OOM: A couple of weeks ago,
Bela summoned a demon... Its laughter followed her far longer than she'd have hoped. To drown it out, Bela hopped a plane to St. Tropez. And then Rio. And then Paris. She went wherever the parties took her. She hasn't been sober the entire time - pills, cocaine, alcohol, whatever. It's not like anything matters anymore, and she's got the money, doesn't she?
She dances in the front door, in a barely-there leather halter top and miniskirt, her tanned legs ending in ridiculously high heels. She can't feel her feet. She can't feel anything but the thumping beat of the club music. That's fine with her.
It's silent now, though, and this is not the club's bathroom.
"Shit," she laughs. She hadn't planned on stopping here. It's too quiet. But the liquor's good, and the air here is cool on her hot skin.
Tiny tag: Messed up Bela Talbot, not messed up Cal Chandler