Go in scrappy

CCL has pride.

You pull up outside the clubhouse and emerge from your car. You have only visited once before, just to see this place. There’s probably a lot of fun to be had here, but you’ve kept your distance this long for a good reason.

Carrying your wine, you jog up the steps and open the door.

The bar inside smells like beer and sweat. It’s not a disaster, but it could be a lot cleaner and neater.

There’s no one here, but there is a little bell on the bar. Strange thing to see in a place like this, but you might as well. You walk over to the bar and set down your bottle of wine.

You hit the bell, which lets out a loud, high note.

A few moments later you hear a creak. Someone’s moving upstairs. You turn away from the bar and look up. A minute later, a woman shuffles sleepily out of the hallway to your right.

This is Alex.

She’s Roxy’s height, but not as bony. She’s no wrestler or anything, but she has some muscle. Her blonde hair is short and messy. She wears briefs and a skimpy crop top that’s pretty snug against her full chest. She stops at the sight of you, absently scratching at her toned belly, where you see that what you first mistook for her bush showing above her panty line is actually a dark tattoo… but you can’t tell what it is.

She’s about your mother’s age, but she definitely takes good care of herself.

She gazes at you for a moment, then shakes her head and laughs.

“Look at you,” she says, sighing as she goes behind the bar. “All dressed for church. It’s not Sunday, kid.”

“Good morning,” you reply.

“Sure.” She picks up your bottle of wine and snorts, then puts it down and gives it a push. You tense, but it just slides down the bar without falling over.

Alex pulls another bottle from under the counter and slaps it on top, then brings up two glasses. You watch her uncork it and fill both with whiskey. That’s a lot of whiskey. It’s probably three shots worth.

“A week ago your pale, rich ass was too good to meet with me,” she says, putting the cork back in and setting the bottle aside.

“Not my place. I wasn’t in charge.”

“Are you now?”

“Just for the weekend,” you say.

She snorts and nudges the glass toward you, then picks up the other one. She looks at you expectantly.

Drink?

Or refuse?