"That's me." Pansy lifted herself up from where she'd been leaning against the wall and raised an eyebrow at the long-haired dude. Of course, she knew his kind. He was her type, really. (Though, Peter had been an exception to that rule.) She found herself hanging around guys who were dealers, guys who rode motorcycles, guys who spent far too much time in tattoo parlours or seedy bars. It was probably a thing to do with pissing off her "parents," or rebelling or something. But whatever the case, she felt completely at ease.