A professional football game was on the big screens and, judging by the catcalls and booing, an unpopular call had just been made by the officials. “Do I have to go in?” she wailed under her breath at Tyrone. The makeup artist had insisted on escorting her downstairs to see Flyboy’s reaction to her grand transformation. Which meant she couldn’t make a run for it. Genuine panic clawed at her throat. Damn Tyrone, anyway. “Go on. He won’t bite you...or maybe he will...you lucky bitch.” With a last glare at Tyrone for making her go through with this, she took a deep breath, waited until another shout went up and slipped into the dark bar. It was crowded and she eased around the edges of the mob to wedge herself into the darkest corner she could find and bellied up to the bar. Please let no one see her in this clown makeup. Please let them not laugh their heads off at her bad Marilyn impersonation.
