<div class="floatright">(http://i1133.photobucket.com/albums/m592/MistressofPen/Steph01.jpg) </div><strong>Character:</strong>Stephanie Kane<br/><strong>Location/Time:</strong>Penthouse Kitchen, 63 Wall Street, NYC, NY<br/><strong>Attire:</strong>Jeans, boots, sweater,<del>scarf, leather jacket.</del><br/><strong>Tagged:</strong>Evelyn Rose<br/><hr/><br/>She could see the exact moment when Ms. Rose realized she'd entered.  The woman had "FUCK OFF" written all over her posture, if not on her face.  Stephanie maintained a non-expression.  She supposed she had interrupted her work-out.  But, really, if they were to be a team, they should get to know each other, somewhat.  They didn't have to exchange email addresses or FRIEND each other on Facebook; no, they just needed to be comfortable enough to be themselves.  In her experience, that didn't happen in under 24-hours.  However, avoiding each other wasn't going to help matters at all.<br/><br/>Stephanie was jolted by the final kick, managing to keep hold of the bag by pure will, and watched the other woman as she caught her breath.  So, she was staring right at her when she answered her question.  Bullshit.  The word was on the tip of her tongue; she so wanted to call her on her bald-face lie.  EVERYone knew someone they wanted to punch.  An ex- of some ilk, whether it be lover or boss, the jackass who cut you off on the highway...  Stephanie, watched the woman turn away to get a towel.  She lied, but was not comfortable in the lying, Stephanie mused.  Or, she was just ending the conversation completely.<br/><br/><em>"Is there something that I can help you with? Boss send you to grab me or something?" </em>Ms. Rose asked, not yet done, it would seem.<br/><br/>Stephanie shook her head.  "Nope."  And, with that, she walked out of the gym.