Nineteen
Tasa was in the middle of a never-ending shift. At least, that’s what it felt like. It was a hectic night of reverie, as if the denizens of the city had made a pact to go crazy at the same time. Plus, it was Mardi Gras. After the party at the clubhouse the night before, Tasa was thoroughly worn out. Whistle and she had stayed late and then went home and f****d like rabbits until they collapsed from exhaustion.
Leaning against the end of the bar, where she was taking a half-second break, a tweak of pain between her thighs reminded her of how well Whistle had used her up last night. Gazing down the long bar, Tasa observed a raucously drunk woman, blonde and skinny, with layers upon layers of Mardi Gras beads hanging from her neck. With a shriek of laughter, she threw her head back
