(http://img69.imageshack.us/img69/3600/017qr.jpg)<br/>(Bridget Nash)<br/><br/>Nash would be late. She was perhaps six hours away from the desired location but she was in no hurry. Truth be told she liked the life she had without everyone else. She was a nobody before she had met them and she was a nobody after. She paid cash for a sleazy motel room where she could rest a few hours. After all, this is where the trucker dropped her off before he parted down a route that wouldn’t bet her any closer to where she needed to be. The raven haired woman tosses her bag by the front door and shuts it behind her. Her tired feet drag across the carpet of her rented room and she plops her rear on the used mattress. She dips down to unlace her steel toed boots before kicking them off toward the wall. She flops over.<br/><br/>Brown eyes close as she takes a deep breath. She was going to miss the quiet but most of all the loneliness. She struggled dealing with the company of others but unfortunately that is no way to live. She squirms on the bed to stuff her hands into the pockets of her cargo pants and find a smoke, “god damn,” she mumbles. She just got a package of gum in there and a few mint wrappers. The woman slides off the bed to return to her bag of personal belongings, not that she had much in the way of those either. Stuffed into the side pocket of her bag was a little white baggy. A little something-something for the road. Nash prepares a line on the surface of the coffee table in the room and snorts it all back. A soft hum of sweet satisfaction purrs off her lips and all those feelings about returning to ‘em didn’t matter so much.<br/><br/>Since the initial message she had kept her phone off. She didn’t want to hear jack shit unless they were buying her lunch… and she doubted that they would. She must of spent a few hours in the motel before she decided to turn the damn thing on again, “radioactive-cancer-producin-son-of-a-message,” she slurs as the phone dings, “oh,” it was just saying her battery is low. Nash sets up the charger do-hickey and sends off a text to whats-his/her-face (whoever wishes to get the message feel free to take initiative) that says: runnin late.