Hard Work Ch. 02

Her rage was directed at herself for the most part. She was angry at him for controlling her like that and even more pissed she'd enjoyed it. Her initial reaction was to kill him next time he came around, but the more she thought about the encounter the more she wanted him to come back for a repeat performance. Anya looked at herself in the mirror, "Fuck this, I'm getting wasted." She left a note for her boss Gary and took the work computer to do the finances and checks while she recovered from what was going to be an epic hangover.

She went to her normal state park campsite, but instead of setting up her tent she stood there shaking a can of pounce until what looked like a small panther came waltzing towards her. "How do you feel about a week of luxury T'Challa?" A tiny roar was her answer and she opened the door to her prized 69 Chevelle. Ok, it wasn't a prize, but they were plentiful in Georgia, cheap, and easy to fix.

The Regis was a 30 minute drive and a 5 star hotel that knew her. The adorable "cat" held his head out the window like a dog for the entire ride. Well he was an odd one.

In the presidential suite she text Gary the room number if he wanted the computer tomorrow. Then realized he hadn't seen her note and text; btw I'm taking a day. She turned the news on and laid out her loot; a sweaty black polo, v-neck, no pocket, and a plain flip out utility knife. The shirt smell of him, and steaks off the grill. The knife was basic, not a weapon to attack someone. It was probably grabbed in haste. She looked at the cat as she opened her $400 bottle of rum.

"What do you think T'Challa? Why me, how long was he watching, and what was with that phony ass southern accent. It was like a Kentucky/Mississippi half-breed." He just looked at her and yawned.

*Shot*

"Why does he smell like a grill?" Licks himself.

*Shot*

She hit the guide, some mind numbing tv might help her think. "Hey, Forest Gump is on on." She watched the movie she'd seen a hundred times while she went over the men who had hit on her for the past decade. Todd, but she was sure it wasn't him.

*Shot*

Luther, her boss Gary's son. Away at college. Mike, temp who couldn't handle a shredder, too fat. Ricky, Puerto Rican rescue guy in fire station across the parking lot, brown eyes, not blue.

*Shot*

"Shrimp gumbo, shrimp salad, shrimp coctail..." Johnny, if that was his name at the club, tried to follow her home, as if. She was definitely feeling it now. Her massive muscle tone usually absorb the alcohol quickly, but after about 5 she was good and drunk and she'd already killed 4. She contemplated her life, it was always her first drunk move. After her so called father had stabbed her and left her for dead she had stayed under the radar. Took more mma fighting lessons, lived where she couldn't be tracked. Stayed fit, hell, more than fit. After a month of living out of a car she began to love the freedom. After that living in a tent, pitched wherever the hell she wanted was the best feeling she could get. The life of luxury she had known only reared its ugly overindulged head every now and then. Her only regret was not being able to get through her psychiatric degree.

*Shot*

"Bubba, oh Bubba," "Forest"... Steak, smoke, fake ass accent, that fucking cajun. Good Lord, that man was smokin hot, why attack her like that. She would have let him do whatever he wanted. With that look and accent, she nearly melted every time he so much as looked at her. She even called him Gambit, but the only hint of attraction was the occasional look in her direction, otherwise he seemed uninterested.

"What the fuck!" She stood up and slammed her empty hand on the glass coffee table. It shattered, and probable her hand as well, but the expensive rum was doing it's job.

*Shot*

At this point T'Challa was sitting in the window sill just watching her ever move. She instantly felt like shit and coaxed him back to her. She sat there contemplating, stroking her cat like some super villain. Eventually she passed out without evening seeing Jenny's last scene. But she had thought to drag out the 42 inch compact-able baton she bought 9 years ago, right after coding twice on the table.

At 8 am there was a knock on the door, an incessant knock that just wouldn't go away. Oh fuck, she thought, Gare needs his fucking computer, and I haven't done shit as far as work. She grabbed the laptop almost dropping it not thinking about her busted hand. She cradled it an went for the door. The men outside were not Gary, she was still a little drunk, but knew enough to slam the door shut. Not as if she was quick enough. She put distance between, she stood against three large fire men with her sizable cat and considered the odds as they sized her up and considered their tact.