"How in the holy hell am I here? I must be absolutely batshit crazy."

  She stood outside the gigantic gss doors of WCWE headquarters, the reality pressing down upon her. This was it. Her dream career y before her. She only needs to take one step over the threshold. Her life will never be the same once she does.

  A week ago, if someone told her she'd get a call from the public retions manager of WCWE offering her employment,. She would have ughed so hard that she'd crack a rib or she would have hurled her phone on the wall just to make the idea dead on arrival.

  It started a drunken night ago a while back on February 15th, right after Valentine's Day, with her evil twin and best friend. You know the type of person I'm talking about. The one person you never uttered a word to before in the break room at the office, but when you see something that they like, you get to talk to them for a couple of minutes and you two are thicker than thieves.

  The sign on the front reads The Bck Thorn Tavern. It's an odd thing to find here in the states to have a bar be called a tavern anymore. They're all called Bar and Grill now. The Bck Thorn Tavern was a dark horse overall. It is owned by a former underground fighter who now bartends, Jax Kincaid or just Jax to the few regur loyal patrons. The tavern itself is a dimly lit sanctuary wedged between two crumbling brick buildings. The Bck Thorn Tavern is where hard-won battles are toasted and old wounds are washed away with bck ale. It's so called because of a rusty, iron-cd sign above the door bearing a single bck-thorned rose wrapped around a dagger—symbolizing both beauty and brutality and strength and foolishness.

  Inside, the tavern is an in-time pce. Dim mahogany walls with low-hanging iron chandeliers and wine-celr full shelves of dusty whiskey as well as smoky bourbons and also craft beers. The wooden counter is battle-worn by the creases of countless conversations, flung fists, and stories that were too good to keep to oneself. There is a crackling fire in the background, throwing long shadows across scuffed leather booths and thick oak tables, each one worn down from past secrets and potential regrets.

  "Girl, you're wasting your time at that second-rate tabloid. You have so much more going for you than half the people who work there."

  PR rolled her eyes, nursing her rum and coke as her best friend downed a huge gulp of one gigantic, overly dramatic 1800 strawberry margarita out of a fucking fishbowl with two fucking little straws. That fucker is gigantic.

  "Yes, I know," she drawled. "You've told me that a hundred times. And didn't you used to tell me that everybody at my office was dead inside?"

  Her best friend waved her arm dramatically with one hand. "They are. People only employ there if they've lost hope for their career."

  PR wasn't as willing to give in that her bestie was correct. Her eyes strayed up to the TV set over the bar in the corner, glued to the live WCWE bout between Cody Ragnar and Ace Havoc. Her heart beat faster as Cody tried to pin him, but Ace kicked out at two. Shit, it was a fantastic wrestling match.

  "Getting away with that again," her best friend noted.

  "What?"

  "The Cody Ragnar is where the future of the WCWE style is. You should be at that pce, not reporting on celebrity bad breakups."

  She had no chance to object before her best friend scooted off her barstool. "I'm going to the bathroom. Do not attempt to slip away before I get back; we're not done talking about this."

  PR Girl nodded absently, still staring at the screen.

  The atmosphere inside the WCWE arena was electric. The crowd rose, their feet stomping out a chant in unison, the tension humming in the air like a living entity. Inside the ring, Cody Ragnar and Ace Havoc circled each other, sweat glistening in the harsh overhead lights.

