Whiskey's Decisions

The world shifted as Gretchen opened her eyes to the white-hot light of day. She struggled to swallow the arid feeling in her throat, groaning with the pains of consciousness. Her legs felt stiff and heavy, and the taste in her mouth was rotten. She lifted her trembling hands to her forehead, an excrutiating pulse throbbing beneath the warm, moist skin. Her fingers drifted to her hairline, pushing roughly through her tangled, mouse-colored locks. She squinted at the off-hued sheets crumpled around her, her eyes taking longer than usual to adjust to the sun's glimmer. The room shifted again, and her stomach turned upside down. Against her better judgement, Gretchen sat up.

Realization collided with a stunning blow. Sunshine was blaring in through a big, square window that let onto a view of an entirely azure, cloudless sky. The whole room stank like scum and dirty water, and when what was supposed to be solid beneath her tilted again, Gretchen took in a quick, frightened gasp. Above her, a loud, low whistle bellowed, and she let out a little scream of half-expectant surprise. She stumbled out of the bed, tugging the sheet unceremoniously out from the mattress and clenching it around her rather unimpressive bustline. Her feet didn't work quite as quickly as her mind urged them, but she made it to the window just the same.

"No, no, no, no," she kept moaning under her breath, her heart quickening to match the painful thump in her head. Her bony fingers gripped the windowsill tighter with each passing moment. This could not be happening. She was not on a fucking barge in the Nile.

Desperately, Gretchen tried to recount the previous night. The dim, hazy blankness wrapped tightly about her mind was far from reassuring. She took a deep breath. If the pounding in her head would stop, maybe she could look at this more clearly.

Yesterday. She fumbled to recall the events of the previous day. Her memory tripped through the fog of what she assumed to have been the recent, and into the earlier, sober happenings of the otherwise usual day. There had been something about a box...Jonathan. She distinctly remembered Jonathan. She snorted. If that drunken Englishman had anything to do with this...well, she'd strongly consider sleeping her way into whatever was left of his bank account. He was a chronic gambler with even more certain bad luck, but he always wore linen and his cufflinks were gold. If Jonathan had--well, wait. There was more after Jonathan. Jonathan had left with his box relatively early in the morning.

Gretchen snorted, trying to start again. The soft breeze created from the movement of the barge rustled her matted hair, pushing it over her face for a moment before she irritably flicked it away. She bit down on her nail impatiently, waiting for the next part of yesterday to occur. She was startled that she did not taste the usual, bitter flavor of her dirty fingernail, and was suddenly reminded of a bath. Yes, she'd bathed yesterday. Because...?

The trickle of thoughts started pouring in. Because of the chieftain, and the deal with Ghazi, and the bar, and the Americans, and...Gretchen let out an aggrevated sigh. Why did something so good as whiskey burn away recollections when she needed them most? Here she was on a barge, on the Nile and...

And...

"Rise and shine, baby!" a cowboy tone practically yelled from behind her. Gretchen gasped loudly, whipping around to meet the amused dark eyes of an almost familiar man. His voice sent an electric shock of pain through her skull, and she rubbed her forehead gingerly. "Ah, I'm sorry. Hangover?"

She gave him a short, sharp glare. "Who the hell are you?"

Her irritating companion let out a long whistle. "Shoot, you was stone-drunk, weren'tcha? You was walkin' and talkin' alright, far as I can remember, though..." He breathed a sigh, eyes twinkling. "Herman Daniels."

Gretchen glanced him over, taking an uneasy step away from the windowsill and gripping on to the wall. "Where are my clothes?"

Mr. Daniels shrugged, pushing her dirty, crumpled blouse with the steel toe of his boot. "Here's some--and over there. Just 'round about the room." He glanced up to meet her murky gaze again, giving her a little wink. Gretchen determined to ignore that for the time being.

"Hm," she glanced at her knickers just a little way from her feet. "Well I'm sure I had a real great time last night, but I got to run--"

He was laughing at her, and Gretchen was in no mood. She put only one hand on her hip, determining that it was best to keep her rather cheap goods covered in front of the esteemed Mr. Herman Daniels.

"Ah, honey, that's cute," he managed through his chortling spell. Gretchen wondered if he knew her name.

"Why?" she managed carefully. Daniels shook his head, leaning against the doorway.

"We're goin' out to Hamunaptra, remember? You said you wanted to come along--"

Gretchen's stomach dropped sickeningly. She damned her own stupidity, cursing herself and the whiskey and Ghazi and that desert man. She hoped he burned in hell. She hoped they all did. The tangles of her present unfortunate mess felt ready to close about her throat. Hamunaptra, indeed. She'd just avoided being dragged out into the middle of the desert, and now this dumbass Mr. Daniels was about to take her there, anyway. She swallowed, a dark anger quickly consuming the hopelessness inside of her. "When the hell'd I ever say that?" she demanded hoarsely.

Daniels shrugged in his easy, nerve-grating way. "Last night. At the bar, you said you needed to get away from your pimp and said you wanted to come with us to dig for treasure."

She pursed her lips. "I said that?"

He shook his head, a grin on his face. "You was drunk as a sailor."

Gretchen's eyes widened, and her short, pathetic nails tried to dig into the wall behind her. What an idiot man. Who did he think he was, anyway? This made for one sick practical joke. And surely he could have told that she was in a stupified state last night. Surely he knew she had been in no condition to make that kind of decision. He was a jerk, that's what he was. He had just dragged her down here because he thought it was funny. Bastard.

She could feel her teeth cutting angrily into her bottom lip. "I need to get off this thing--"

"Not at fifty bucks a night, you don't."

Her hand slid down the side of the wall in shock, and her fingers loosened on the sheet about her. Her dark, awestruck gaze stared blankly into his flashing, arrogant eyes, mouth gaping in stupified wordlessness. Her numb mind barely managed:

"What?"

Daniels smirked, sauntering lazily across the room to stand directly in front of her. He was at least an inch and a half shorter. "I said, 'not at fifty bucks a night --"

Gretchen kissed him full on the mouth.