The brunette is interesting.
Not because she’s pretty, though she is. But there are a million pretty girls in this city. Los Angeles is known for its beautiful women.
What makes her interesting is the way she carries herself. It’s like watching a champion boxer walk into a room. She’s confident, almost cocky, but there’s also a wariness that suggests she’s used to taking punches.
Beneath the tough exterior, she’s got bruises all over her soul.
Riveted by the contradiction, I can’t look away.
Dressed in a black skirt, black blouse, and black heels, she struts through the entrance of the bar with three other women. Her companions are in brightly colored dresses, laughing and chatting with each other as they make their way inside, but the brunette is silent. She scans the room, sizing up the place and the people in it.
Her smile is small and cool, as if she’s bored already.
She catches me looking at her but quickly glances away. When she glances back again, I stare straight at her and lick my lips.
She raises her brows. Then she tosses her hair over her shoulder, lifts her chin, and looks away, dismissing me.
Smart girl. She knows a monster when she sees one.
