Page 16 of Marked by the Demigod

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She approaches the packet like she would battle plans, or unfamiliar code she has to fix, or a program that she needs to know immediately and intimately; she approaches it with wine and feeling sorry for herself.

She pours herself a glass of her very favorite rose before approaching the packet of papers.

She changes into pajamas, bakes some cookies, and downs a bit too much of the wine before starting. Cause her mind is fried and the entire world is not what it should be and she deserves it.

She sees the word werewolf and immediately closes it and breathes hard out of her nose.

Jesus Christ all this for a one night stand in a cheap hotel in Kansas City. All this cause she was feeling lonely and fucked up that Rocky hadn't texted her back.

She sets the pages down and stares at her wall.

Fuck.

Rocky.

It's not like he'd view the idea that she's somehow magically married to this random dude very well. He didn't even like her working with dudes. He didn't even like it when the librarians were guys, he was that much of a jealous boyfriend.

Over-jealous, Trixie often says. Way over-jealous and controlling.

Aimes takes another big gulp of the wine, and opens the packet again. Cause at least that wouldn't judge her for being torn up over a guy.

Jesus Christ he's going to flip. If he ever decides she’s worth dating again.

The packet is...not bad. Clinical. Like those informational packets you get when a family member gets cancer, where it says everything in non-dire terms and with friendly diagrams. But it does a good job distracting from the inevitable rage spiral Rocky would devolve into once he found out about this.

There are gods, Demigods, fairies, monsters from all aspects of mythology, all categorized and viewed by the US government, all living in secret among them. They make up, apparently, .03 percent of the world population, focusing more in large cities because that's where the support structures are, because apparently they need support structures. Massive support structures.

There's nothing in there about this weird marriage thing, which is, you know, kinda important at the moment.

Her phone chimes, and she glances at it for anything to do besides look at all this information.

TRIXIE: (9:15 PM) Tiki Bar?

Aimes glances at the bottle of wine, but fuck it it's rose and rose comes with screw tops anyways

AIMES: (9:16 PM) Sure. Walking there.

She kicks herself up off the couch. Tucking the packet next to her remote control, she runs a brush through her curly hair until it is presentable for people.

The Tiki bar is a ten minute walk away for both her and Trixie, so they try to get drinks there as much as possible.

The walk clears her head again. The brisk breeze pushes the ridiculousness back into the tiny little shell it belongs in, back into fairy tales and books and movies and out of her sex life.

She shoves her hands deeper into her pockets, her purse slipping down her shoulder, and walks a bit faster.

Trixie is waiting for her at the door when she gets there, her hair swept by the wind and her lipstick smudged, but in the fashionable way you see in the magazines.

Trixie gives her a quick up-down glance, then furrows her brow. "Were you already drinking?"

"Work problem, got some wine." Because saying work problem is a hell of a lot more accurate than whatever the hell is going on.

Trixie grabs her by the arm and drags her into the bar, past the bouncer who knows them by sight.

A single girl strums at a guitar on stage, singing something generically soulful that clashes with the tropical theme, with the bright palm trees and blue lights, but eh. Music is music.

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