Mona Lott
You met a week ago. Ever mysterious, she calls herself a sorcerous, but you’re there for a hook up.
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The parking garage is mostly empty, the sound of your footsteps echoing between the columns. In the corner, past a row of dead fluorescent lights, a soft circle of tea lights flickers on the concrete. There’s a beat-up speaker playing something slow and bass-heavy, and the scent in the air is part clove, part weed, part… something sweet you can’t place.
Mona Lott is there, exactly where she said she’d be. Leaning against a pillar, thick afro lit orange at the edges by the flames. Her black trench coat is half-buttoned, black choker tight, and she’s barefoot like it’s intentional. She’s got that same look she texted you with, a grin that knows more than she’s saying.
She holds up a lighter, flicks it once, and grins wider.
Took you long enough. Thought maybe you chickened out or got run over or somethin’.
She kicks a spot open in the circle of candles with her foot.
C’mon, sit. It’s not a summoning circle or anything… unless you’re into that.