  Cody dodged Ace's wide, swinging forearm with the agility of a cat. In a smooth motion, he responded with a crushing dropkick, his boots coming down solidly on Ace's chest. The impact sent Ace reeling backward, crashing into the ropes with such force that they began to shake. The crowd erupted in a din of cheers, their fervor clear as Cody followed up on the momentum. With a burst of speed, he sprang forward, his eyes on his prey, and delivered a quick, solid knee to Ace's stomach. The force of the blow doubled Ace up, leaving him exposed. Cody didn't miss a step and tched onto Ace's leg, pulling him to the mat. The referee hurried in, his hand poised to begin the count—

  One! Two—

  Ace kicked out on the brink of the three-count, rolling over onto his side and smming his fist into the mat in frustration. Cody took a harsh breath but didn't waver. He pulled Ace back to his feet, setting up his finisher. The crowd cheered in anticipation as Cody lifted him up—but Ace was going for it. With a quick spin, Ace encircled his legs around Cody's arm, sending them both spinning back to the mat. It was all over in seconds as he transitioned into his signature submission move—a ruthless rear-naked choke. Cody struggled, but Ace cinched up the hold, his massive arms bulging as he shut off Cody's airway.

  The crowd's cheers were transformed into frantic shouts as Cody filed, trying to break free. His legs kicked uncontrolbly on the mat and his fingers gripped Ace's arms tight, but the firm hold only grew stronger. The referee hovered beside them, looking for movement.

  Cody's agony ceased. His arms fell loose. The referee took his wrist, lifted it once. It dropped to his side. A second time, nothing. A third time the referee commanded the bell. The match was over. You can only imagine how devastated Cody's fans would have been.

  Ace escaped the grip and stood panting, his expression unemotional as Cody y motionless on the mat. The crowd erupted into a mixture of boos and appuse as Ace flung his arms in victory, his dominance undeniable.

  Cody had given it his all, but tonight Ace Havoc had proved why he was the WCWE champion.

  "Damn it! I don't believe Ace is still the WCWE champion. I need a shot." The PR girl had the bartender's attention; he already knew what poison she was ordering. Two shot gsses filled with Tito's vodka in front of her. The PR girl looked around the bar and couldn't spot her phone anywhere on the top of the bar. Which was pretty strange because it's never out of reach, not for a second. Then the worst thing to enter her mind occurred.

  "I hope she's not doing something harmful to my impeccable reputation." She let out a sigh and wondered what type of trouble her best friend was getting herself into now.

  A few minutes ter, her best friend came back with a phone in hand and looking very too pleased with herself.

  "What?" She smiled again with such a pure face and returned to her seat on the bar stool.

  "What did you do?" PR asked, already bracing for the worst.

  Her best friend's grin was big and completely unapologetic. "Rex. You'll thank me ter." Her bestie looks down at the shot of vodka that now sits in front of her. She winked back, keeping the shot ready to down it like water.

  " So let's toast to your new business venture. I'm so excited you are going to finally start living your dream."

  PR Girl looks at her bestie, then bangs the two shot gsses together and they both pour the fming shit into their individual shot gsses before shooting. Pce each of the shot gsses back on the bar surface.

  A phone softly buzzed, humming softly on the wooden surface. The screen softly glowed, spreading a bluish glow in the dimmed room. With a soft musical ring, a message fshed, stating that a new voice message had been received. The tone was high and sharp, a brief but resonant ding that reverberated softly before fading away into the quietness.

  " A voicemail I must keep my phone covered up so spam will leave me alone." The PR woman heard the message. If her jaw were strong enough to hit the floor, it would have.

  "Hello, this is Marissa Carter, WCWE Public Retions Manager. Your friend sent you a video I got, and I have to say—it got my attention. If you want to come and work in PR with us, I do have an opening: Assistant Director of Public Retions. I'm attaching a pne ticket in an e-mail. Hope you can make it out to Vegas—I'd like to meet you."

  The voicemail ceased.

  The bar was subdued.

  Her girlfriend raised an eyebrow. "You're welcome."

  All you can view is how much the PR girl wishes she could squeeze the life out of her friend for being so crazy and irresponsible. She knows, deep down, that she did it for her; she had to begin doing something she wanted to do for herself and not just to pay bills.

  Which brought her to this, standing in front of the WCWE building, staring up at the imposing building as if it were the entrance to another world. Part of her still couldn't help but wonder if she'd actually arrived. What the fuck was she thinking?