Elevator
Going to this thing was an act of defiance, a fuck you to the universe. Wearing a skirt was a fuck you to her upbringing, to her own nature, to that piece-of-shit hotel and the crap it had rained down on her. It helped that the top and yellow shrug covered every hint of the scars the stitches had left behind. Makeup minimal, and with her long hair loose save for a clip, she looked like any young Las Vegas scene kid, with mustard Doc Martens finishing off the ensemble and a cigarette tucked between her tar-stained fingers.
She hadn't woken up intending to go to this stupid thing, despite the guy on the journals insisting the booze would be free. But it had been a shit morning. She'd gotten her stitches out, and she'd simmered in her anger about whether it was Louis or Neil that lying to her and stirring shit. In the end, she didn't know which of them it was, and that pissed her off enough that she grabbed her MIG and duffel and dragged her ass to the Ranch, where the only complicated thing was the Mouse's relationship with the Boss. Fuck men, she decided, figuring it would take both of them weeks to even realized she was seething. God, she was turning into such a chick.
In the end, she'd bought an outfit, and she'd forced herself out the door, because she'd be fucked if the universe was going to control her with its bullshit. Sure, it was bravado, but bravado was all she had for kerosene these days.
She was stuck in the line at the elevator, arms crossed and a bad attitude, because she wasn't on the "list of awesome people," and it was an exercise in serenity not to freak out when someone jostled or got too close. She fished a Blue out of her pocket, and she popped it. She'd get through this fucking night if it killed her.