Never let it be said that Fiona Shepherd didn't know how to make an entrance.
Her black hair was pulled tightly back in a ponytail except for her bangs, which were short, perfectly even, and reminiscent of Bettie Page, as was her makeup - cat's eye liquid liner and fire engine red lips. She rocked a well-worn Sex Pistols shirt that hung low off one shoulder because the neck had been purposefully torn away, revealing a thin red bra strap and pale skin. The shirt was cut off, baring midriff in the space between it and low-riding black skinny jeans that hinted at her hipbones. The outfit ended with black peep-toe heels that revealed red polish that was not on her fingernails.
"Hey," she said as she walked up to the bar, something about the man behind there making it clear that this was the person she wanted to talk to. Something rang like a gong inside her when she saw him -- she knew this guy. This was the guy.
"I'm Fiona. The outfit's negotiable and so are my hours, but I won't wear anything that's gonna make it harder or slower to pour. Cool?"
Despite her blunt opening, she gave him a genuinely warm grin and extended her hand to him for a shake.