Bridget sighed, despairing for her adopted countrymen. Before her was a half-full bottle of Jameson, a chipped ashtray brimming with butts and ash, an... a damply empty glass. The red-haired lass fixed the glass’s fault, and stared down balefully with her green eyes at the letter set down before her on the warped wood of the wobbly table. It was then that a cantankerous old fool with a tobacco-stained beard slurred a come-on at her. Bridget flashed a sharp-toothed grimace at the man, who blinked. Bloodstone was definitely a situation to behold. His salt and pepper hair was fairly close cropped except a couple tiny curls near his ears. His high cheekbones and square jaw looked carved by one of the old masters, and his eyes, soulful and dark, very dark like onyx; were fringed with the longest blackest lashes she had seen that weren’t created by mascara. Oh holy fuck, she thought to herself and quickly looked down at the file on her desk. “Please call me Rayne,” she said taking a deep. More

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