15: A Woman Scorned

Turning slowly, sure she didn't misunderstand, Harper innocently questions, "Excuse me?"

The lady giggles obnoxiously, washing her hands so roughly her breasts jiggle under fabric that manages to hang on tightly.

"Oh?" she looks at Harper through the mirror with a snide grin, "I was just saying he ran through -everyone- in this town like it was going out of style before sowing oats in whatever town he scrounged you up in."

Ha! This bitch thinks something like -that- will get to her?

"Listen you fat chested, "I gotta show off my tits 'cause my face ugly," old hag: I don't give a flying CUNT what he did -before- he met me," Harper holds up her left hand, the rock in her ring sparkling under sconce light, "Guess this town's full of, in terms you'd understand, dumb -cows- givin' away the milk for free."

With a sneer, Harper shuts the stall door and locks it in time to hear the woman angrily "Hpmf" while storming out like a clip-clopping horse.

"You had to go and marry the sexiest man this side of the Mississippi," she groans under her breath.

"This was bound to happen," Harper whispers in the echoing room, shaking her head inside a brushed metal cell before taking her cloak off and hanging it on the door's hook.

"I didn't even THINK about how many skanks might try him since he dropped a bunch of money to make this," she points to the ceiling, "Happen."

Burying her face in her hands, she stops when she feels a jewel shift above her eyebrow then nearly side punches the wall.

Lifting up her dress to plop down on the toilet seat with a loud groan, "Part of me wants to say you hoes can have him -and- his bullshit!"

…But the other part…

FLLLUUUUSSSSHHHHH

Of course she wasn't the -only- one in here. It just wouldn't be her luck if she was alone in a bathroom talking shit about her husband– the charming host. Hopefully it wasn't anyone of importance.

Finishing her business, Harper hurries back to the ballroom to find her man; she may not be the -happiest- with him, but he's still HERS.

Searching through the crowd for ten minutes, she gives up and wanders to the bar. He probably -wouldn't- do anything too incriminating since everyone is watching him more than her.

Quick to pull a glass of white wine from a passing waiter's tray, she takes a sip and her face lights up.

Tugging at the strap on the back of his vest to stop him, the waiter turns to face her.

"Is everything alright, miss?"

Taking another sip and smacking her lips, "What wine is -this-? It's delicious!" She says louder than intended.

Relieved that no one seemed to notice, she glances from the aromatic liquid to the shorter, bald, brown-eyed waiter.

"It's actually a Rusk classic," he points to an open crate on the floor beside the bar until she locks eyes on the nailed wood with him.

"We ran out of the vendor's supply so the host said to grab some out the cellar," he smiles and nods, Harper waving him away with a quiet "thanks."

"Hm…I might have to convince him to get back in the wine making business…"

Harper saunters around to the crate, finding two more open, wooden boxes alongside it. Snooping around, she locates an open bottle chilling in a trough of ice with closed varieties of white, red, and blush wines.

Picking up the open bottle and running her fingers over the family crest in bold red on a beige label, "This bottle is ten years old. Could this stuff be worth something?"

Harper sniffs the wine before topping off her sample to the rim. Detecting hints of oak-vanilla and pear, she drinks down half the cup then fills her glass with the remaining contents of the bottle.

Looking around to check for any spying eyes, "That still only counts as one glass," she shrugs with a coy smirk before putting the bottle back on ice.

Cupping her glass from the bottle, tapping the condensation glass with almond nails, she navigates her way through the dancing crowd.

"If I know my husband," she starts at the closest window before walking along the more-glass-than-wall room to search the adjoining patio.

Occasionally sipping her newest, favorite wine, Harper stops when she sees a woman dressed in a leather catsuit, complete with ears, talking to Clyde.

"What's with all these saggy, country-bumpkin bitches dressing as cats?" Harper stares down at her own, petite bosom before downing the last drop of her drink.

"I know she's sweatin' her pussy off in that trash-suit."

"Mini quiche?"

Harper's eyes go wide at the sudden interruption, guilty of attempting to lick the inside rim of her glass. Eyeing the tall, lanky female server, Harper rolls her eyes at the body blocking her view through the window.

"No," side-stepping away and snatching the girl's empty arm, "But look," Harper points to Clyde and the woman as he leans casually against a stone railing, smoking his cigarette. The woman inches closer to him, stroking her fake tail and nearly pressing her chest into his arm before they both laugh.

"Does that look like a man that's -enjoying- talking to an alley cat?"

The waitress ganders uncomfortably from Harper to the couple, then back at flushed cheeks below a drawn, gold mask encrusted with jewels.

"I think he might just be polite. He's the host, y'know?" The waitress shrugs, "Quiche?" and brings the platter closer to Harper's face.

Gently guiding the tray away from her face, "Look!"

The waitress frowns, following Harper's pointing finger at the window.

"He just gave her a drag off his cigarette," Harper stares harder.

"Maybe he ran out?"

Rolling her eyes with a scoff, "Yeah. I thought so too until he took it back," Harper raises her eyebrow, inching close enough to the glass to touch it.

"Do you smoke?" Harper looks at the waitress curiously, stopping the girl with a sleek bob before she can get away.

"I do," the waitress sighs, regret deep in her dainty, freckled features, "Yes."

"Great!" Harper flashes a friendly smile, stepping closer to the girl, "Would you share a cigarette with a total stranger?"

The waitress shrugs, "Maybe…"

The girl searches the dome-like ceiling as she honestly thinks it over, "If I wanted to kiss them." Frozen at the instant rage darkening Harper's face, the waitress takes a step back when Harper snaps the delicate stemware in her hands.

"Exactly."

Allowing the glass to fall from her fingers, "Either you -have- kissed, or you -want- to kiss them."

Wiping her hands on her cloak, "Excuse me," Harper steps over the broken glass, pushing the waitress aside.

Stomping in classy heels to the nearest patio doors, her vision tunnels the closer she gets to the pair; smoking and laughing without a care in the world, Clyde jumps to stand tall the moment he spots his fuming wife.

Snatching the woman's tail and yanking her away from her husband by the woman's butt, Harper points in her face.