris bottle that was on the low, less-than-sturdy coffee table. She didn't usually have any more than two glasses of alcohol of any kind, if she had any to begin with, and then not usually the kind that had more than 10% of alcohol in them. She began to feel the effects of the slightly sour white wine in her system now, and she knew she shouldn't have had this much. She knew she would feel it, come morning. At least she felt her head already spin less than before. It felt so good to be numb for once, to blur the image of the raven-haired woman's green eyes as they stared at her in disbelief, then doubt.
She didn't know if she wanted for her to believe the words she had stated in the court room or not. What was of the most importance to her, however, was that Judge Mahony would, and he had, as evidenced by the decision he had made and that had put Franky on parole. Through the grape vine, she had received the news that a small studio had been selected to house Franky Doyle for now, until she could get a steady job and afford a nicer and maybe bigger place on her own. She would have a job at a small, lesser-known bistro in town from Monday on, ad interim. With a bit of luck, it would go very well and she would be allowed to stay and hopefully be offered a long-term contract after, there or elsewhere, and from there on, she would be able to build a nice life for herself.
When she set her empty glass down on the table, a soft 'ting' sounded. She rubbed her face with her hands. Why did she have to fall for her?