#fcllenstar

She was at a loss for words, her expression sitting between sour and subdued. Even in a new state, with a new, unsuspecting last name, Maeve hadn’t been able to outrun the tainted blood that pulled through her. Like she’d been a cattle marked for slaughter: her time would come. “How did you say you knew him?” Her father’s presence rotted whatever space he stepped into, and she’d always been at his side, his little shadow. The stranger’s familiarity made her stomach churn into spoiled butter. “My father didn’t have many friends,” the brunette tried to explain further without pulling back the curtain.

“Come on, please,” the brunette asked, leaning into the counter and batting her best puppy dog eyes at Sawyer. “Pretty, pretty please. Just this once.” Hands clasped over her chest in prayer and unrelenting eye contact. She needed somewhere to workshop a few songs that were in purgatory for her album. The initial four came quickly and painlessly, written off what notes she already had or experiences that she’d since healed from. As of late, Rea experienced uncertainty in the voice she wanted to have, the message she wanted to send. All she knew was she was angry. At the world, at the people who succeeded in it, and how little justice there seemed to be for those who needed it most. “It’s just a few songs, and I’ll bring my own gear, so all you have to do is let me move a few tables and set up shop one Saturday.”

Koda recognized the name before the face. Not that he’d changed much since their initial interdiction; more so, she knew better than to study her employers. If she’d been hired, then she needed to be forgotten just as easily. There was an art to blending into a crowd enough that she was no more than a figure without a face. “Reeves, you said?” Koda’s features burrowed intrigue and suspicion. “Are you from around here? I can’t shake the feeling I know you from somewhere.” She knew exactly from where he’s familiarity extended, but wanted to crack the door before kicking it wide open.

Happy hour with her coworkers hadn’t been something she necessarily wanted to do, but felt like something she should do — the whole maintaining appearances thing. Overcompensating for normal, only to ever want if it even existed in the first place. After a polite glass of wine and excruciating small talk she excused herself to go to the bathroom and make a call which roughly translated to going for a smoke but I don’t want any of you coming with me. In the alley, devastation hit quick. A crisp Marlboro sat between plum lips when realization struck — her zippo was sitting on her desk at work. Dark curls leaded back into the brick in self defeat. She’d have to socialize. “Hey — you got a light?”