Chapter 2 - Beggars Would Ride
Dana did what she could with water and the hand dryer. Combed out her hair with her fingers. Dampened and scrunched, it fell in free flowing raven waves to her shoulder blades. So, yes, sometimes it earned her keep.
She rubbed color into her cheeks. She'd skipped breakfast, and lunch had been a snack bar out of a vending machine at Customs, so perhaps she had an excuse for looking a bit wan. Brown eyes – she passed over them. She could have been married and rich if only she'd been born with blue eyes. She'd never liked the brown eyes, despite the compliments men tried with on that feature. They didn't feel right. Her eyes should have been blue.
If only wishes were horses.
Fourteen dollars, she reminded herself. It had nothing to do with pride.
The hostess burst into the tiny restroom as if pushed from behind. She held an empty tray in both arms in front of her, like armor, her wide brown eyes staring. "Hi." She lifted a tiny hand with a tiny wave, promptly hid it again behind the tray. Five foot two, five three maybe, Dana observed. Size zero. Latina. Scared like Dana held a knife to her throat.
"Hi?" Dana responded. The fourteen dollars was starting to look even smaller now, if they were going to insist on her buying something for the privilege of using their bathroom. That's the only reason Dana could think of that the woman would be scared of her, pushed in here by some interfering manager when he couldn't confront her himself.
Yes, she rode a bike. Yes, she wore leather. No, she did not have piercings or tattoos or a bad attitude. Even the scary bald black boyfriend – that bastard Corey – was probably in the next county by now.
"You wouldn't happen to have any mousse or gel on you, by any chance?" Dana asked. Eyeliner was too much to hope for.
The hostess stared some more.
Okay then.
Dana hit the hand dryer once more, flopped her hair upside down underneath for one more fluff cycle.
The hostess escaped out the door.
Dana wondered if that had even been some awkward kind of come on. Then she heard voices on the other side of the door. A man's voice, demanding, and the squeaking voice of the hostess trying to justify herself. So her first guess had been right. Bloody man – sending a woman to do his job.
She wrenched open the door to confront him. Fourteen dollars or no, she wouldn't let the other woman lose her job. She could pay for a drink. It wasn't some fucking spa, either. It was just a restroom in a bar.
The look he gave her was gratifying, at first. He forgot entirely about the hostess, who made good her escape with a brief look over her shoulder, her tray still tightly held to her chest. Dana liked to make a good first impression, and this guy – he was so her type it was scary. Careless hair that fell into his eyes, and one of those faces that only grew more interesting the more you looked at it. At him. Lean as a greyhound and fingers long enough to inspire curiosity and puckish speculation.
But it was not a look of appreciation as much as it was shock. The shock of imminent hypovolemic collapse kind of shock. Seeing a ghost kind of shock.
"Dude, are you all right?" She pushed him back against the wall. If he was about to pass out – which looked possible – he probably outweighed her by some sixty pounds and she didn't want to have to catch him. This way at least he wouldn't hit his head. "Sit down before you fall down. Are you diabetic or something?" Fucking Corey had her fucking phone – but she could get someone in the bar to call if he was -
"Audrey?" Faint, but clear. As if he recognized her.
As if he'd missed her. Oh, lucky Audrey.
"Not Audrey, sorry." Dana backed away, testing, but he stood on his own. "Get your blood sugar checked," she advised. "Your meds are way off."