Who: Miss Hockney, Lady Poole and Constable Warda. What: Three ladies engaging in peaceful discourse over coffee. Where: The Starbucks on MLK. When: A short time after these fortuitous events. Warnings: Utterly harmless. (Possible unladylike terms.)
Jennifer was in a great mood. Three straight, grueling hours of physical punishment did every bit of good to clear her mind. Working out was all instinct and mat, memory and muscle and grace combining for one sole purpose. For the detective, it was as close as she was ever going to get to a point of internal zen. In no uncertain terms, she totally killed it.
Now showered and changed, a gym bag slung loose across one shoulder, Jennifer walked down the street toward JP's Starbucks holding cell. It was a habit, pure uncalculated instinct. Good moods should be shared with good company, after all, and her friend always did a great deal of good when keeping up her spirits. Hell, with all the crazy and uncertainty in her life, someone needed to.
She was dressed casual, old jeans and a tight blue tee with the faded words "gymnasts do it better" written across the chest, her hair falling loose around her shoulders. Jennifer walked confidently through the door, her gaze wandering across the room until she spotted her friend.