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With her glasses, she looked smart, awake, on the dot, with freckles around her little nose.Commander Ratched, on the other hand, had a reputation and in the beginning, Harper was somewhat afraid of her. By the time she had started to respect her boss' stern kindness to her, the generosity with payments and compensations, the not so back-breaking work schedule. However, Harper also knew she was a bitch. She had never understood why this car was so important and so "discreet", winding up the bureaucrats about the costs, and the way Ratched spoke about these people was just horrible - "cocksuckers", "cunts" and so on.There were also rumours about sexual promiscuity and using sex for promotion, leading to disgusting jokes and stories around the male officers, but Harper pushed that away. Ratched was a disciplinarian and she could be very harsh with her subordinates. Harper understood where the "bitch-label" came from, but most of the time she thought her boss was right in her. She’s making the eye contact with both of us. She knows.’ ‘Christ! Stop it!’ Belle giggled. I pushed my hand further up Sally’s thigh, to her crotch. Carrie was staring at me, her foot brushed against mine. It had to be hers. Ah, that was it. Contact. I felt Sally’s warmth, and spared her a look. She smiled, finishing her Malibu. ‘Last call!’ the bartender called out, as if it were a tornado warning, his voice careening through the bar, infiltrating the little corners, resounding off of the dirt and smoke caked walls. And we drank. One more, a jack-ass said. For the road, a friend yelled. Shots, cried a moron struggling to his feet. And we did. One more, for the road and shots, to keep the winter chill away as long as it could. The shuffle of bodies was confusing, slow moving as we were herded towards the exit. I found myself on the street, my breath freezing as I forced it from my lungs. Belle, was suddenly next to me, squeezing my hand. She pushed a crumpled piece of paper into.
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