I found a spot to sit and got comfortable as I gulped down a few shots. A few seconds later a man sat down next to me. “Bad night?” he asked and I glanced over at him with a sigh. The man was dressed conservatively in tan slacks and a dark green sweater. His hair was short and auburn, his eyes green and smile friendly. He appeared to be in his mid-twenties and I was a little surprised to see him in such plain clothing; most of the people here wore gothic club wear. “Not really. Well, sort of. Yes,” I frowned thoughtfully. Tonight had been bad for the most part. The only highlight was Archer. Where the hell was he? “I thought so,” he chuckled. “You’ve got a death grip on that bottle.” “Oh,” I breathed, embarrassed, realizing that I was clutching it tightly to my chest like it was a lifesaver and my surroundings a sinking ship. I took another swig and held the bottle in my lap. “So what are you drinking?” the man asked. “Johnnie Walker,” I smiled tightly, holding up the bottle.
