Trainwrecks
Description:
Grace is a fledgling fashion designer in a large city. While she can be a sweet girl, the night life has swallowed her alive; she party's far too often (nightly) and has a bit of a prescription problem. Wade is an illegal Irish immigrant who makes ends meet by picking pockets, gambling, and getting in trouble. He is on a first name basis with a few cops and, more importantly, one of the largest loan sharks in town. They meet after Grace finds Wade bleeding half to death after a "Hit and run" which ends up being a biit more sinister than he lets on...

Sample:
"Do a girl's makeup and she'll be pretty for a night, teach a girl to do her makeup and she'll be whoring it up in no time."
"You're full of this shit, aren't you?"
"It was a good book! I'll let you borrow it when I'm done."
My best friend Paula met me at the apartment just after I woke up from a well deserved nap. She was already dolled up in a cute black mini with painful looking heels and appropriately tousled hair to match. The fishnets were a little much I thought, but at least they matched her tattoos.
"Grace, I don't know why you always do this, can't you be ready before midnight for once?"
"Sorry, hun, some of us work jobs to pay rent."
"Whatever, do you have any wine?"
"Wine? Why?"
"So I can drink it, Grace."
"I mean since when do you drink anything but liqour?"
"I'm trying to get a little class in my life."
"Paula, you have knuckle tattoos, you're beyond class."
"Fuck you!" She laughed, sifting through my fridge, looking for some coke.
"There's Kettle in the freezer." I shouted as I walked back into the bathroom.
I must have tried putting my hair up at least 50 times before just letting my blonde locks fall where they wanted. I skipped over to my closet and let my dress fall off my tiny frame and onto the floor. Skirt or jeans? Boots or heels? Why did I care? Something or someone would happen to me out there either way, and it was sure to be at least somewhat entertaining.
Standing in my underwear I decided I'd decide what to wear later, after I decided how I wanted to wear it. Decisions, decisions. I fell onto my bed and reached under the bed stand to pull out a little plastic bag.
"Time to powder my nose." I giggled to myself.
I took the bag, a pair of cute little black jeans, a torn up Motley Crue shirt, and some unnecessarily tall boots into the kitchen to join Paula. She was pouring vodka cranberries into mason jars.
"Jars? Really Paula?"
"What? You own them. Put some clothes on, skank!"
We laughed and I squeezed my tiny legs into tinier distressed denim. She took the coke and cut out a few lines on the kitchen table with some credit card. She turned those little chunks of powder into a fine dust that probably would have gone to waste if I had a window open.
"Not on the table!"
"Hush, I put it on the table, and I can get it off. Help me out, 'kay?"
I walked behind her to hold her hair back as she pulled a little metal straw out of her clutch. As if we'd rehearsed the move hundreds of times before, and we had, she leaned down and I held her mass of Italian princess hair above her as she took three of the lines, leaving three more for me. We repeated the process with my hair and my nose and Paula wiped the table clean with her pinky, rubbing the excess on her gums.
"Classy lady." I said.
"Yeah, I'm one classy bitch."
We laughed and drank our oversized cocktails as I put the torn up shirt on. The holes had gotten much bigger than I remembered, and were starting to get rather revealing.
"Bra?" I asked Paula.
"Your boobs are small enough, you could pull it off without." She replied, chuckling and gulping at her drink. I gave her a narrow-eyed glance and walked into the bedroom to finish getting dressed.
Ready to go wherever, we laughed and we drank and we talked about boys and art and where we should "totally move to". I loved Paula because no matter what happened to me, or how bad things got, I could count on her for three things: To be absolutely no help in getting me out of a bind, to make it worse by getting involved, and to make me feel amazing again after I was back on my feet.
"We have to go to Barcelona, Grace. I don't know what it is, but that place just has this kind of THING!"
Paula was a 28 year old college drop out with a morbidly rich family and fake tits. She was thick and beautiful and dressed mostly like a whore. She was my dark side, and my release, and amazing in every way I didn't want to be, for my own safety. No matter how much of a mess I thought I was, she could always find something endearing about my horrible little hissy-fit of a mind and make sense of it for the world to see.
We were train wrecks, very shiny train wrecks with cute butts and too much money invested in narcotics.
"What are we doing tonight, Grace?"
"I called a couple people, it sounds like we're going to," I pointed at Paula, who made the noise of a drum roll.
"Shake Lounge!" I shouted, far too excited to go to my regular bar and see the same faces I'd been seeing since I moved to the city.
"Woo! Let's go, finish your drink, babe."
"Hold on, I'll meet you in the hall, I have to pee."
"Alright, hurry up!"
I ran into the bathroom with the last of my drink, rattled my bottle of aderol, and downed the last two with my vodka.
"Let's go to New York, Grace!"