She poured herself a generous shot, almost half filling a drinking glass with clear vodka. She tossed the drink down as if it were water and stood with her eyes closed, her body braced against the raw cutting shock of the vodka hitting her empty stomach. "Soon, soon, soon," she murmured. Soon the vodka would take effect and she would feel a little numb, things would become a little blurred.

She didn't quite believe it when she was first approached about blackmail… it wasn't quite real… people just didn't get blackmailed anymore… there seemed so little reason for it. It had seemed, at the time, an elaborate bad joke. Surely old friends wouldn't take advantage of her. Surely old friends wouldn't trick her.

"Friends." Nancy said the word aloud like something tasted awful in her mouth. Friends. Rita Nelson was an old friend. Nancy trusted her; why shouldn't she? She was happily married, and Rita came back into her life with her new husband, Tom Nelson.

Tom Nelson.

First impressions. Nancy hadn't liked him when she first met him yet she tried hard to deny and submerge her first impression because she liked Rita so much and wanted Rita to have a good marriage… she wanted Rita to have as good a marriage as her own.

Tom Nelson. Young, handsome, social, glib, flashy. Yet weak somehow. There was a roll of petulant fat under his belt, and Nancy thought she saw a look of indulgent depravity on his face. He was in public relations and apparently was doing well. To Nancy, it seemed that he always had a drink in his hand or on his breath.

And he was too fresh, too familiar. Nancy felt she was far from being a prude, yet Tom Nelson was just a little too intimate. The first they had met, he had brazenly, somewhat drunkenly looked her up and down, taking in her sensuously flaring figure and letting out a low, long wolf whistle.

Nancy poured herself another drink and tossed it down, immediately refilling the glass.