#ddclottie

Don’t suppose you can help this gal get red wine stains out of her favourite dress? I’m beggin’, can’t work in a stained dress, sugar!

Lottie was sitting by the side of her car, drinking. Not so unusual. It was just before midday and this was her second bottle. More unusual. She looked again at the crumpled paper in her lap, setting the bottle down beside her. Everything had been going so well. Things were going her way. But no. This stupid, idiotic piece of stationery had to appear.

The note had come this morning. She'd finished her make up, and had begun on hair, planning her day. She'd even thought about talking to Lock about their night out. But then she'd seen that white rectangle posted under her door and after reading it, the thought had died instantly.

How did they know she was here? The carnival had only just got to Oslo, for goodness' sake. She wasn't going back. She wouldn't. She didn't even know if the note was for real. She picked it up and ran her eyes over it again.

Lottie wasn't happy. Nuh uh. Though the roar of the crowd in the arena was distant, the animal intensity of it stuck right in her core. She'd chosen to stay away, preferring to practice some self-defence moves intended for her nightly escapades, and trying to pretend that it hadn't been inspired by the fear of the games. She might be devious and silver-tongued and occasionally drug someone, but death by combat? No thank you.

She didn't notice the person standing there until they kicked a can and it rattled into her field of vision, making her jump.

"Who's there?"