The flickering red and gold flames in the fireplace
cast long shadows over her sketchpad as V worked
with sure, broad strokes, gauging the angles and
shading of her creation with a practiced eye. It was
a fairly simple work, a rendering of the view from
Pier 46 at night. She'd been struck by the spectacle
during her nocturnal wanderings the night before,
and wanted to capture it on paper while it was still fresh
in her mind. She planned to do a more detailed work
in pastels once she had a bare sketch down; for now
she just wanted a sparse layout of the eventual final
product.

After a few more minutes of silent work she set
her charcoal pencil aside to take a sip from
her plastic tumbler of champagne and glance at the
television. Dick Clark was reporting from Times Square,
as he always did: apparently it was only 18 degrees in
Manhattan this New Year’s Eve. V shivered at the very
thought and wondered how all of those people managed
to stand outside in such frigid weather for hours on end.
There were practical matters to be considered, such as
bathroom facilities, not to mention the obvious
pickpocketing potential in a crowd of that size. The NYPD
certainly had their work cut out for them this holiday.

She'd considered big city crime stopping, once upon
a time, when she'd been even younger and more idealistic
than she was now. But she just didn't think she was cut
out for big city life. Too impersonal. Too crowded. Venus
Ardanowski needed room to breathe.

She shook her head to end the reverie and turned her
attention back to her sketchpad. Suddenly completing
the sketch didn't seem as appealing, though, mainly
due to the way the floorboards were vibrating beneath
her behind. She'd thrown a blanket down in front of the
fire in an attempt to avoid another night sitting in a lawn
chair. One of these days she'd save up enough money
for a couch, but for now a cushion beneath her butt on
the floor was the only comfortable option besides her
bed. And V didn't lounge around in a bed unless she
was about to go to sleep.

There were, of course, more...pleasant things to
do in bed, but there wasn't anyone on the horizon to
share those kinds of activities. She'd had her shares
of fantasies about Jax, but...well, he was a little too
busy babysitting Brenda Barrett these days to do
much of anything with V other than discuss business.

Which was as it should be, she reminded herself sharply.
Her father had cautioned her more than once not to get
involved with people on the job. "Don't shit where you
live" was how he had so eloquently put it.

She snorted back laughter at the memory and shifted
on the floor, which was still vibrating. The Outback was
really jumping tonight, and why shouldn't it be? It was
New Year's Eve, after all. Most people were out celebrating.
She'd considered going down there and joining the party,
but realized she'd probably have a better time by herself.
Fancy social occasions where she didn't know anyone in
the room just wasn't her style.

One of her friends from college who was now living in
Buffalo had asked her to go up there, stay the weekend,
but V had declined. For some reason she felt obligated to
be in Port Charles right now, just in case Jax needed
her help.

She wondered what he was doing tonight, then realized
she knew all too well. He would be ringing in the New
Year with the fragile and beleaguered Miss Barrett.

Brenda. The name rolled around in her slightly drunken
brain for a while, conjuring up images that flushed her
cheeks with shame. She knew she should feel sorry for
the woman, should wholeheartedly support Jax's efforts
to help the model through a tough time. And in a way she
did. She had as much compassion for Brenda Barrett as
she would for any human being in need of help and friendship.

But did Jax have to supply all of that for her? Surely a
popular supermodel had more than one friend to lean on.
Didn't she? Couldn't she call Elle MacPherson or Cindy
Crawford or somebody like that? Did it always have to
be Jax?

She sighed with a tinge of uncharacteristic self-pity and
downed the rest of the champagne. As the ball in Times
Square began its slow descent, Dick Clark’s countdown was
echoed by the crowd in The Outback downstairs.

"HAPPY NEW YEAR!" the revelers in the restaurant yelled
as midnight struck, and a cacophony of noisemakers
sounded in agreement. She could hear the band striking up
"Auld Lang Syne" and the patrons joining in merrily. With
a surge of newfound optimism at the prospect of a clean slate
she refilled her tumbler with champagne and held it up
before her in a toast.

"Here's to the new year," she murmured. "With any
luck I won’t be spending it alone."

End.