A/N: Chapter two. Sorry for the wait. This may be revised later.
Paper, Rock, Scissors
Hillary E.G. Brown
(Various Other Usernames)
Chapter Two: Nervy Girl
Once upon a time, a young girl in a miniskirt that belonged to her mother a long, long time ago decided to hire a boyfriend for the sake of a few weeks' peace.
She went to a bar, the seediest she and her brother could find, to look over possible candidates to stop the mournful whining of her 'dearest friends'.
In retrospect, it wasn't such an ingenious plan.
Particularly since the candidates were more interested in paying her than being paid.
Looking back, it wasn't anywhere near ingenious. In fact, it was more along the lines of the single dumbest idea she'd ever had.
She could remember, afterward, a man that looked just a little like her father eying her over the bar-top.
"I'm 18," She'd said, "I'll just take a soda."
The man had just shaken his head and said, "I hope so."
He gave her a root beer with the label carefully scraped off, and told her to 'Make it last.'
And then he wandered to the end of the bar, where a big, burly man with odd blue hair was calling jovially for the barkeep to 'just bring the keg, mate'.
She remembered shifting on the cheap vinyl stool, trying in vain to pull her skirt down just a little bit.
In short, making her discomfort just a mite too plain.
The effect was like blood in water.
By the end of the evening, she'd been pressured into drinking…a lot more than she ever would in polite company.
She'd had one or two sips of alcohol at holiday parties and the like, but never anything that could have prepared her for the levels she imbibed at that bar.
Or the pressure that led her to it.
Then again, a gracious host usually didn't refer to you as 'Sweet-ass'.
She'd wanted to leave.
Her head felt hot and heavy, and her throat had burned from the cheap alcohol.
Her lips, too, from where she'd been biting into them.
But it hadn't been such an easy thing.
She wanted so badly to lash out, push her hand through some thick, heavy barrier and grab onto someone to protect her from these sleazy smiles and unfamiliar, petting hands.
The bartender had tried growling at them to 'back off the kid', but it had only led them to follow her out the door after she stumbled, rather gracelessly, off the barstool.
She was planning to outrun them.
They were hurting her, just by circling her like this—their auras were classless and chafing, settling around her like a vice-grip at her throat.
She wanted to flare out and burn them all, pour cheap liquor on their smoldering bodies—but that was impossible.
She was a good girl.
And, when they stopped her with oily palms and thick fingers, she sent up five grateful prayers when a big, burly man with odd blue hair followed them out.
Blue was her favorite color.
Her absolute favorite color.
She liked it even better than silver.
That's how she knew she'd like him.
And, in the midst of bawdy drinking songs he knew by heart, and stupid silly limericks she barely remembered, he agreed to be her 'New Boyfriend' if she'd belt 'em out properly, and proceeded to teach her the proper way to sing about Nancy's legs.
Note: Before I take any flack for 'why she decided to trust the guy', I did mention that she was already completely smashed. Combined with the fact that he saved her, and that blue was a pigment exclusive to non-humans, I'd say she had some decent reasons (en inebria) to go along.