Natalie and alcohol do not mix. Especially with rum based drinks.
Specifically Jamaican rum based drinks.
That's why Cheryl was taking away the pretty fish-bowl cup
Natalie was gazing into intently.
Okay, maybe that sixth round was a little too much, but Natalie
wanted that big cup, and Natalie gets what she wants. She had about six
inches and bazillions of muscle on Cheryl.
Kat wasn't helping, either. After her third drink, a blond guy
with insanely large eyebrows attracted her attention. Natalie giggled
and said something about a caterpillar dance. "Look at the little
yellow caterpillars," she was still mumbling under her breath. "So
shiny. Shiny caterpillars." She giggled a few more times.
Cheryl excused her, though.
She'd already had four and a half drinks, and the music was sort
of lulling. Metallica music really does that to yah.
Maybe Cheryl should have stopped her, but when a girl needs a
stiff drink, she needs a stiff drink. Natalie was so going to kill her in
the morning.
~*~
Natalie woke up pissed and she stayed that way for the whole day.
It wasn't a hangover. She never really had hangovers. Nope. It was
that damn bracelet!
Usually, she could hold off the visions until she was alone. Or
even function like she wasn't seeing thousands of years into the past,
but not today. Maybe it was the fact that she was "menstruating like
a motha-fucka," as Kat put it. Maybe it was because her bike got a
flat and she had to use the gorgeous, sleek motorcycle that the assassin
gave her. Or maybe, just maybe, it was because she was sad.
Every five minutes she would see a vision of either sand dunes or
very, very large knives. Sometimes, just for fun, the Witchblade would
throw in images from the freaky dreams she kept having. She blamed it
all on the assassin.
That pompous idiot who ignored her. Every now and then she'd see
him tailing her with a bored look on his face. Doing Irons' dirty
work, she supposes.
Thinking of Irons only served to piss her off more.
Even that bastard was starting to look good, she was so damn
horny. Two months without getting any can serve to make a very irritable
woman. Very. So irritable, in fact, that Cheryl was tempted to get one of
the male prostitutes who complained that prostituting should be made
legal in all states brought in by uniformed officers, which,
consequently, were turning Natalie on with the tight pants. Sex crazed wielders
were not easily negotiated with. Not at all.
Not only was Natalie on her period, horny as hell, and being
harassed, but she also couldn't find her goddamn man. Three weeks and
already the soon-to-be-serial killer had offed four people.
All working for Digi-Indie.
Homicide and the Cyber unit were still joined at the proverbial
hip!
David's constant badgering and bragging about how smart he was
was beginning to grate on Natalie's nerves. Every other day he claimed
to have a lead he needed to discuss with Natalie. All of them fell through.
Three times the blade activated on it's own. Three times. The second
time she could have sworn her wrist was forced in the direction of David's desk.
The dumb ass man didn't even have an office.
Natalie was not having a good day, hell; she wasn't having a
good lifetime.
