One More Night

1

Her long, dark brown curls had turned into frizzy waves that she tried to smooth down as she made her way down the street toward the bar her friends often frequented. The place only offered craft beer and maybe one or two types of cider. Margo was not a fan of beer, however. She preferred hard liquor and had decided to bring a flask in her larger-than-life purse she carried to and from work every day. Her stomach grumbled loudly as she crossed the road and walked up the steps to the wooden patio of the outdoor bar.

She was grateful that they would be seated outside. It would've sucked in the winter, but Margo enjoyed the summer heat more than most people. She was always cold.

She looked at her surroundings and found Sandra Wells staring back at her. Sandra was Margo's best friend, her closest confidant, and the best damn lawyer in the city of Chicago. Margo truly believed that, seeing as how Sandra had won Margo's case against her abusive ex-husband eight years ago. Margo waved and hurried over to the table her friend had saved for the two of them.

"This is...interesting," she smiled at the blonde across from her, "There's a lot of wood."

"There is a lot of wood," Sandra nodded her head. Margo tapped her fingers against the glazed, cedar tabletop they sat at. Her best friend squeezed Margo's fingers, "I've missed you."

"I know, it's been too long."

For a moment, the two looked off into the distance before delving into topics unrelated to their lengthy time apart. Margo knew it was due to their busy lives, and it didn't help that they lived over an hour apart, with Sandra living smack dab in the middle and Margo in the suburbs. It was unfortunate for Margo, especially since she had few friends. All of them had started as Sandra's, which was OK with her, except she sometimes saw how they looked at her.

Margo wasn't a lawyer or a future politician, but she was confident and knew how to work a room. She liked to say her upbringing helped play into her ability to captivate an audience, but she knew it was because of who her mother was. Margo Fowler was the first (and only) daughter of Adara Fowler, a socialite born and raised in New York City. Margo's father was out of the picture, and she grew up with a slew of nannies and a desperation for her mother's attention. She had outgrown the nannies but not the need for her mother's affection.

Margo and Sandra's conversation halted as a dark-haired man entered their vicinity. It was Robert Motzlinger, a gossip who lived for the drama of city living. Anywhere Margo went, Robert was sure to follow shortly after. He was always looking for something to do, someone to blow, or a hot story to watch. Simply put, Robert was exhausting.

His large eyes narrowed at seeing Margo's flask hidden between her palms as she twisted off the lid.

"Ladies," he nodded toward them as the sound of 90s grunge played around them. "It's funny finding you two here."

"Go away, Robert," Sandra chugged back the rest of her beer as the two women stared up at him.

He rolled his eyes at the two and sat on the bar stool beside Sandra, where the one beside Margo held their purses. Robert Motzlinger was the bane of Margo's existence, yet she kept her mouth shut and let him interrupt her otherwise lovely evening. She took a swig from her metal flask and winced as the feeling of the burning liquor trailed down her throat. She wasn't used to tequila without a bite of lime afterward, but she figured now would be a better time than never. After all, being around Robert usually led to a night full of debauchery.

Sandra sighed, sat back against the wall behind their table, and motioned for the waitress to return for another round of beer - or cider, which was more akin to Margo's taste. After ordering their respective drinks, a lull in conversation surrounded their table. The brunette turned from her friends and looked around the brewery where they had gathered. She wasn't too impressed with the orange lighting and wooden paneling. It reminded her of a wood cabin, not a luxurious one. The tables all had a light red glaze over the cedar, which caused them to be slightly sticky at all times. She tapped her fingers against the sticky film as the waitress brought over four drinks instead of the three ordered.