Authors' Note: Hi, it's Rionarayne. I wrote this chapter because neunundneunzig was too busy and the story was getting neglected. I'm sorry this is so short-I need to talk it over with the co-author.

I couldn't concentrate on sleeping that night; all I could think about was Patrick. Really though, he wasn't that great to look at -black untidy mohawk hair, slightly uneven skin tone, and a little too slim for me- but there was something about him that stayed in my mind throughout the next couple of days.

Forcing my eyes shut, I tried to count sheep in my head and fell asleep with I reached 612, I think.

The next morning was as monotonous as the one preceding. I woke up, made my coffee, took a shower, grabbed my uniform -or skimpy, hooker-esque outfit- and ran out the door. No sooner than had I pulled up in front of the bar, my brakes stalled and I rammed into a parking meter. My CD player, which was blasting 'God Save the Queen" by the Sex Pistols at an ungodly decibel level, skipped and made some intriguing sounds as my hood crunched and my windshield cracked.

Clutching the last of my dignity, I cursed and slammed the car door before ducking under today's issue of The Times and running in the door. The puzzled and bemused faces of customers greeted me as I continued my sprint into the back room. Panting, I tried to suck in my stomach to zip my skirt and pull of the laces on my knee-high boots, but wasn't having much success.

My head did almost a 360 when I felt a wet hand on my bare shoulder. Regaining my bearings, I saw it was Alan, the bar manager.

"Lemme help you with those," he offered, dropping on one knee.

I obligingly extended my leg into his thick and able hands, and he made quick work of my boots. I loved the way his hair flicked when he'd pull on the strings.

"There you are, no harm done," he winked.

I just smiled and gave him a quick peck on the cheek before popping off of the chair to go to the front room. Suddenly though, I felt what must have been 'a rush of blood to the head' and my lightheadedness got the better of me. Alan, realizing my plight, grabbed my arm and gently set my on the floor against the wall, my head cradled in his hands.

"You okay?" he asked, slightly panicked.

"Yeah. . . I think I'm just. . . tired. . . " I breathed. My head was swimming everywhere and oddly enough, the last thing I saw before I passed out was the poster of Patrick and his band.