Meeting Mr. Gibson

Carol shifted the glass in her hand, allowing the ice to settle into the whiskey. The jeweled watch, elegant and thin against her wrist shifted slightly, and she stole a glance at the face. Eight twenty-five in the evening. Carol sighed.

If her contact didn’t show up pretty soon her whiskey and ice was going to turn into a disappointing whiskey and water.

scotch-on-wooden-backgroundStill, she had to give Mr. Gibson props. The club was nice, especially for a meeting such as this. It was crowded with music playing in the background and people talking over the general din of plates and silverware crashing together. It wasn’t loud enough that you needed to shout to make yourself heard, but she doubted anyone could filter out what was being said by a single person. Continue reading