Promising Young Woman

A Ride Home

The booming of the bass in the club. Vibrating the floor. Blue strobe lights flashing. The club reeks of a mix of alcohol and sweat. The floor is sticky.

It's Friday night at the club, which means two-for-one shots. The night men decide to go clubbing after being at their boring but generous jobs. They all look the same—khakis, black dress shoes, long-sleeved button shirts with the sleeves rolled up. A tie brings the ensemble all together. Some men have their shirts untucked, some half-tucked, half-untucked. Most of the mens' shirts are stained with sweat, especially in the underarms.

By the bar is a group of guys still in their work suits, their ties loosened. They're mostly good-looking, in their early thirties, eyeing up the talent pool as they look around.

One man says, "Fuck her, man. It's just how things are done. It's just a fucking round of golf! You'd think we were taking clients to a strip club or something—"

That's Paul, who is interrupted by another man, Jez, interjecting, "Which we can't even do anymore."

Paul is a sweaty Alpha-bro whose super-fragile masculinity is one rejection away from shattering to pieces. Jez is very much the same.

Paul continues on, "Exactly. We can't even do that anymore because of last year's Christmas party."

"I think it's because the golf club doesn't let women play there," the third man says.

That's Jerry.  A man who continues looking around, desperate for an excuse to flee the conversation. He's a shy guy, yet very popular with the ladies—or so he likes to think.

"So?" Paul asks.

"So...it means we're doing client meetings without her."

"Look, she should focus on closing her own shit. Not whining because we're all doing better than her."

Finally, something catches the group's eye.

"Jesus," Paul exclaims.

They're staring at Cassandra, a woman in her late twenties. She's completely hammered, her mascara smudging. She's sprawled on the damp leather sofa across the room. Her blonde hair lays limp on her face. The skirt of her pinstriped work suit rides up her leg.

Paul goes on, "Look at that. Good God almighty." He yells loud enough for Cassandra to hear, "Get some dignity, sweetheart!"

But it falls on deaf ears. She can't hear because of the music.

"You know, they put themselves in danger, girls like that," Paul declares, as if his word is the end-all be-all on the subject. "If she's not careful then someone will take advantage of her and then she'll be the one in tears tomorrow morning."

Jez stops Paul's blabbering mouth, "She's kinda hot."

"Yeah. A hot fucking mess."

Cassandra shifts on the sofa, her underwear coming into view.

As Paul keeps going on with his remarks, the tone of the conversation has a gradual shift from disgust to one of desire, now to a sense of opportunity.

Jerry finally speaks, trying his hardest to stop the conversation going any further: "Hey, guys, I was thinking maybe we should talk to Brian again. I think he might be coming around to—"

He is once again interrupted by Paul, obviously obsessed with talking about the blonde beauty that caught their eyes moments earlier. "I'm sorry but that is just asking for it. You'd think they know better by her age, wouldn't you? Where are her friends?"