As Never Was

Chapter 8

Charles had gone to a bar once, in New York, in complete disguise that no one that tried could know that it was him even if they were to be really close and hear his voice. That night was the second time he won the election and there were hoardes and hoardes of people wanting to congratulate him, wanting him to make a speech, wanting to suck up on his ass, lick his shoes, everything like that. He was sick of it. He gave one speech, he answered five questions, he showed up for the camera two or three times before he was gone, with the excuse that he was going to celebrate at a sentimental, personal place and would not like to be interrupted, because the morrow was going to be hell. His personal assistants all made way for him, all gave him the room to breathe and sneak out from the White House he had originally refused to leave.

And then he was out, wearing makeup so thick he looked like another person altogether and out he went to where he supposed was the emptiest bar in the city. It was such a shame that it wasn't as empty as he had expected. There had been several people there celebrating as well, some of which were politicians and some Charles recognized as activists.

He should really ask Raven to redo his research about empty bars and private hidden places in New York. This was such a disappointment.

If he wasn't so confident in his disguise, he would've left then and there. And he would have, really, he swore to himself that the risk was simply not worth having a few shots of whiskey in an unfamiliar place, devoid of familiarity and responsibilities were nonexistent. His makeup was great, his outfit made him look larger and rounder than his original built, he wore a hat and he had mastered the ability to change his voice to several other ones a few years back. He woudn't have been caught, not even if someone tried to figure out if it was him, but Charles was so awfully tired off facing risks. He came out there tonight to have a taste of freedom he had sacrificed the moment he put his name up for election. He came to be at peace. He came to relax. He couldn't.

Not with these shits loitering about.

And he was really about to leave when he saw black locks cascading down a lithe back, leaning precariously on the countertop, framing the shape of the velvet coat . Anyone could have simple saw the person and think a girl had had too much to drink. An easy target. A chance. And there really were men moving to surround her, a packet of powder in one of their hands at a ready to be poured into the person's drink. Wine, he noticed. Red wine.

The person had their head laying on the counter, motionless except for the long slender fingers lazily drawing figures on the wooden surface. Her drink was a little behind her, left out in the open for anyone to spike.

Charles could've left. The girl had it coming, being so openly drunk and leaving her drink unattended. She didn't look too young from how she was dressed, and certainly this shouldn't have been her first few times there. Her recklessness would be her fault and if she manages to get enough evidence, then that would be even better for her, catching criminals in a bar during a drunken spree.

Maybe he should help though, because the girl might have been grieving to become drunk in such a way, and would be in no state of mind or body to defend herself against so many of the men. Maybe he should mind his own business, because he already had the country's whole problems served in a platter for dinner, he wasn't going to solve each and every one of them like some kind of civil servant. But he could also help, because that was simply what a man should do, shouldn't even hesitate to do, because they were simply men, and that was practically their job. To lead, to protect, to provide. That was their nature. Supposed to be their nature.

It's not even a good thing to do. It was what's supposed to be done.

So he sighed, reluctant, as he made his way over to the group.